Countdown: The Liberators-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  Adam had to admit that, within certain limits, they'd tried to treat him decently. He credited Labaan for that. Certainly some of the latter's underlings would have been happy enough feeding Adam to the sharks that came in close to the round island's edge on every quadrant. He was well fed, even gaining a little weight back after his descent into some kind of the twitching awfuls a couple of weeks ago. They took him out for exercise twice a day, always being careful to point out a shark's fin, could one be seen. He followed along, in awkward short steps, imagining trying to outswim the fins while manacled.

  While the sharks only came to most of the island's edge sometimes, in the east, where the opposite shore was closest, they were always there, their fins clustered thick enough to walk from one to the other. Adam could see land on the other side of the water, a bare thirty meters away. Almost, he felt he could jump such a short span. He knew he couldn't, of course, and with the manacles about his ankles even the less so. The sharks, in any event, were thick at that point of the compass. Perhaps they were fed there by the two guards that likewise seemed always on station there.

  The chain they used on his ankles to keep him from running or swimming chafed. And it would ooze red blood if I were to try to swim through the sharks.

  A doctor checked in on him every few days, the better to ensure his physical well being. The exclusive use they'd given him of Makeda went a long way to seeing to his other needs, physical and otherwise.

  Purchased by Labaan's brother, Bahdoon, Makeda was an Ethiopian captured in a slave raid when she was a young child. The girl was about fifteen years old now, as near as she could guess, and virginity was but a distant memory. So, too, distant was the memory of her childhood religion, Christianity. Adam found it both moving and pitiful the way Makeda tried to hang on to barely remembered scraps of her faith. In looks she was much like Maryam, tall and slender, more fine featured than the African norm, and with the high forehead typical of Ethiopians, Eritreans, and some of Adam's own people.

  For all her tender years, Makeda was deft in bed in a way Maryam had probably never even dreamed of being. Whether she took any genuine enjoyment of the act Adam had to doubt. The fine scars across her buttocks suggested she was performing only, like any trained animal. And somehow the passion of her throat never seemed to reach her eyes.

  Outside of bed, however, and in the day, she was rather a different person, bright and charming and even funny. Nor was she so timid as to prevent her from laying into the guards fastening Adam's chains about him. "Look at the boy! See the raw red meat you've made of his ankles! How do you think your chief will feel if he gets an infection and dies?"

  Not that they'd listened to her, at least not until she'd enlisted the doctor's support. After that, while the chains hadn't been loosened much, they'd permitted her to wrap the ankles in soft, clean cloth beforehand. It helped, some. It also increased the amount of free chain by perhaps all of an inch. Adam still had no hope of running or swimming with it on.

  And no hope of getting out of this room except with it on. And, since they only give me plastic utensils, no chance of tunneling through these coral blocks.

  He'd tried that, of course. His little white plastic spoons had made no impression on the coral whatsoever. Not that the coral blocks, which were basically limestone, were all that hard. They were just harder than cheap plastic spoons and fingernails.

  He rolled over and spooned himself to Makeda's warm back, one arm going over her and his hand seeking out a breast to cup. She wriggled backwards against him. Awake or asleep? he wondered.

  "I'm awake," the girl answered the unasked question. She might not have much cared for the act of bedding, however carefully trained she'd been to do it well. But she much preferred being the property of one to being in the common pool. If Adam wanted her, he could have her.

  "You get out on your own, Makeda," Adam whispered. "Do boats ever come to the island?"

  "The only one I've seen is the supply boat that comes from the south," she whispered back. "There are fishing boats, but they tie up along the rim of the bay, or sometimes at the causeway that connects the island with the mainland. The ones that tie up on the causeway do so past the guards. Are you planning an escape?" she asked, a tinge of hope creeping into her voice. "Take me with you; free me, and I'll do anything in my power to help."

  "I would take you with me," he answered back. "As far as I'm concerned, you are free and the men holding you here do so illegally."

  "I am free, you say," she whispered back. "And if I told you I didn't want you to fuck me anymore?"

  Adam shrugged. "Then I wouldn't."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. You are your own person, to choose for yourself. If I've hurt you or angered you so far, I am sorry."

  Makeda twisted her head half way around. "And you'll take me with you, if we can escape."

  "Yes, of course."

  She twisted around inside his enveloping arm. Her own went around him, the left one pushing its way between body and foam mattress. "In that case, pick a hole, any hole."

  ***

  Labaan walked softly, on bare calloused feet, across the smoothly polished blocks that made up the floor. The guards at Adam's door were smiling when they saw him. One lifted a finger to his lips, indicating Labaan should be quiet. The finger then pointed at the portal, through the blanket covering of which emanated sounds of youthful passion. Labaan, likewise, smiled.

  Poor children, he thought, go on and make the best you can of the bad situation fate has dealt you. I was certain, he congratulated himself, that I picked the right slavegirl for you, Adam. If you two can find love together, perhaps that will make the fact of your status more tolerable to you both. And don't forget, boy, if you impregnate her and she becomes ‘the mother of a child' that will be a big step up in her status right there. Almost free, in fact. For whatever ‘freedom' might mean to a woman in our world.

  Like justice, it doesn't exist except for whatever we can carve out for ourselves and our own.

  Makeda was on top, rocking rhythmically as Adam's hands clasped her small breasts almost-but not quite-painfully hard. Without interrupting the motion, she used her own hands to guide the boy's thumbs and fingers to her nipples. "Pinch them," she gasped. "Hard. I like it."

  It would be incorrect to say that the girl had never taken any pleasure in sex before. But, if she had, it had always been tempered by the knowledge that she was legally not much more than an animal; that, and the feeling of being worthless dirt that always came afterwards. This, though? He said I was free! she thought as she changed her pattern of movement from rocking her hips to spiraling them. He said I had a choice! That must be why this feels as it never has before.

  She reverted from spiraling back to rocking, at the same time lowering her torso down almost to rest on Adam's. He was mindless now, thrusting upwards hard, bouncing her toward the ceiling. His fingers, too, of their own accord, pinched her nipples fiercely enough to cause pain, though even that, mixed with the sensations coming from between her legs, was pleasurable.

  She began to moan, then, a mindless animal sound. Her rocking ceased, changing to a reverse thrusting to meet Adam's own. She began to see little specks of light dancing before her eyes. Her moan changed to a long scream, then to a coral-shaking shriek, and finally to a loud, repetitive, "guh . . . guh . . . . guh . . ." which grew softer as she collapsed onto him, shuddering and quaking.

  One guard, his rifle placed against the wall, had both hands cupped over his mouth and nose, trying to stifle a laugh. The other, Delmar, was of sterner stuff. He suppressed his own laughter by a sheer act of will. He did say to Labaan, face all smiles, "I grow to like that boy more and more as time passes."

  "I know," Labaan agreed. "He's a good boy. Pity he's not one of us."

  "Then it would be somebody else's son we'd have taken, since without an heir Khalid couldn't have been chief. And that son or heir would probably be no different from this one. No, Labaan, it's just
the world in which we live. We didn't make it. We don't even have to approve of it. We just have to do the best we can in it, for our own."

  I hate being owned, Makeda thought, as she lay, still awake, and staring at the ceiling. It's why I've always faked pleasure, and never let myself feel any of it I could avoid feeling. At least then, inside myself, I had control over myself, I owned that one small part of me.

  So why let myself go this one time? Maybe I'm a foolish girl, but when Adam said he would free me if he could, and that it was my choice if we were to continue to bed . . . well . . . I suppose I believed him. No, I know I believe him. He's a good boy, a decent boy, a kind boy.

  And he's also my only chance.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Like myself, they have mixed the worship of

  the God of love and the God of battles.

  But unlike myself, they have adequate symbols

  of this double devotion. The little cross on the

  shoulder is the symbol of their Christian faith.

  The uniform itself is the symbol of their devotion

  to the God of battles. It is the uniform and not

  the cross which impresses me and others.

  -Reinhold Niebuhr,

  "Leaves from the Notebook of a Tamed Cynic"

  D-99, Airfield, Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp,

  Amazonia, Brazil

  Recruiting had been done in a rough pyramid, so to speak, with Stauer calling in a score of his own friends, for commanders and staff, and these each bringing in anything from a few to half a dozen to a couple of score, and these bringing in one or two or three or four each. A certain number, too, had been recruited by ransacking the databases of such corporations as Triple Canopy and MPRI, once Lox hacked into those.

  Picking the chaplain Stauer had taken on as a personal job. Most chaplains he thought worthless, but there had been a couple . . .

  The flight hadn't been that long, really, from Georgetown to an unknown and unnamed strip in Brazil's Amazon, just a few hours of mile after mile of green jungle and brown water.

  On the other hand, flying in a tightly cramped aircraft with an unknown pilot, surrounded by nine big, burly and surly bastards that Chaplain (retired) James Wilson just knew had to be special operations types, was, at best, awkward and uncomfortable. There just wasn't a lot in common between green beanie and clerical collar, despite both having served in the same Army. They were almost all taller than his modest five feet, eight inches. They were all, even the ones he pegged as senior non-coms, much younger than his fifty-eight years. He had more hair than a couple of them, but his was steel gray while the eldest of theirs was at worst salt and pepper. They all looked like trained killers while he . . . Well . . . I look like a man of the cloth. Even without the collar I would.

  Point of fact, really, they're a different army, Wilson thought. We just got paid, mostly, from the same accounts and wore, mostly, the same uniforms and answered, mostly, to the same legal system. Mostly.

  And I suppose they're really not that surly, he thought, just really, really tired looking and, if smell in anything to go on, badly hungover.

  In any case, neither chaplain nor team paid much attention to each other, beyond Welch having introduced himself as they boarded the plane. Of small talk, once aboard, though, there'd been none.

  So Wilson spent the flight looking out the small window at the trees passing below. Not that they're all that far below, he mused. I wonder why the pilots are . . .

  The thought was interrupted as the plane took a sudden, violent dip downward, causing Wilson's stomach to lurch upward. He barely contained his bile. The special operations types, most of whom had been dozing, awakened with sudden startled cries. Wilson gulped even while thinking, Nice to know they're human after all.

  Stauer heard the Porter's engine, even muffled through the trees. He caught the briefest glimpse of it. And then the thing was diving for the deck, or-in this case-the freshly laid PSP.

  The pilot pulled out, barely in time, Stauer thought. In what seemed mere moments he had touched down on the PSP, bouncing a few times before settling in to a rather nice landing roll. He reversed engines shortly thereafter, slowing quickly to a stop maybe sixty percent of the way down the field.

  Nagy was right, Stauer thought. Cruz was being overly careful. But, then again, this was the best pilot Cruz came up with for the Porters. Maybe the others will need a bit more space. And, maybe too, we might have to fly a load or two out of here.

  Harry Gordon, Gordo, had arranged for half a dozen little All Terrain Vehicles with dump truck platforms on back to be sent to the camp via the leased civilian riverine landing craft. The things were six-wheeled-though the wheels were covered with rubber treads-and amphibious. Each had a ton and a quarter winch. They drove pretty much like an M-113 armored personnel carrier, having two control sticks to steer and stop. Best of all, they were completely non-suspicious.

  Of course, at twenty-six thousand dollars and change, each, they hadn't come cheap.

  The ATVs had been there mostly for Nagy's sake, initially, but since he no longer really needed them they'd been parceled out among the other organizations, with two of them reserved to the air operations company. Those two were waiting when the Porter came to a stop. There wouldn't be room for the men, of course. They could walk. But there's no sense in making them carry all their shit while they do, Stauer thought. Not in this heat, anyway.

  As the plane's hatch opened, Stauer adjusted the pull throttle, pressed the starter button, readjusted the throttle and took off to meet his incoming crew, grass and dirt spinning up behind him, until he reached the PSP of the airstrip. The things were a ball to drive, despite the pounding of the junctures where PSP section joined section. The propeller was changing from a blur to a visible set of blades as he stopped the ATV near the hatch.

  Terry was first off, tossing an informal-to-the-point-of-ragged salute Stauerward. Stauer frowned until Terry made it more formal. "One or the other, Terry, would be fine," Stauer said. "Salute or not, as the spirit moves you. But making a sloppy, half-assed, ridiculous attempt at the thing is just stupid."

  Terry nodded and said, "Sorry, boss. Won't happen again."

  "All right," Stauer agreed with good grace. "And well done on springing Victor. You and your boys are part of Headquarters"-Stauer pointed down a rutted trail in the direction of the river-"so you billet in main camp. Sergeant Island's been expecting you. You can feed before you rack out. The sergeant major will be by to brief you and your men on camp routine and layout tomorrow morning, 0600. You're on your own ‘til then."

  Welch nodded wearily, then turned back to the plane from which all of his men had now debarked. "Buckwheat," he passed on to his senior sergeant, "The vehicles can lead off. Mess in the camp, then rack out. Sergeant Major visits us in the morning, 0600."

  "Roger, sir," Fulton said. He turned to the rest and ordered, "Column of twos . . . ForWARD . . . March."

  "Sergeant Fulton has another mission, too, Terry," Stauer said as the others marched away.

  "Recon of the objective?"

  "Yes; that and pick up our local attachments. Him and Wahab. Leave in about two weeks. Buckwheat's the only one we've got with both the training and the color to blend in."

  "I'm not sure color matters, boss," Terry said. "That place gets overrun with western journalists and other progressive sorts on a regular basis."

  "It still matters," Stauer replied.

  "Taciturn bunch," Jim Wilson said to Stauer as he watched the backs of Welch's team march away.

  "Not so very," Stauer replied. "They just don't know you. Hop in."

  Wilson shrugged and tossed his small carry-on into the truck bed in back. Sure, it was still dirty but what's a little dirt among friends. It's true enough, he thought, that I'm a stranger. Even so, I am a man of the cloth. Could they be militant atheists? Never met one in the Army, that I know of, but you never know. He swung a leg over, grimacing at the click-click-click
that he felt in one arthritic knee, and climbed over the side of the little tracked amphib, settling down in the cramped passenger seat.

  Stauer once again started the ATV, then used the control sticks to head generally around the base camp and its outliers. As he drove, he talked, speaking loudly over the sound of the engine.

  "I'm surprised you came," he said to Wilson.

  "You called; I came," the chaplain replied. "Even got a portable organ on the plane."

  "It's never that simple, Jim. There was an implicit question in there: Why?"

  Stauer may never have shown his fangs to Phillie in the time they'd been together. Anyone who had known him before knew also that he wasn't to be balked or stymied. And for God's sake, one should never lie to him.

  "I lost my congregation," Wilson admitted. "About six months ago. Little to-do about literal interpretations of the Bible versus more . . . enlightened views. Anyway, I got the boot. I was getting desperate when you called, to tell you the truth. Wife and mortgage to support. Two kids in college."

  Those were reasons Stauer could accept without much reflection. He nodded, then pulled both sticks back and locked them, stopping the ATV. Pointing at a collection of olive drab tents under camouflage screens, he said, "That's the main camp. You'll be billeted there. I had sergeant major give you your own tent, about the size of a GP small. Will it do?"

  "Sure, Wes. Whatever's available."

  "Good enough." Stauer clasped the hand releases and let them go, easing the left stick forward while keeping the right one pulled back. The ATV turned right, then, as he guided it along the dirt path down towards the southern camp, the one that would house B Company (Marine). He pointed this out, too. "Not sure if we should have separate services yet," Stauer said. "Have to see how ex-Army infantry gets along with "former" Marines."