by Joseph Nagle
It was time.
Michael looked over at Lou.
Both men knew what would come next.
“Sorry for this, Lou. I wish it could be another way.”
“I know, Doc. I do too. Just make it quick; hurry the hell up and get it over with.”
Michael reached into the black bag and pulled out one of the two Kel-tec P32 pistols. In the same movement, without any warning, Michael slammed the butt of the pistol into Lou’s nose.
Lou stumbled backward; Michael followed with a vicious kick to Lou’s ribcage. Lou felt three of his ribs loudly splinter. He dropped to his knees. Michael followed with a blow to Lou’s left cheek, just beneath his eye. The swelling followed almost immediately. Blood flowed profusely from his nose.
Lou coughed.
Michael stopped.
Blood covered Lou’s teeth; he spoke with some difficulty, “That’s not enough, Doc.”
Lou reached over to the edge of a desk that rested adjacent to the office’s far wall. He grasped it firmly and shouted, “Do it, Doc! Goddammit, do it now!”
Lou closed his eyes; Michael hated what he had to do but didn’t hesitate. A well-trained kick shattered Lou’s radius and ulna just above the wrist. The beaten man slumped to the floor in agony.
Michael bent down to Lou; his instinct was to help his writhing friend, but Lou screamed at him, “Go, Doc! Get the fuck out of here! Figure this shit out; go find your wife!”
Michael spun around, grabbed his bag, and prepared to leave. But before he did, he said, “Thanks, Lou. I owe you big.”
Lou turned his head toward Michael. His eye was already swollen shut, and his arm was resting at a ghastly, unnatural angle. He replied in agony, “Yeah, you do.”
Michael left.
Lou crawled across the room toward a chair, a thin trail of blood following. He cradled his broken arm in his other and painfully sat up onto his knees. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat. His breaths were coming shallow and fast.
He forced himself to stand, but nearly fell into the chair next to the desk.
With his good hand, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. It took some effort, but he was able to light one.
Exhaling the smoke, he waited. He knew the teams would be there any moment, and he wanted to enjoy what may be his last cigarette for some time.
Smoking wasn’t allowed in the CIA holding cell.
Neither were lawyers.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
JUHU BEACH
MUMBAI, INDIA
York gazed over at CPT Scott. His commander was asleep, or passed out: he couldn’t tell. The man had lost a lot of blood and was frail. His skin had turned a sickly gray and was clammy to the touch. All through the night they traveled. The harsh waters rocked the boat incessantly. Even York felt a bit queasy. He couldn’t imagine the effect it had on his commander. Through the night he stayed at the helm of the boat, unable to sleep. His only concern was getting to Juhu Beach and to a doctor.
They were running out of time.
The boat they had been given was adequate enough. This surprised York; he had half-expected something much worse. The contact at the Rasouli Bazaar had been dirty and disheveled, but he had come through for them. The two Green Berets traveled as quickly as possible through the night, guided by a small GPS system that was attached to the console next to the boat’s wheel.
The water was still choppy; every undulation slammed the boat’s aluminum hull to the surface. The 1968 dual-fuel boat was twenty-four and a half feet long, but her hull sat only two feet in the water. She wasn’t made for comfort. York wondered how much more pounding the hull of the single inboard engine vessel could take. The man at the bazaar had made sure that the boat was stocked with extra fuel, and they were down to the last ten gallons.
York hoped that they would make it.
Tracing the coastline, India was in sight. The boat would fit in well with the other fishing boats on the waters. To York’s port side, the first hint of sunrise lined the sky.
Analyzing their position on the GPS, York saw that they were nearly there. Making a sharp turn inland, York scanned the coastline and saw a place where he could put the boat. On the north end of Juhu beach, an old dock jutted out ominously into the water. There were a few dilapidated fishing boats, whose owners were nowhere to be seen. It was still too early for fishing.
York headed for the dock; once there, he eased the boat to its edge and quickly secured it.
Rushing to where his captain lay, he thought the commander looked worse than he had moments ago. Underneath the captain’s side, a dark pool of dripping blood had coagulated into a thick, black sign of concern.
There was nothing York could do. The power of the CELOX could only hold so long. Without it, CPT Scott would have already been dead. They had arrived, and that was all that mattered to York: a doctor—a friendly—was only minutes away.
The beach was a bit over ten miles from Mumbai’s center, but that didn’t stop it from being a well-visited place. York knew that the beach would soon be littered with Mumbaikars, and two American Special Forces soldiers—one with a bullet in his side—would more than just stand out in the crowd.
York jumped off the boat and scampered onto the deck of one of the other boats tied to it. He was fortunate. On the boat were a couple of fishing nets. They wouldn’t be the best disguise, but a couple of men draped in fishing nets might go unnoticed long enough to buy them enough time until they found the gate to the Theological Society.
York squatted next to CPT Scott and shook his shoulder. “Sir, we’re here. You have to get up.”
CPT Scott’s eyes opened slowly; they fluttered, really. He tried to focus on his subordinate but had a hard time doing so.
“York, where is here?” he muttered in a gravelly voice. His blood volume was low, which worsened his dehydration. The effect made speaking difficult.
“Mumbai, sir, we are on Juhu Beach. We have to get moving—the sun is coming up, and there are already people on the beach.”
CPT Scott rubbed his squinted eyes as he tried to adjust his vision to the low light. The humidity in the air was thick, and he could feel his undershirt clinging to the moist layer of sweat that was starting to accumulate on his skin.
It was already hot.
It was India hot.
The sun had barely begun to peek above the horizon. He breathed in deeply the acrid, diesel-filled air. It mixed with the lingering labors of the fisherman and the heavily abused sands of the beach. It was a city that was burgeoning with success and fast-growing, new wealth but had an infrastructure that desperately worked to keep pace. Any open space unclaimed belonged to the populace; it was theirs to use for whatever purpose, even if that purpose was for relief.
The smells of Mumbai burned his nostrils.
He had been to Mumbai before and remembered the distinct taste of the air and the weight of the humidity. It was a city of fantastic beauty and rich history. It was a city of contradictions. Around every corner were hidden treasures for the senses. Around every corner were aspects of life not considered.
CPT Scott enjoyed India, and, in particular, he was enamored with Mumbai. He missed the gracious ways of its people. His visits always reminded him of what was possible in life, of how one could be so rich with so little.
Too bad this visit wouldn’t be for pleasure.
With a grunt, he mumbled, “Mumbai, huh? Word of advice, York: the food here is unbelievable, but don’t eat the pani puri from the roadside. It’ll knock you on your can for a good two days.”
With a slight smile, York replied, “Noted, sir.”
York watched as CPT Scott tried to sit up but couldn’t. Reaching out, he took his commander by the arm and helped him get to his feet.
A sudden wave of pain raged through CPT Scott; he doubled over and nearly lost his footing.
York caught him before he could fall and helped him off of the old aluminum boat and o
nto the dock.
“You don’t look so hot, sir. We have to get moving and get you to the doctor.”
“I’ve had worse days, York. I’ll manage. It’s nothing that a couple of stitches and some hot food with a cold beer won’t cure.”
The moment CPT Scott finished his sentence, his legs gave out and he collapsed onto the dock’s surface.
“Shit!” York spat out. “You okay, sir?”
“I guess I may need a little more than a beer, eh, York? Why don’t we go find that doctor,” said Captain Scott as he laughed a bit through his gritted teeth.
With the fishing nets in both hands, York scurried over to the captain and laid one of them on him and then put one over his own shoulders. The smell of old, rotting fish filled the nasal passageways of both men, acting much like a broken ampoule of ammonia. CPT Scott suddenly regained a measured focus.
“Fuck, that’s pungent! You couldn’t find anything else?”
York laughed back at the captain and replied, “It’s not like we’re at Cotton World and have a pick of the latest fashions. It’s all I could find, sir.”
CPT Scott was pushing himself up, and he commanded, “Let’s go, York.”
“Sir, can you walk?” York’s concern was genuine.
So was CPT Scott’s response: “You heard me, let’s go.”
The two soldiers walked down the dock and onto the beach. An undersized, stray black dog was asleep and nestled comfortably on top of a small pile of trash. As the two men approached, the malnourished canine bolted upright and ran away. Its tail was between his hind legs. The dog’s gait was awkward and accentuated by its bulging rib cage; one of its back legs was severely deformed. No doubt the consequence of unsuccessfully trying to cross one of Mumbai’s many streets that were clogged with incessantly honking, green and yellow motorized rickshaws.
Mumbai driving is not for the faint at heart; crossing the street is for the insane.
Down the beach, the net-draped men moved as fast as they could. They worked hard to blend. The low light of a new morning helped. York scanned the stone wall that ran parallel to and lined the top part of the beach, looking for the gate to the Theological Society. They passed kulfi and bhelpuri stalls that stood dark and lonely. Soon, they would open to serve their delights of the throngs of Mumbaikars and the occasional daring tourist.
The two net-covered men shuffled through the sand; York could hear the grunts of CPT Scott with each step forward. The weight of the net seemed to be oppressive on his commander’s back. His stride was unsteady, but York was impressed by his fortitude.
Nearby and to their right, an early rising, dark-skinned Indian woman was ankle deep in the murky waters of the Indian Ocean. With one hand, she tried with futility to keep her bright orange and red sari from dipping into the water. In her other hand was a lit match. She was hunched over a small clay diya—a small earthen lamp. Gingerly, the woman reached down and lit the tiny candle that adorned the diya and then gently pushed it into the sea. She raised both hands to her chest and put them together in prayer. Through her wiry lips, she mumbled her offering to the Sun God. It was her ritual each day.
York and Scott eyed her from their periphery; she didn’t seem to take notice of them, or she didn’t care.
Onward they moved.
Every few steps, York noticed small, sea-worn clay diyas that had washed to shore. They were of varying sizes and colors. Some were in the shape of the god Ganesha while others were molded like leaves. York wished he could grab a couple of them. They would be interesting keepsakes and make for good conversation. They would look nice in his small apartment back at Fort Bragg.
Not today.
Finding the gate was easier than he had expected. It was made of cast iron, and its accumulations of rust from the salt air had been painted over many times in varying shades of yellow. Stamped boldly in the iron, the words “Theological Society” made its identification quite easy.
“We’re here, sir,” said York.
There was no response from his captain.
York peered over to CPT Scott and saw that he was sitting on the beach, slumped over with his head hanging between his knees.
Moving quickly to him, York saw that the old woman now stood and looked curiously at them.
York yanked CPT Scott up and pulled him roughly and quickly up the stairs. Inside the walled compound were a number of fairly large homes. Clearly, this place was for the more well-to-do of Mumbai. Sitting nearby, in a plastic chair, a guard was wrapped in a blanket and sleeping heavily.
The gate creaked loudly behind them as it came to a close. The sound roused the guard from his slumber.
Both the guard and York stared at one another; neither spoke. The guard traced his eyes to the half-dead man that was propped against York. The guard’s eyes conveyed nothing: no emotions, no worries, and no cares. He didn’t stand. Instead, he slowly raised his bone-thin right arm from underneath his blanket, swiveled at the waist, and pointed to the home behind him.
He had been waiting for them.
With some trepidation, York nodded his thanks toward the man and half-carried, half-dragged CPT Scott to the home.
As they approached the home, a man on the porch jumped to his feet and shouted something in Gujarati into the front door of the large house. Within moments, a light turned on and poured out of the windows. Then, in passable English, the man looked at York and said, “You made it! Doctor Hora has been waiting for you. Challo! Come, come!” He motioned to the door and then stepped off the porch to help.
When the slight, Indian man approached, York saw that his left eye was horrifically disfigured. His eyes locked on the man’s face; he knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help it. He willed himself to look away, but, before he could, the Indian man had become fully aware of York’s stare.
Instantly, the shame that resided in the pit of the Indian man’s innards welled from within. He wanted to lash out at the American, to slap him with a split-bamboo shaft. To maim him the way he was. Instead, he forced himself to stand taller and to look at York with more ferocity.
With a strong wave, he motioned York inside.
Once in the doctor’s home, York scanned the interior out of habit. Immediately, he saw that it was well appointed. The floors were a creamy marble from wall to wall. Numerous carved statues adorned every corner of the home, and colorful tapestries covered almost every wall. A mouthwatering aroma of curry and coconut drifted throughout.
A white-haired, fair-skinned man quickly approached and barked orders at the disfigured man in Gujarati through his wide and endless thin-lipped smile. The man from the porch obeyed and guided York and CPT Scott to a small room. The room was an infirmary, and the old man clearly was Doctor Hora. The disfigured man helped York lay CPT Scott on the stainless steel table. Nearby, surgical instruments were set out neatly on a small table; they were prepped for use.
The disfigured man immediately placed an oxygen mask over CPT Scott’s face and then inserted an IV drip into one of his bulging veins. He cut away CPT Scott’s top and quickly cleaned the commander’s wound with an iodine solution.
He was efficient, and it was clear to York that he knew what he was doing.
CPT Scott had drifted into unconsciousness. A heart-rate monitor emitted a slow and faint pulse. The beats were sporadic and without any proper rhythm.
With a dismissive wave, Doctor Hora signaled for his assistant to move aside. The disfigured man obediently stepped away from CPT Scott.
Doctor Hora brushed past York and simultaneously called out, “Baju-kaki!”
Within moments, an older woman came into the room and gently pulled York by his elbow. York was surprised at the strength in her bony hands.
York resisted.
Doctor Hora saw this and pleasantly said, “Go, go with her. She will get you some food and will clean your clothes; she will show you to the shower. Don’t worry about your friend; I will take care of him. He has lost a lot of blood, and I must get t
o work. Now, if you please.” His smile never-ceasing, his focus returned to his patient.
The old woman pulled York once more by the elbow, and this time he complied. Doctor Hora’s smile was elongated across his face; it stayed broad even as he put on his surgical facemask. The disfigured man helped with his gloves.
The door to the infirmary closed.
York turned around. The old woman was holding a glass of deep-orange colored mango-lassi for York to drink. He did so vigorously and nearly without hesitation; it had been some time since he had last consumed anything. His stomach immediately wrenched upon the ingestion of the drink.
It was the sweetest drink he had ever tasted. He ignored the tightness in his stomach; he wanted more.
The old woman pointed to a large, round table. On top of it was a silver platter of Gujarati thali. The thali was replete with ghee-covered naan, doklas, chapattis, curries, and curds. York’s mouth watered heavily as he peered at the food. Without being told, he sat and virtually inhaled the food, to the delight of the old woman. Soon, the empty thali was replenished, and York began to feed again.
The mango-lassi was also bottomless.
Afterward and when he was sure that his stomach could hold no more, York was shown to the bathroom where a shower stall awaited. Next to the shower, on a small hand carved, wooden table, was a white cotton kurta and some undergarments. The old woman picked it up and gestured with it toward York.
As York took the kurta, she pointed to his dirty clothes, and, in a voice that revealed her age, said, “I wash. Leave at door.” She turned and left.
York disrobed, put his dirty clothes outside by the door, and then eagerly entered the shower. The hot water splashed against his face and down his body. Days of caked dirt muddied the water as it circled the drain. He turned the faucet handle a bit more; the water became hotter. A pleasant shiver ran the course of his skin. York let the heat soothe his aching muscles. His mind drifted momentarily from the present situation as he imagined that he was elsewhere.
He imagined his Elizabeth there with him; the cascading water was her fingers, and the enveloping heat, her body.