The Wrecking Crew

by Taylor Zajonc

  Colonel Westmoreland smirked as the elevator doors opened, revealing an angled, glass-roofed penthouse. The massive exterior helicopter pad clung from the side of the building, completing the architectural opulence. Charles Bettencourt’s gleaming white personal helicopter idled, rotors lazily spinning, ready to depart at a moment’s notice.

  The colonel grabbed Jonah and Hassan by their ziptied wrists and dragged them across the marble floor towards Bettencourt’s mahogany desk.

  “You’re leaking,” mumbled Hassan to Jonah, glancing towards Jonah’s bleeding leg. The wound left a long trail of smeared blood as Jonah slid along the floor.

  “Shit,” Jonah groaned. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Silence reigned for a moment as the pair considered their fate.

  “I was going to say this earlier,” murmured Jonah. “But now is a good of a time as any. Doc, I’ve been abandoned by a lot of people in my life. You are the first one who chose to come back. I’m sorry it didn’t work out like you planned.”

  “Maybe in another life,” whispered the doctor. “We could have been friends.”

  “Doc,” laughed Jonah, coughing up blood as he spoke, “in this life, you’re the only friend I got.”

  The pair of wounded men passed free-standing glass panels holding parchments of colorful and ancient dragons, kraken, samurai, and geishas.

  “Nice digs,” commented Jonah through a mouthful of blood. “The artwork looks expensive.”

  “It’s human skin,” said Hassan, chuckling with pained, mournful snorting.

  “Charming,” said Jonah. “Very Martha Stewart Living.” His face twisted with pain and amusement, joining the doctor in the absurdist giggling. Before long, the two were howling in pathetic, insane laughter at the sheer hopelessness of their situation.

  Rolling his eyes, Colonel Westmoreland stopped at the foot of the desk and spun them around to face the corporate cutthroat. Hassan and Jonah drew themselves up to their knees. Charles Bettencourt stood behind the desk, arms crossed, a deep scowl on his face. His lawyer sat beside him in a wheelchair, unshaven, wearing a loose sweatshirt, and with both legs in casts.

  “I don’t even know where to begin.” Bettencourt, shook his head in bewilderment. “The very fact that you both are alive is a testament to the total incompetence of my security forces.”

  “Nice to see you too, Chuck,” said Jonah, a smile still on his bloody, swollen face. “You know—I never actually caught the name of your lapdog attorney. Nevermind that, I’m just going to call him Wheels.”

  “You son of a bitch!” shouted the lawyer from the wheelchair. “You did this to me, you fuck!”

  Bettencourt scowled and held a hand to silence the man. “He knows he did it to you,” said the CEO with a tone usually reserved for dealing with exceptionally stupid children. “That’s why he said it.”

  “Boss, I brought you a gift,”said Colonel Westmoreland, drawing Jonah’s pearl-handled 1911 pistol out of his waistband and setting it on Bettencourt’s desk. “Figured it would look good in the ol’ trophy case.”

  “This is one classy hand-cannon,” mused the CEO. “He doesn’t seem the type. Vintage?”

  “Look at the serial number,”said Colonel Westmoreland. “Built in 1928. Beautifully restored with modern internal components. A fine weapon. I’m keeping the doctor’s military-issue nine-millimeter for myself.”

  Bettencourt nodded and set the weapon on the desk with a click of metal against glass.

  “So Wheels,” said Bettencourt, putting a hand on the back of his lawyer’s shoulders, “what’s our exposure here?”

  The colonel laughed.

  “Don’t you start,” said the lawyer. “I’m coming off some serious painkillers, and I’m not in the fucking mood.”

  “Just answer the question,” barked Bettencourt.

  “Fine,” said the lawyer. “So there’s no question that we have data in the wind. The good news is that we managed to shut down the satellite uplink before more than about fifteen percent of total server capacity reached any remote servers.”

  “Who do they belong to?” demanded the CEO. “Competitors?”

  “That’s the bad news,” said the lawyer. “They’re whistleblower drop-boxes. Activists, NGOs, and political organizations, many of which have it in for us. So whatever they did get, they’re going to be able weaponize with the help of the media. We’re going to have to assume they know everything about our disposal program. The Conglomerate … well, I can’t speak for how they will react.”

  “They speak the language of money,” Bettencourt said. “And they need me. We could be on the ropes for a while, but it’s far from game over. I’ve prepared contingency plans for just such an event. Get our legal and public relations folks mobilized. Get them everything they need to start shoring up public perception. Our Investor Relations guys know what to do to keep share prices from plummeting. I’ll call our Russian friends; try to smooth things over there. Hell, Tony Hayward at BP convinced the public he gave a shit about estuaries. This should be a walk in the park by comparison. Nobody gives a flying fuck about Somalia, and nobody plays this game better than we do.”

  “And the prisoners?” asked Colonel Westmoreland.

  “What prisoners?” Bettencourt said. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re already dead. Don’t fuck it up this time.”

  Colonel Westmoreland nodded and put his H&K pistol to Hassan’s head, cocking the hammer with his thumb.

  “Jesus!” Bettencourt shouted. “Not in my fucking office.”

  “I got to know just one thing,” said Jonah as Colonel Westmoreland reached for his zip tied hands to drag him away. “Was the job offer real?”

  Bettencourt sighed and put a hand on his hip. The colonel stood, waiting for the answer.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” said the CEO. “I wanted to create a stable, secure, permanent installation off the Horn of Africa. A place that would provide economic opportunity free of national interests. But instead I was met with suspicion and violence.”

  “What self-serving rubbish,” said Hassan, interrupting him.

  “You’re wrong! It’s not bullshit. I was trying to help them, goddammit. But they’re slaves. Slaves to their tradition, to their nonsensical fundamentalism, to poverty and ignorance. I wanted to set them free.”

  “By poisoning them,” Hassan added.

  “Well, I do admit that is truly unfortunate,” murmured Bettencourt. “But new nations are expensive. As are new ideas. I came to realize these people are beyond help, they’re the one nation on earth too fucking backward to even form some semblance of self-government. I was overextended financially, risking not just Anconia Island, but the whole of the Bettencorps empire. And then the Conglomerate came to me with a proposal that could save everything, a problem for which they required the utmost discretion. They had in their possession dangerous relics of a forgotten war—weapons so dangerous they were more valuable destroyed than sold.”

  “And you took these weapons,” snarled Hassan, “and you buried them in the deep waters of the Indian Ocean.”

  “Of course I did! I was forced, forced to agree that the best place to hide weapons that shouldn’t exist was among people who didn’t matter. It was such an easy choice to make. What they wanted was so simple—their interests protected, a blind eye turned, and for that I got my bottom line secured.”

  “Round of applause for the despondent plutocrat,” said Hassan, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “For he can never fail the world, the world can only fail him.”

  “Chuck, here’s what I find truly amazing,” said Jonah. “It’s amazing that you’re still failing to ask yourself a series of very simple questions. I’m disappointed, I really thought you knew us better than that.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “What do you think our objective was? To expose you to the world, only to watch you bribe and manipulate your way out of infamy? See you pay an army of lawyers and spin doctors and p
ut a fucking smiley face on an empire of poison? Do you really think our war against you will come down to dueling interviews on Larry King Live?”

  “Larry King went off the air in 2010, you ignorant dipshit.”

  “What you’ve failed to consider is that we do not play by your fucking rules,” continued Jonah. “You cannot hide behind a rigged system. Not from us.”

  “Charles, what you’ve failed to consider,” said Hassan with a smile, “is that we are just the distraction.”

  Bettencourt frowned, considering this new information.

  “They’re bluffing—” Westmoreland snapped derisively.

  The CEO cut him off with a wave of a hand. “We can’t take that chance.” He turned to the lawyer. “Check on the status of every ship within a hundred miles. Look for anything out of the ordinary; I don’t care how small it seems.”

  The lawyer wheeled himself over to the desk and activated the built-in screen. The mahogany surface disappeared, replaced by a computer display.

  “Maybe the colonel is right, maybe you’re full of shit,” said Bettencourt, turning back to Jonah and Hassan. “But I’m not. Believe me when I say we’re going to hunt and sink your submarine and kill your friends.”

  “How you use your little remaining time is your own business,” said Hassan.

  “’Cause it is on like motherfucking Donkey Kong,” added Jonah, waggling his head.

  “Found something,” interrupted the lawyer. “There’s a note in the file of the SS Erno Rubik. Cargo container supercarrier, on route from India to South Africa. They reported a fire in the generator room less than an hour ago and are currently communicating by telex only.”

  “Have they asked for assistance?” asked Colonel Westmoreland.

  “No—we’ve offered several times and they’ve refused. Could be nothing. What should we do?”

  “Contact our security team on that ship,” said Colonel Westmoreland.

  “Hold on,” said the lawyer, squinting his eyes at the map. “The radar feed is updating. They’re turning and increasing speed. I … I think they’re turning towards Anconia Island.”

  “Tonnage?” demanded the CEO.

  “One-hundred-and-eighty-six thousand tons,” said the lawyer, the blood draining from his face. “Four times the size of the Titanic. She’s more than a thousand feet in length, one of the largest cargo ships ever put to sea. And she’s on a collision course.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Bettencourt paced behind his desk as his lawyer unsuccessfully hailed the cargo container supercarrier SS Erno Rubik for the fourth time. Still too far away to see from the penthouse, the massive container ship had broken away from course and increased speed to eighteen knots, bearing down on Anconia Island on a high-speed collision course.

  “Come in, Erno Rubik,” said the lawyer into the marine radio, his voice betraying fear and urgency. “SS Erno Rubik, please state your intentions.”

  From the other end, the radio crackled to life.

  “Anconia Island, Anconia Island,” boomed a silky baritone voice. “This is Dalmar Abdi, dread pirate captain of the SS Erno Rubik.”

  “Colonel,” said Bettencourt, holding his clenched fist in front of his mouth. “I thought you told me that the pirates couldn’t fucking hijack the supercarriers.”

  “We have a security team on that ship,” protested the colonel. “We’ve never had a problem before—”

  “I think you’re having a problem now,” Jonah said.

  “As my first act as pirate captain,” continued Dalmar. “I am renaming this fine ship the SS Fuck Your Mother.”

  There was a brief silence in the glass-roofed office penthouse, wasting precious seconds as the gargantuan ship slowly closed the gap between itself and the immobile island. Bettencourt fished a pair of binoculars out of the desk drawer and handed them to Colonel Westmoreland. The mercenary took station by the window, scanning the distance.

  “I’d answer them if I were you,” said Jonah, smirking. “Sounds like it might be important.”

  Charles bent over the desk and pressed the transmit button. “SS Erno Rubik,” he began. “This is Anconia Island, Charles Bettencourt speaking.”

  Silence greeted him.

  “Why won’t he answer?” demanded the CEO.

  “I believe he was quite clear about the name of his ship,” said Hassan.

  “Goddamn it,” said Bettencourt, stabbing the transmit button again. “SS… Fuck Your Mother… this is Anconia Island, Charles Bettencourt speaking.”

  “Hello Charles,” said Dalmar through the radio. “I’ve long admired your shining city upon the sea.”

  “I’ve got Jonah Blackwell and Hassan Nassiri with me. At gunpoint. Change course or we’ll kill your friends.”

  “Hello Jonah and Hassan!” exclaimed Dalmar. “Is it true you have been captured?”

  “Unfortunately yes,” said Jonah, loud enough for the microphone to pick up his voice.

  “Glorious!” said Dalmar. “I am so pleased you will die a good death at the hands of our sworn adversary!”

  “Whoops,” Jonah said, shaking his head. “We’d be a better bargaining chip if he cared about keeping us alive.”

  The colonel slapped Bettencourt’s hand away from the transmit button.

  “How well did our last chat with Dalmar go? Pirates don’t bargain for their own,” he hissed as he shoved the binoculars into the CEO’s hands. “Look—the container ship is within visual range.”

  Bettencourt hit the transmit button again. “Can we talk to our security team?” he asked.

  “Only if you can commune with the dead,” responded Dalmar. “Your five men laid down their arms the moment they were surrounded! I was certain you would be very disappointed at their cowardice, so I executed them on your behalf.”

  The lawyer shuddered.

  “Mr. Charles Bettencourt,” continued the pirate, “I’ve found our rivalry thrilling, but I’m afraid the game is nearing the end. While you have earned yourself an honorable death by my hand, I have no quarrel with your people. Heed my warning. I give you a chance to evacuate Anconia Island before I strike. You have twelve minutes.”

  “Dalmar, buddy, this isn’t a ship,”countered Bettencourt. “This is a city, a city in a really nasty part of the world. You can’t just tell everybody to leave. Where the hell are they going to go?”

  He released the transmit button and resumed pacing, while the radio crackled silent, Dalmar unwilling to respond.

  “You talk to him,” demanded Bettencourt, pointing at Jonah. “Tell him to divert course, give us more time, anything!”

  “Why of course,” shouted Jonah, spitting flecks of blood as he spoke, filled with sudden anger. “Take a mulligan with Dalmar’s 180,000-ton battering ram. He’ll just stuff that ship up your ass on your schedule. How’s your Tuesday? Actually, strike that—I just looked and mine’s terrible.”

  “Order a general evacuation.” the CEO said, pointing at his lawyer. “Get everyone out of the buildings and onto anything that floats—do it now!”

  Around them, lights flashed and instructions appeared on wall-mounted screens. A public-address system calmly issued pre-programmed evacuation instructions.

  “I’m not kidding around, Dalmar,” Bettencourt said, making one last-ditch effort to speak with the pirate. “I’m sorry about the attempts on your life and that of your men. Really, I am. I’ve clearly underestimated you. That’s my mistake. I own that. But you’re making a mistake here, too. Nobody’s done anything yet that we can’t walk away from. I can make this right. But if you do this—if you threaten the lives of my people, your actions will follow you for the rest of your short life. I’m not leaving. I will defend this city with my life.”

  “Pish-posh,” interrupted Hassan. “You have no intention of dying on anyone’s behalf, not even your own.”

  “I will throw everything, everything I have at you,” shouted Bettencourt into the radio, losing control. “And I swear by everything hol
y that I will end you this time.”

  “You have eleven minutes to try,” said Dalmar. “Good luck. Dread Pirate Dalmar Abdi, Captain of the SS Fuck Your Mother out.”

  “He makes a good pirate captain,” said Hassan.

  “That he does,” mused Jonah. “He has style. Style is very important for a pirate captain.”

  “He needs an eye patch though, don’t you think?”

  “And a parrot,” Jonah nodded and squinted out the window, catching his first glimpse of the supertransport through the floor-to-ceiling penthouse windows as the massive ship bore down on Anconia Island.

  “Mobilize everything!” Bettencourt shouted at the colonel. “Get all non-combatants to lifeboats and the jetway! Attack that ship!”

  Face red and boiling with anger, Bettencourt picked the pearl-handled 1911 from his desk, strode up to Hassan and whipped the doctor across the face with the loaded weapon.

  “Stop wasting time,” Colonel Westmoreland barked. “My men will launch drones and our helicopters will assault.”

  No sooner had he spoken than a pack of eight triangular drones launched from underneath the island, correcting their trim and altitude with eerie synchronicity as they formed up for an attack run. The gleaming white drones were larger than Jonah had expected, each with wingspans of nearly thirty feet, jet engines whistling as they passed the penthouse at eye level.

  Approaching the Erno Rubik fast and low, they simultaneously disgorged their missile bays into the tenstory bridge castle with a ticker-tape of white contrails. The barrage of missiles flew towards the container ship at impossible speed, tumbling out of formation as they impacted the massive bridge castle in a disorganized spread.

  Flashes from the bridge castle—small arms fired at the now-retreating drones. The jet engine of a single drone puffed with white smoke and fell from the sky like a wounded bird.