The Wrecking Crew

by Taylor Zajonc

  “Give me the room,” the mercenary barked to the assorted white-coated network engineers and programmers. It didn’t matter what they were working on, they took one look at the hooded prisoner and filed out wordlessly, heads down. Westmoreland pushed the boy into a chair and told him to stay put. The boy obeyed as Bettencourt and his lawyer found seats.

  Colonel Westmoreland dug through the boy’s pockets. Finding a few trinkets, he slammed a pack of gum, a few 7.62mm shell casings, and a plastic card onto the nearest desk.

  Bettencourt reached for the laminated card. On one side was the Batman comic book logo, one of the older ones before the latest redesigns. He flipped it over. To his surprise, he found a smiling digital picture of the boy on the other side.

  Official Member, Batman Hero’s Club. The boy had scrawled his name on the card, Jaff Suliman. Bettencourt frowned and passed it over his lawyer, who typed the name into his smartphone.

  Colonel Westmoreland dug into his vest and produced a small half-terabyte solid-state memory card. He plugged—no, jammed it into the command and control computer. The lights to the server farm dimmed and a video flickered, projected larger-than-life on the nearest wall.

  Taken from Westmoreland’s perspective, the video began in the bay of one of the Blackhawks, shot from a camera mounted to the side of the colonel’s helmet. The helicopter swooped low over a Russian transport ship as she tossed in the waves far from the coast.

  “It was a fucking ambush,” narrated the colonel. “They love these Russian transports for some reason. I don’t know what the thinking is; we’re never going to put any heavy weaponry within 2,000 miles of these animals.”

  “What did this one carry?”

  “Grain. Mostly.”

  “Anything belonging to the Conglomerate?”

  “No. Thank God for that.”

  “Are you sure we should be talking in front of the prisoner?” asked the lawyer.

  “Fuck him,” Colonel Westmoreland said. “He’s never seeing daylight again.”

  “Fuck your mother!” shouted the prisoner from inside his hood. Westmoreland aimed a half-hearted kick at him, still almost managing to knock the boy out of his chair.

  “All we knew is that we got a distress signal from one of our client vessels,” said the colonel. “We were showing up to assist, maybe do a little turkey shooting if we found any pirate skiffs nearby.”

  Bettencourt smiled at this. He’d had a turn on one of the new miniguns when they’d first arrived at Anconia. Epic. The sheer amount of fire the guns laid down was second to none, long, scorching lines of bullets so hot and thick they glowed like lasers in mid-air, brighter even than the midday African sun.

  The video continued, Westmoreland’s chopper leading the other four in a swooping arc around the transport.

  Bettencourt felt a little dizzy as he watched Westmoreland’s disembodied hands reach for the rope, then slide down onto the deck of the transport. The camera took a position behind one of the ventilation funnels as men dropped all around him.

  “This is about the time things start going wrong,” Westmoreland said.

  On the video, a figure moved onto the outside staircase adjacent to the bridge, a towering monolith located on the rear of the transport, rising nearly four stories over the relatively flat deck. Westmoreland aimed his rifle at the figure, then lowered it as the man began to wave both arms. He appeared to be one of the sailors, beckoning the mercenaries towards the bridge.

  The colonel took three steps forward when the entire bridge and every portal in the four-story high structure lit up like a Christmas tree with muzzle flashes and incoming bullets. The sound was deafening, even over the PA system of the audio/visual room, so loud that the speakers cracked and went to static, unable to convey the full auditory violence of the gunshots.

  Westmoreland’s video flew to one side, finding cover. The man beside him fell, hit, while others returned fire. The helicopters flew in circles, trying to find an appropriate target on the transport superstructure.

  “Holy shit,” exclaimed the lawyer.

  “If it weren’t for those helicopters, we’d be dead or captured,” said Westmoreland.

  “Was Dalmar on board?” Bettencourt asked.

  “How should I know? We don’t even know what he looks like. But if he was, there’s a good chance we got him. The pirates may have scored a victory, but it cost them.”

  “He probably wasn’t onboard,” said the lawyer. Westmoreland turned toward him and glared. “No really—think about it. When was the last time we had a confirmed report he was a part of one of these raids? My intel guys think he’s directing from landside.”

  “Your intel guys,” chuckled Westmoreland sarcastically.

  “Yes, my intel guys,” the lawyer said, chin jutting out in defiance. “With respect, most generals don’t serve on the front lines, Colonel. Why would Dalmar risk it?”

  Westmoreland turned his back on the lawyer and resumed the video.The three men watched as the mercenaries charged up the stairway through a hail of bullets, fighting their way to the bridge. The two lead men threw grenades through the doorway. The bridge exploded, glass shattering and tumbling onto the deck. The last wounded man tumbled through the door to the bridge, collapsing at the base of a navigational terminal, blood pooling around his feet and ankles. Behind them, more pirates poured from below, materializing like ghosts, capturing the deck where they’d been moments before.

  “We had to turn the bridge into an unassailable position,” said Westmoreland, narrating the video as it continued. “Once the last man was in the bridge, we torched the exterior stairway with thermite.”

  Westmoreland’s video turned back to the bridge, a scene of perfect chaos. Wounded men struggled, attended to by their comrades while others shoved the crumpled bodies of hostages into the corner. Helicopters strafed the decks below.

  Three pirates burst through the door to the interior stairwell, catching the mercenaries by surprise. Westmoreland was first to return fire, but the pirates vanished before any were hit. The pirates hung back, probing the weaknesses of the impromptu fortress, never staying long enough to give the mercenaries a clear shot. They’d learned to fear the fixed guns of the helicopters, but at such close range the heavy weapons couldn’t be brought to bear without wiping out the mercenaries as well. Every bullet expended brought more pirates, peeking, crouching, whistling to each other as they advanced. Westmoreland was losing.

  Fuck it, said a voice over the video. The green flash of an unpinned grenade flew through the air and down the stairwell. With a concussion too loud for the video to capture, the weapon detonated with a blinding flash, collapsing part of the interior staircase.

  And then an AK-47-wielding boy stepped into view of the helmet-cam. Charles instantly recognized him as the colonel’s prisoner. In the video, Westmoreland dove to the floor, reached into the compartment below and dragged the boy out by his collar, punched him squarely in the face, ripped the rifle from his grasp, hooded and zip tied him within seconds. Bettencourt felt genuine amazement at the speed of the capture. From the boy’s perspective, he may have well been abducted by aliens, a single hand reaching down from above and dragging him upwards and away.

  The men pushed their way up a ladder and onto the roof of the ship, kicking and breaking off radio antennas and radar units, trying to make enough room for their escape. The first of the helicopters flew in for a dangerous one-skid landing, allowing Westmoreland’s men to pile aboard. Westmoreland practically threw the prisoner into the chopper, then dove in after him. The helicopter took off, rejoining formation while a second repeated the rescue.

  The two lead helicopters broke formation, backing away for an attack run, then strafed the entirety of the ship, firing countless rounds into the waterline of the ship. The transport started to list almost immediately, taking on water into every below-deck compartment.

  Bettencourt didn’t know if any crew survived the encounter this far, but he knew none of
them would live for long. The Russian transport heeled over but refused to sink. Above the bridge, the last of the shot-up mercenaries were loaded. The helicopter accelerated, gaining speed as it escaped the wounded ship, chased by three long-tailed rocket-propelled grenades—the pirates fired one final salvo, one last attempt to inflict damage.

  Two missed, but the third impacted the rearmost chopper, halfway back to the tail rotor. The craft spun, losing control, but the expert pilot righted her, re-gaining trim and putting her back into formation. The last clip of the video showed the fleeing helicopters moving away as the Russian transport, burning, rocked in the lapping waves.

  “We have to strike back,” said Westmoreland, yanking the memory card out of the computer. “At this moment, Anconia Island is on war footing.”

  Bettencourt frowned, the offshore bankers, software developers, data miners and other denizens of Anconia wouldn’t like that kind of talk. They weren’t soldiers. Before he could formulate his response, his lawyer interrupted.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” he said. “But I think I found our prisoner’s Facebook page.”

  The lawyer synced his phone into the nearest terminal. Sure enough, the young prisoner’s image flashed into view, maybe a year younger, proudly wearing a Batman T-shirt and holding an RPG.

  “Cute kid,” said Bettencourt.

  “Holy shit, I think Dalmar has a page, too,” said the lawyer, bringing up the pirate’s stark rifle-crossed emblem.

  “I hope you’re not using your personal account.”

  “No, I’m using corporate. What should I do?”

  Westmoreland simply crossed his arms, not approving but knowing too little about the process to actually protest.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” said Bettencourt. “Friend him. The Public Relations department will throw a shit fit when they find out, but do it anyway.”

  The lawyer pressed a few keys, all three men waiting for a moment.

  “I sent the request.”

  “War footing,” said Westmoreland, intending to return the discussion to a subject with which he was eminently more familiar.

  “Um, sorry to interrupt,” said the lawyer. “But he just friended me back.”

  “Already? The fucker must live on Facebook.”

  “He just might,” mused the lawyer. “He actually has more followers than our corporate site … hold on … now we’re getting a video chat request from him.”

  “Seriously?” Bettencort said.

  “Agree to it,” said Colonel Westmoreland. “We have a prisoner. That’s something worth talking about. Can we trace the source? I want to know exactly where that fucker is holed up.”

  “Trace it? Are you kidding me?” said the lawyer. “This is Facebook we’re talking about.”

  “Despite your shitty attitude,” said the colonel, “I still don’t know if that’s a yes or no.”

  “Let me put it this way, do you want some pedophile tracing your kids?” said the lawyer, shaking his head. “No, you can’t trace somebody using Facebook.”

  “Well, stop fucking around and start the feed,” said the colonel.

  “Put it on the main screen,” Bettencourt directed.

  The lawyer swept the page up onto the server farm’s main screen. and with a jab of his index figure, accepted the video chat request. A few seconds later, an image formed on the big screen and Dalmar Abdi filled the display, a dark, intense, handsome face staring directly into the camera. Bettencourt found himself wishing they’d picked a smaller screen; Dalmar dominated the room like the Wizard of Oz, while the room’s fisheye camera rendered him and Westmoreland as small, slight figures.

  Dalmar was transmitting from a nondescript bedroom, a simple mud-walled space with a single bed. A second man, tall, muscular, bare chested, slept soundly wrapped in the sheets, blissful and unaware. So the rumors were true—Bettencourt could practically smell the sex through the video connection.

  “Colonel!” announced Dalmar with practical glee and in near-perfect English. “I missed you! Get it?”

  With that, Dalmar threw his entire head back and laughed the deepest, purest belly laugh, his shiny white teeth blinding, his echoing voice booming over the room’s PA system.

  “Mr. Abdi,” said Charles.

  “Oh, I see Charles Bettencourt is with you,” said Dalmar, still smiling with the last remaining chuckles. “And his pet lawyer. All of my friends are here! All of my friends, the men who give me so much money and such endless fun.”

  “How many men did you lose today?” asked Colonel Westmoreland with a sadistic smile.

  “None!” shouted Dalmar, his smile never wavering. “I have never lost a man. Those shot, rise as the sun sets; those drowned, swim to shore, those burned and maimed—”

  Unwilling to listen to the ranting another moment, Colonel Westmoreland grabbed the prisoner by the neck and threw him to center of the camera’s view. Hands still tied behind his back, the boy stumbled and collapsed in a heap as the mercenary straddled him, yanking off his dark hood.

  “And who is this?” said Dalmar. Unmoved by the display, he seemed genuinely curious.

  Blinking in the sudden artificial light, Jaff immediately affixed his stare to Dalmar’s image. His eyes went wide, his mouth hung open. Celebrity? Hero worship? Was Dalmar actually Jaff’s Batman?

  “Ah, I can see now!” said Dalmar. “It is my best soldier, Jaff!”

  Jaff mouthed words, but no sound came out. He knows my name, the boy seemed say.

  “Jaff, I am very proud of you,” said Dalmar.

  “But I was captured,” the boy whispered, not certain his idol could hear him.

  “There is nothing you could do that would make me disappointed in you,” responded Dalmar. “After all, what do we say to our captors?”

  “Fuck your mother!” shouted Jaff.

  “Very good! Very good! My friends, let us put my best soldier aside for a moment. We have business to discuss. Jaff, I promise you that your moment will come.”

  Jaff bowed deeply, his face aglow with a burning pride.

  “I’ll begin,” said Bettencourt. He stood up and adjusted his suit. “Dalmar, I’ll admit it. I’m impressed. They said nobody could take a vessel traveling faster than eighteen knots, and you took one. I can’t get you to retire—”

  “And you cannot kill me.”

  “But let’s not get bogged down in semantics,” the CEO continued. “What’s it going to take? I feel like I don’t even have a starting point with you here. Give me a number. Ask for the world and we’ll see where the negotiations take us. What do you say?”

  “You wish to negotiate?” asked Dalmar, theatrically incredulous. “How does one negotiate with death? You, you people, you bring death with you. Death to our people, death to our seas, death to our hope. And I am the deathkiller. I pray for your massacres, for the poisons you pour into our waters. For every Somali you kill, I raise an army of their brothers and husbands and sons.”

  Bettencourt’s phone rang, and he found himself absentmindedly checking it. Lucianna … goddamn it, every time he missed one of her kickboxing lessons she blew up his phone like some crazy stalker. Annoying as hell, almost not worth it—

  “Am I boring you?” Dalmar’s voice boomed over the streaming video. Bettencourt realized the room had gone absolutely silent.

  “What the hell, boss?” Westmoreland demanded. Even his lawyer seemed irritated.

  “Shit, I’m sorry. It’s my kickboxing instructor, goes bonkers every time I skip my personal training session.”

  “Are you screwing her?” asked Dalmar.

  “Well … yeah.”

  “That’s your problem right there, Boss,” muttered Westmoreland. The lawyer nodded in agreement.

  “I understand, my friend,” said Dalmar, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder to the sleeping man in bed behind him. “This one is unbelievable. Always wants to upgrade, whatever that means. Wants a nicer house, a nicer car. I cannot win.”

&nb
sp; “Now do we get to talk about the prisoner I’m about to fucking execute?” asked Colonel Westmoreland, clearly annoyed.

  “To business then,” said Dalmar. “I am willing to speak of Jaff, my best soldier. My best soldier knows, as all the best soldiers know, that their commander only asks one thing of them.”

  Dalmar’s dark eyes pierced through the video feed, focusing all his energy on the young, enraptured pirate.

  “Jaff, do you know what I am going to ask?”

  Jaff shook his head.

  “I only ask you die well.”

  Jaff nodded in complete focus and agreement. The boy spun around and suddenly his hands were free and he launched himself at Charles Bettencourt like a cannon shot, as if the entire universe had shrunk to a singular nothingness between two immovable objects. Something glinted in his hand and Charles’s brain sputtered and spit something out like knife. The worst part was that he just stood there with his mouth hanging open like some thoughtless dumbfuck begging to get his gut slashed open. Just as fast, Westmoreland had his hands around the boy’s neck, throwing him to the ground.

  Out came the colonel’s custom pistol, and it popped once, twice, three times directly into the boy’s chest, deafening in the small room. The boy sputtered once, gurgled, dropped the knife, and died.

  Dalmar let out a long sigh and shook his head. “Missed again.” He smiled one last time, a wide, sad smile and said, “Until next time.” Then he closed the feed and all that remained on the screen was his main Facebook page.

  “You’re welcome, Boss,” Westmoreland said.

  Bettencourt didn’t look up. He was distracted, staring at his shoes around which a puddle of blood was forming. Jesus. But probably not the first pair of Pradas to walk through blood, he thought. And no, I do not need to thank you, Colonel. That’s what annual performance bonuses are for. He glanced up at the screen and then turned and headed back out to the landing deck with his lawyer, as usual, on his heels. Westmoreland’s cruel smile followed them to the massive door, disappearing only as it slid shut behind them.