Eternal Night

by Richard Turner

  “Levelling out at five-zero meters,” reported the chief of the boat, a skinny man with a droopy walrus mustache.

  “Prepare our stern torpedoes to fire,” said Dorn, wiping the water from his face.

  “Aye, sir,” replied a pimply-faced officer.

  “Captain, what are you doing?” asked Wright.

  “The only thing I can,” replied Dorn. “We used up all of our aft torpedoes last night on a Japanese troop convoy. So, we’re going to sail right under the middle of that Japanese cruiser, and engage it when we’ve put a safe distance between her and us.”

  “Why didn’t we just go around her?”

  The XO chuckled and patted Wright on the arm. “Because the captain knows that the enemy cruiser’s depth charges are on her stern. By going directly beneath her, the Japanese can’t use their bombs to crush our hull as easily as they could an eggshell.”

  The screeching sound of the bottom of the hull scraping over a boulder sounded like a sea-devil trying to claw its way inside. One submariner crossed himself and mumbled a prayer.

  “Sir, we’re passing directly underneath the cruiser,” reported the sonar operator.

  The room went deadly quiet. Every crewman turned their heads and looked upward, as if they could all somehow see the belly of the Japanese warship above them. The sound of the cruiser’s propellers made it seem as if mere inches separated the two warships.

  “Sir, the cruiser is beginning to move off on a course of three-zero degrees,” said the sonar operator.

  “They must have guessed what we were up to,” said the XO.

  Dorn tapped his foot on the metal floor for a few seconds before saying, “Chief, bring us up to periscope depth. Prepare to fire stern tubes one and two.”

  “Periscope depth, aye,” replied the chief of the boat.

  “Flooding tubes one and two,” reported the sub’s gunnery officer.

  Dorn raised the periscope and swung it around until he could see the cruiser. “Range five hundred meters, bearing six-three.”

  The gunnery officer repeated Dorn’s directions and entered them into the ship’s targeting system. He raised a hand. “Target acquired.”

  Dorn nodded. “Fire tubes one and two.”

  From the stern of the boat, two British-made torpedoes raced toward their target.

  “Hang on,” said Dorn. “This is going to be close.”

  The room turned silent, as the gunnery officer counted down the time to impact. “Five-four-three-two-one.”

  Dorn looked through the periscope at the Japanese ship. A tall column of water shot skyward near the stern of the vessel, where the first torpedo struck home. The second warhead missed its target and sailed right under the ship. A second later, a dull thud echoed through the submarine.

  A loud cheer erupted throughout the boat. The crew had survived another day, and in the process had killed an enemy ship.

  Dorn watched for a few seconds as the stern of the cruiser snapped off and began to sink. The rest of the vessel, taking on thousands of liters of water per second, was doomed. Dorn stepped away from the periscope to let Tripp take a look.

  Dorn removed his crumpled cap and ran a hand through his greasy, black hair. “Now, since my initial orders didn’t state where I am to take you once you were on board, could you please let me know where we are going, Mister Wright?”

  “Ceylon,” replied Wright. “And please do so on radio silence.”

  “Very well,” replied Dorn. “Officer of the watch, plot a course for Ceylon.”

  “Aye, sir,” said a young man with stringy blond hair.

  “You and your men are to be congratulated for such fine seamanship,” said Wright to Dorn. “However, I suspect that I’m probably in the way here, so, I’ll be in the aft torpedo room, should you need me.”

  Dorn shook his head, as Wright left the cramped control room.

  “Who the hell does that Englishman think he is?” asked Tripp.

  “He claims to be a humble British government official,” replied Dorn.

  “Do you believe him?”

  Dorn canted his head. “Do you?”

  The XO shrugged.

  Dorn patted his colleague on the shoulder. “XO, pass the word that Mister Wright and his elder associate are to be left alone for the duration of the journey. No one is to talk to them without my permission. Let’s treat them as they wish, as a pair of ghosts.”

  3

  Eastern Mauritania,

  Present Day

  Like a hawk chasing its prey over the top of a rocky hill, a ghost-gray drone flew toward a long line of railroad track that stretched to the horizon. The ground beneath the UAV was an ocean of yellow sand and rocks. In the distance, the sun slowly dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with a pinkish hue. The drone banked over, climbing higher in the sky.

  “Got it,” announced Nate Jackson.

  Ryan Mitchell and Samantha Chen looked over Jackson’s shoulder at the image on a 1950s-era passenger train on his laptop screen.

  “That’s got to be her,” said Mitchell. All three wore desert-camouflage uniforms, with tactical vests on their chests. As usual, there were no name tags or other identifying patches on their fatigues.

  “How can you be sure this is the one?” asked Sam. “We’ve already seen two other trains today.”

  Mitchell pointed at the screen. “Right behind the engine there are two flat cars packed with supplies, and then three passenger carriages. The first carriage will have a handful of guards in it, as will the last car. The people we’re after are in the middle carriage. It’s just as our informant said it would be.”

  “I agree,” said Jackson.

  “If you’re both in agreement, I say we go now,” said Sam, slamming home a thirty-round magazine into her M4 carbine.

  Mitchell tapped Jackson on the back. “Bring the drone home and get ready to move.”

  “Will do,” replied his friend.

  Mitchell keyed his Motorola. “Gordon, are you and Yuri ready to deploy?”

  “Give us the word,” replied Gordon Cardinal.

  “The word is given. Get airborne and stand by to help with the extraction on order.”

  “We’re on our way.”

  Mitchell changed the frequency. “Mohamed, are in you in position?”

  “We’re ready to go when you are,” replied Mohamed.

  “Wait until we reach the train before starting your attack.”

  “Roger that.”

  “Good luck, Mohamed.”

  “And you too, Ryan. May Allah watch over us.”

  Mitchell ended the call and watched as Jackson brought the drone down to land.

  “Was that Mohamed on the radio?” asked Jackson.

  “Yes,” replied Mitchell.

  Jackson bent down to pick up the portable drone. “What do you think his chances are?”

  “If he and his ragtag group of anti-slavery rebels were going up against Mauritanian Army regulars, I wouldn’t give them one chance in ten. But since the opposition here is nothing more than a bunch of overpaid security guards, I’d say his odds were pretty good.”

  “I guess we’ll find out in the next few minutes, won’t we?”

  “You’re still leery of them, aren’t you?”

  “Ryan, I just don’t like things—like Mohamed and his people—being tagged on to our operation at the last minute. You and I both know, the simpler the plan, the greater chance of success.”

  Mitchell knew his friend was right. “General O’Reilly thought it was a good idea, so it’s not like I had a lot of wiggle room on the subject.”

  “I hope he’s right.”

  Mitchell smiled. “Come on, Nate, let’s get to work.”

  “After you,” replied Jackson with a bow.

  Mitchell checked that his M4 Carbine was on safe before climbing into the passenger-side door of their roofless Land Rover. Sam hopped in the back and took up position behind a 7.62mm GPMG mounted on the roll bar. Jackson s
towed his UAV in the back and slid into the driver’s seat. He started the Rover and placed it in drive. With a roar from the vehicle’s mighty engine, the Rover sped off into the dusk.

  A minute later, they sped around a rock-strewn hill, and stopped. In the distance was the train.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” said Jackson, revving the Rover’s motor.

  Mitchell nodded. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  Jackson placed his foot on the accelerator. Like a lion hunting its quarry, the Rover leaped forward and charged after the train.

  With only the three of them spearheading this attack, Mitchell was counting on the element of surprise to help them get the job done. As they closed in on the train, the first hint of opposition appeared. On top of the middle carriage sat two armed guards, smoking cigarettes, with their rifles lying beside them.

  Mitchell looked back at Sam. “Clear them off the roof.”

  Sam cocked the GPMG and brought it up to her shoulder. She took aim and fired off a burst of automatic gunfire. The two men saw the tracers fly over their heads and decided that discretion was the better part of valor. Without bothering to pick up their rifles, they leaped over the other side of the train.

  One of the restraints placed on Mitchell’s people by those financing the rescue operation was that casualties were to be kept to a minimum. By firing over their heads, Sam had accomplished what she had to with no loss of life.

  Mitchell winked at Sam and gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Get ready,” announced Jackson as the Rover closed with the train’s engine.

  Mitchell glanced up at Sam, and pointed at the front of the engine. A second later, a long burst of fire struck the rust-covered engine, tearing holes through its outer casing and making it look like Swiss cheese.

  Jackson let his foot off the accelerator and brought the Rover in line with the train’s two stunned engineers. Right away, Mitchell held up a sign in French telling them to stop the train. The two men didn’t have to be told twice. An elderly man with white hair grabbed hold of the emergency brake and yanked it back, hard. The engine’s wheels locked up and sparks flew from the undercarriage as it came to a screeching halt.

  Jackson slowed his Rover as well. He dropped off Mitchell at the front carriage, and then Sam at the back. As soon as the train halted, he parked the Rover, grabbed his shotgun, and jumped from the vehicle, ready to engage anyone coming off the train.

  Sam braced herself. As soon as the Rover closed with the front of the carriage, she reached over, grabbed hold of the railing, and hauled herself over onto the train.

  Jackson waved goodbye and moved off.

  She undid a pouch on her vest and pulled out a tear gas grenade. She pulled the pin, opened the door to the carriage, and tossed it inside. As fast as she could, Sam grabbed a riot grenade packed with fifteen hard rubber balls, yanked the safety pin away, and threw it as far as she could inside the gas-filled car. A couple of seconds later, the grenade went off. Anyone still on their feet was brought down by one of the flying balls as they flew through the air and ricocheted off the walls.

  With the rear carriage dealt with she spun about, removed her carbine from her back, flipped the safety off, and jogged over to the middle car. She climbed up and peered through a window on the back door, and saw a terrified-looking guard nervously glancing all around him. He had an Uzi submachine gun clenched tightly in his hands.

  Sam keyed her throat-mic. “I’m in location and I can only see one guard.”

  “Roger that,” replied Jackson. “Ryan, are you in place yet?”

  “Affirmative,” replied Mitchell. Like Sam, his job had been to neutralize a carriage—the forward one—which he had done without incident.

  Jackson pressed a button on his throat-mic. “Yuri, you can begin your descent now.”

  “Da, we’re on our way,” replied the Russian black marketer.

  “Do your stuff,” said Jackson to his friends, as he fired on a disoriented guard staggering off the back of Sam’s carriage. Unlike a normal shotgun, Jackson’s weapon fired mini Taser shells. On impact, a five-hundred-volt burst of electricity instantly incapacitated anyone unlucky enough to be shot. Most of the guards who saw Jackson standing there dropped their guns and ran back down the track, rather than risk being hit.

  Mitchell slid a respirator over his head, popped open the door at the front of the train car, and hurled a tear gas grenade inside the carriage. He waited a few seconds before yanking the door opened and rushing inside. A guard, blinded by the gas stumbled into Mitchell. He brought up his carbine and smashed it down hard on the side of the guard’s skull, knocking him out cold. All around him, men and women coughed and rubbed their red eyes.

  “Open the windows!” shouted Sam in French.

  People staggered over to yank down the windows to clear the carriage of the irritating gas.

  Sam appeared out of the mist.

  “Clear?” asked Mitchell.

  “Clear,” replied Sam. “My man fled outside and jumped the second I opened the back door. I think he made it five meters before Nate dropped him.”

  “Good, keep guard.” Mitchell looked around the crowded carriage. “Mister Timbo, are you here?” Mitchell called out in French.

  A man wearing rags, with a thick, salt-and-pepper beard, walked toward Mitchell, holding a piece of his shirt over his mouth.

  “I am Timbo,” said the man between coughs. Mitchell instantly recognized the man as one of Mauritania’s most outspoken critics of its ongoing use of slavery. With estimates as high as one hundred thousand or more slaves, Timbo’s crusade to end slavery had become a lightning rod for both sides.

  “Sorry about the gas, sir,” said Mitchell, switching back to English. “But it was the only way to incapacitate the guards.

  The gas in the carriage began to dissipate.

  “I understand,” said Timbo. “Who are you?”

  “We’re friends who have been hired to rescue you,” replied Mitchell.

  “I won’t leave without all of my people,” said Timbo firmly.

  “We wouldn’t think of leaving anyone behind. Please get them on their feet and line them up behind you.”

  Timbo nodded and passed on Mitchell’s directions in Arabic.

  “Nate, we’re good to go,” reported Mitchell.

  “Roger, Yuri’s almost here,” said Jackson. “But we’ve got a really big problem out here.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re in the middle of an anti-tank minefield that’s not on the map.”

  Mitchell rushed to the front door and stepped outside. He spotted Jackson pointing at a row of markers staked into the ground. On each was a skull and crossbones, the international symbol for mines.

  “We’re damned lucky I never triggered one of the mines,” said Jackson. “Must be a leftover from one of Mauritania’s internal wars.”

  “I guess we’ll have to go to Plan B,” said Mitchell, pulling off his gas mask and throwing it away.

  “What Plan B?” asked Jackson, as he walked toward the train. “We don’t have a Plan B.”

  “We do now,” said Mitchell, looking up at the roof of the first carriage.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Can you think of a better option?”

  Jackson rushed to pass on the new plan to Yuri, before he tried landing next to the train as originally planned.

  The sound of helicopter blades cutting through the air announced Yuri’s arrival. Both men looked up as a dual-engine Chinook helicopter dropped from the sky. With its cargo ramp already lowered, Yuri brought the chopper over the top of the first carriage, and maneuvered over until the ramp rested on the roof of the car.

  “Let’s go!” yelled Mitchell, trying to be heard over the deafening sound of the helicopter’s engines.

  Jackson led the way up onto the roof of the carriage, and helped guide each person into the back of the waiting chopper. Cardinal, waiting inside the helicopter, steered the tea
ry-eyed people to the mesh seats running down either side of the interior.

  “After you,” said Mitchell to Sam.

  Sam smiled and climbed up the side of the carriage, followed closely by Mitchell. They rushed onto the cargo ramp and took one last look around to make sure no one had been left behind.

  Cardinal smiled at Sam as he took a seat behind a minigun mounted on the ramp.

  Mitchell patted Cardinal on the shoulder. “Tell Yuri it’s time to leave.”

  Cardinal keyed his mic. “We’ve got everyone. It’s time to go.”

  The chopper’s engines revved louder as Yuri applied more power. The helicopter lifted off the top of the carriage and slowly climbed up into the night sky.

  Sam picked up her med bag and circulated among the two dozen freed slaves, giving them water to help wash the chemicals from their puffy red eyes.

  On the ground below them, some of the guards discovered Jackson’s abandoned Rover. One man jumped up and grabbed hold of the GPMG, aimed it at the helicopter, and pulled the trigger. Instead of firing the gun, the guard triggered a booby trap. In a flash of brilliant light, the vehicle exploded in a fireball, taking three men with it.

  “Time for one last thing,” Mitchell said to Jackson. Both men walked to the front of the chopper and took station behind the machine guns on either side of the chopper’s fuselage.

  Mitchell picked up a headset from the wall and pressed the speak switch. “Yuri, are you in contact with Mohamed?”

  “Da, his people are pinned in a gully just outside of the mine,” reported Yuri.

  “Okay, fly us over top of Mohamed’s people, and then the mine.”

  “Will do.”

  The chopper banked over slightly, as Yuri flew toward the fighting.

  Mitchell looked out his open window and spotted tracer rounds flying from a bunker at Mohamed’s men trapped in the gully. He placed his machine gun’s sights on the bunker and let rip. On the other side of the helicopter, Jackson engaged another target. As powerful as their fire was, it in no way matched Cardinal’s minigun. Firing over four thousand rounds a minute, it was like a streak of lightning coming from the back of the Chinook as Cardinal tore two guard towers, several trucks, and the front gate to the slave mine to shreds.