by Vince Milam
Focus, Case. The mission. Cast the whole clandestine hairball aside. Focus on the now, the mission.
“Will the Russians protect their investment?”
He’d understand. Jemaah Islamiyah. JI. Their investment. Protect them against the three of us showing up and ruining the party.
“Apparently not here in town. Out there,” he said, and waved a hand toward the river and docks. “Out there is another kettle of fish, I’m afraid.”
“We’re headed into a storm. Three of us. Hostage rescue. You and I both know it’s long odds. So talk to me. Give me something.”
He began speaking, paused, and stopped the vehicle short of the docks.
“What the hell?” Catch called.
“Stand by one,” I called. Chambers had a parting gift, something of value.
He removed his sunglasses, puffed his pipe, and said, “See here. The Red contingent is substantial. You will want to watch your back.”
“At the JI camp?”
“Yes. And I would not be surprised if they made an appearance prior to that.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really. A bit of a mess, I’m afraid.”
One last shot. The source of the bounty. Here sat a guy who had talked with the Company. Exchanged intel. Hell, he may have known all along about the wanted poster stuck on my back. The question was whether MI6 knew of the paymaster.
“You know who offered the price on our heads?”
He gave a hard stare, a genuine emphasis on honesty or a spook affectation to hold his cards close. I’d never know.
“Sorry, old chap. No.”
“Do the Russians know?”
“They tend to associate with a different crowd than us. My team, your team.”
“I’m not with my team anymore. This trip is personal.”
“Fine.” He was through, had done his job. Delivered us to the docks. I pressed forward.
“So the Russians know. They know the person or entity who staked the reward.”
A flat statement. I waited for a contrary reply. It didn’t come.
“It’s a strange world.”
“Is their guy still here? Sokolov?”
“Oh, indeed he is. Quite the hands-on type, our friend.”
Chambers ground gears, moved forward. We rolled onto a mud flat at the base of the docks.
“’Bout damn time!” Catch said. “Help me grab this container, Bo.”
The tailgate clunked down. Chambers held out his hand. We shook.
“Best of luck. I do mean it.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the information.”
I crawled out and scanned the area. The Datsun ground into reverse. I left a parting comment through the open window.
“Just an FYI, Chambers. You and your outfit figure we’re dead men. Fine. But know this.”
Billy Wilson waved, smiled, and approached from the wood-plank docks.
“The three of us have walked through the killing floor against similar odds. More than a few times.” I leaned over and locked eyes with Chambers. “And we’re the ones who come out the other side.”
Chapter 35
The milling workers, bosses, and bystanders adopted a different attitude than townsfolk. Short, calculated stares and “so what” glances. We weren’t the first armed military types they’d seen. Business continued as usual. A river barge in the midst of being loaded displayed the red flag of China. Tied behind it floated a large modern riverboat, aluminum, two large outboard engines at the ready. A Chinese military type lounged at the wheel, smoking. Another similar vessel with no identifiers bobbed nearby. The Sally lolled at dock away from the immediate loading area, Babe Cox nowhere around. A string of joined end-to-end dugouts weaved a serpentine pattern with the river current. The Kiunga navy.
I ignored Wilson’s outstretched hand and kept a ready grip on the weapon. Bo and Catch performed slow pirouettes, assessed danger. After a brief pause to absorb our entrance, the volume of calls, clangs, and yelled directives returned.
“Glad you’re here,” Wilson said. “I’ve got you all set.”
“Which vessel?”
“The Sally.” Wilson beamed.
“Won’t do. What about that one?” I pointed the weapon toward the second of the modern riverboats, thirty yards distant. Bo and Catch continued their slow turns with glaring intensity. The river’s microclimate offered a slight respite from the fetid heat.
“Not available,” Wilson said.
“Let’s make it available.”
On cue, five armed men strolled from a nearby tin warehouse. Three of them toted canvas-wrapped bundles. They laid the packages alongside their vessel—the one I pointed toward. They addressed us with hard, flat looks, AK-74s across their chests. The 74 had replaced the AK-47 several years earlier, with the latter delegated for lower-tier “friends” around the world.
Spetsnaz. Operators. Russian Special Forces. The look, attitude, and physical stance telegraphed their profession. Well, that didn’t take long. The Russians were engaged. Either signaled from the now-untied Russian at the airport or through sighting us on our downtown Kiunga tour.
Bo, Catch, and I, collected around our container of goodies, stared back. Strong odds those canvas-wrapped packages at the Russians’ feet held similar firepower.
Men continued working. Many passed between our two groups, nonchalant and unaware. A strange, otherworldly vignette as three former Delta operators exchanged laser eyes with five Spetsnaz operators. An unknown—washed stem to stern with danger—separated our perspectives. The Russians weren’t our mission. But we might have been theirs.
“Don’t think they’re going to toss us the keys,” Bo said. “Which would limit our options.”
“Anything else available?” I asked Wilson. “As in, available now. Right now.”
“Nothing. But the Sally is sound. She’ll get you there.”
He echoed Babe’s sentiment, one I didn’t share. But beggars, choosers, the whole nine yards.
“Load the container,” I said, voice low. “I’ll cover. You stand here with me, Wilson.”
Bo lifted one pant leg, and showed a boot-laced ankle and calf. He extended the exposed leg toward the Russians and displayed it. He offered several viewing angles, as a streetwalker showing her wares.
“What do you boys think?” he called toward the Russians while smiling large. “Love and happiness?”
They neither moved nor blinked an eye. My teammates gripped the container and headed for the Sally. I maintained a hard stare toward the Russians, covered our backs. Dock business continued, someone called out, another laughed. The string of dugout canoes continued their slow river dance, sweat dripped, resignation over our mode of transport settled. A poor start.
“What was Abbie doing here?” I spoke low, sufficient for Wilson’s proximity. I wanted answers, now.
“Well, we were making plans. You know. You know the deal.” His focus shifted between the Russians, me, and my teammates. “You people won’t start shooting at each other, will you?”
“Were you anywhere near her when she was kidnapped?”
“No! Swear! Woke up, planned meeting her for breakfast. Got the owners to open her room after an hour. Gone. Just gone.”
I believed him. The Russians wouldn’t enlist an amateur for a grab. But Billy Wilson wasn’t clean. Not by a long shot.
“Lots of opportunity here,” I said, and maintained stares with the Russians. “Opportunity to pocket side cash.”
“I’m on your side. From the start.”
“My side is Abbie Rice. And my two friends.” I shot him a quick glance and focused again on the Russians. They hadn’t moved a muscle. “Any other player is liable to catch a bullet. From me.”
He remained silent.
“You told me you stocked the Indonesians’ warehouse. With supplies. Meaning you have a key to their lock.”
“Right. Right, but that’s my job. I sell supplies.”
“And did
you take special delivery from our surly friends over there? Several cases of new AKs?”
“What do you mean?”
“Help with the import paperwork? Place those cases in the Indonesians’ warehouse? A little side deal. Some extra cash?”
“Look, I deal with lots of people. I told you, it’s my job.”
“Bad answer, Wilson.”
Another quick glance revealed panicked eyes.
“You’ve been double-dipping. Triple-dipping if you toss in the Brits or Chinese.”
“I’m a supplier. Abbie said it was great cover.”
“And there’s a chance someone tipped the Russians I was coming. With friends.” I wasn’t here for a conversation, so I wrapped things up. “So I want you to understand something, Wilson.”
Chinese voices yelled at laborers for effect rather than communication. Their barge’s open deck contained mining supplies stacked head-high.
“If I find you had anything to do with Abbie’s disappearance, you’re a dead man. If you have any association with the Russians, you’re a dead man.”
I locked eyes with him. “I’ll hunt you down, Billy Wilson. Anywhere on this earth. And I’ll find you.”
Catch called from the Sally. “We got an issue.”
One last hard stare at the Russian operators and one last thought for Wilson. I started a turn and addressed Wilson face-to-face.
“I’ll find you. And kill you.”
He shook his head with a final denial, eyes wide. Catch and Bo covered me as I made my way toward them. Laborers argued around a pallet of large water pumps. A truck horn beeped among the warehouses.
“What’s the issue?” I asked, boarding the old tub.
“Lord Nelson,” Catch said, and indicated with his head toward Babe Cox.
Babe now occupied the wheelhouse, our arrival prompting him above-decks. The usual attire, old stained shorts and nothing else.
“I’ll bloody well take you upriver,” he said. I stood at the wheelhouse door. He lit a ten-inch-long motrus cigarette. The newsprint wrapper flared. “I’ll take you and your mates. But the Sally doesn’t travel at night. You know that!”
“You will tonight. End of story.”
An immediate departure and nonstop travel put us at the jump-off point before dawn. Our best scenario. Move, scope, hunt, and hit at dawn.
“Ya don’t board my vessel and tell me how to operate, Yank. She doesn’t work that way.”
Catch’s ham hand gripped my shoulder from behind. “Cover me.”
I did and stood aside, allowing him wheelhouse entrance. The Spetsnaz operators had ceased their ready-to-engage position and loaded packages onto their riverboat. They talked among themselves. One of them shook his head and laughed. I dialed back the danger meter and checked wheelhouse negotiations.
Catch had reached his limit. He laid his weapon near the wooden wheel, said nothing, and snatched Babe’s arm, twisting it behind our boat driver’s back.
“Hey! Hey!” Babe said, struggling. The tiny bush kangaroo watched, huddled under the map table.
Catch perp-walked him from the wheelhouse to the river side of the boat and tossed him overboard.
“Untie the damn boat. I’ll drive.”
We did. Catch fired the old diesel engine. Babe yelled, spit water, and crawled up the side of the boat. He bitched and moaned and grappled with the railing, flopping onto the deck with a wet splat. The soaked and drooping motrus still hung from his lips. He lay there and hurled expletives toward Catch and the world in general.
Catch eased the throttle forward and flung the wheel upriver. The bow turned and the stern pressed against the creosote pilings. Then a thump, a back-deck arrival. It sent minute vibrations through the old boat’s timbers. The MK18 flew in that direction, trigger pressed. Bo’s actions mirrored mine.
Luke Mugumwup stood, feet spread, bilum bag over a shoulder and machete prepared for battle. Lips pulled back with a fighting grin, bright-red teeth displayed.
“Friend,” I said, emphatic enough for Bo to hear and understand. I glanced at Catch. He’d pulled his .45 and aimed it through the wheelhouse back window.
“Friend,” I repeated. “No danger.”
Catch hesitated and internalized this tribal warrior, tattoo and patterned scar–covered, as a friend. Bo had already lowered his weapon.
“Luke, you can’t come,” I said. “Good to see you, but you can’t come.”
“Excitement?” he asked, and pointed the machete upriver.
“Yeah, plenty of excitement. Which is why you cannot come.”
“I will stay.”
He turned his back and surveyed our vessel’s wake, glancing once at Babe on dripping hands and knees. Catch threw the throttle forward and the old engine protested, belched smoke. The Sally began its upriver trip.
Chapter 36
They hit us past midnight.
The first few upriver miles allowed for a sense of calm and preparedness. Babe scuttled belowdecks, mumbled nonstop, and returned with several stubbies. He positioned alongside Catch in the wheelhouse.
“I’ll pilot,” he said. “She’s my vessel, you wanker.”
“You go by Babe, right?” Catch asked, his eyes forward.
Babe declined an answer and used a rusted bottle opener to access his first beer. Another motrus lit, he looked Catch up and down, leaned out the wheelhouse, and spit into the river.
“So here’s the deal, Babe. I’ll let you drive under two conditions,” Catch continued.
“She’s my vessel.” A pitiful whining inflection filled his statement.
“One. Keep your mouth shut.”
Babe looked to me as a reasonable outlet for his frustration. “You know how I work. Talk some bloody sense into your man here.” A touch of groveling, a dash of defiance.
Catch ignored the entreaty. “Two, you will do exactly as we say. While maintaining number one.”
“It’s not right!” he wailed. He glanced among us, sought support, and found none. “It’s not bloody right.”
“Two conditions, Babe. Or you go back in the river.”
He puffed his smoke, drained the stubbie, tossed the bottle with a splash. “All right, ya bastid. All right. Move aside.”
Once behind the wheel, he assumed a master-and-commander stance and delivered a constant commentary under his breath. Bo and Luke stood at the stern. The former inspected the patterned scars and tattoos, asking questions. A small village passed the port side. Several locals waved.
“Those are my customers we’re passing by,” Babe said. “Paying customers.”
“Did I hear you run your mouth?” Catch asked, perched on the foredeck prow. Low, indecipherable mumbles returned.
Group dynamics ironed out, I gathered my teammates and reviewed the conversation with Chambers. They asked a few questions, clarified dangers, weighed odds. We worked the assault plan.
“And Luke?” Bo asked as we considered approaches.
The warrior stood nearby and overlooked our squatting deck-top discussion.
“He’s handy with the locals,” I said. “And there will be those. Unfriendly locals. With arrows.”
“If he’s going with us,” Catch said. “The machete won’t do.”
Catch had a point. Luke would venture with us—I couldn’t prevent it—and his warrior proclivities of attacking with a hand weapon were insufficient for him, and us.
“The man requires a more definitive approach,” Bo said. “A means, a statement reflecting his heritage.”
“What the hell does that mean, granola boy?”
“A savage slide, a clack of doom.”
One of the M870 pump shotguns, nestled in our weapons container. A close-range weapon, effective, simple to use.
“Right. Let’s start there,” I said.
Bo broke out the weapon, grabbed a box of shotgun shells, and signaled Luke. They joined at the back rail. Bo began preparations for loading the shotgun, stopped, and adopted a grim, formal countena
nce. This clearly wasn’t about safety or the weapon’s workings. Bo focused on ceremony. He transacted a formal presentation of the shotgun as an army general surrendering his sword. Luke accepted in the same vein, tested the weight, scowled a proud acknowledgment. Catch rolled his eyes.
Bo set the box of shells on a deck bench, an offering. Luke nodded, took his time opening the box, and removed a single cartridge. With great care and protocol, Bo indicated which direction the shell was fed into the magazine. Luke slid it home. The light snick as the shell settled in the magazine carried weight, import. Luke hefted the weapon again, shouldered it with great gravity. Bo nodded and pointed again to the box of shells. Luke loaded six more shells, each with formality.
Now the metallic sliding clang ubiquitous to pump shotguns. Bo pointed at the release button. Luke pushed it. Bo took Luke’s other hand and placed it along the forestock, signaled he should slide it back. A shell appeared in the now-open receiver. Bo instructed him to slide the forestock forward. Another defining clang and done. Locked and loaded.
The first shot echoed against our jungle walls. Before Bo could show how to eject the empty round, Luke held the weapon skyward with both hands and screamed a battle cry. Bo grinned ear-to-ear.
A box of practice shots later, the three of us held a high degree of confidence Luke could contribute firepower if needed. Bo dropped a full replacement box of shells into Luke’s bilum bag. Good to go. So we thought.
Luke instructed Babe and we edged close along the shore, under overhanging branches. The Sepik warrior used the machete and slashed a wrist-thick vine free, dragging one end through ochre-colored bank clay. He retrieved the muddy end and dabbed a finger into the clay. Applied dots and lines and symbols to the weapon’s stock and barrel. Now he was good to go.
We gathered again and sat on the back deck. I used the remaining clay and sketched the JI camp layout, immediate terrain, and cleared areas. Tent positions, pathways, placement of mining equipment. No idea where they might have Abbie. Tied under a tent or tarp. Chained to a tree. No way of knowing. And there was no way of knowing if she was alive. We each accepted such reality, committed to the mission regardless.