by Arno Joubert
Bruce gathered from their conversations that reinforcements were on their way. He crouched and took aim, centering the scope's crosshair on the glowing cigarette. As it grew brighter, Bruce steadied himself then pulled the trigger. A red flame exploded from the rifle's nozzle, and the double smack from the bullet reported his shot was true.
A commotion broke out in the little camp as the smoker gargled his bloody death curdle. Those things would kill you.
Bruce stood up and sauntered back to his hideout two miles away. He wondered if the reinforcements would be any better than the scruffy lot that Perreira had sent yesterday.
He couldn't believe that Perreira was underestimating him; it must have been a lack of funds.
Roebuck studied Bruce Bryden through his binoculars. The man had set up camp next to a massive baobab tree, halfway up the hill.
Bryden was brushing his teeth. He took a swig of water from a tin cup, rinsed his mouth, and spat the water into a bush, then he washed the toothbrush and threw the dirty water into the bush as well.
It was obvious that Bryden had reconnaissanced the area carefully before deciding on this exact location. Roebuck could see why. The tree was probably a couple of thousand years old; its circumference was fifty feet, easy. At night he would crawl into a narrow opening in the tree and close the entrance with thorn bushes. It was probably the safest place in the bush, leaving Roebuck feeling exposed on his rocky hillock.
The baobab provided cover from the elements; no one would be able to see the small flame from his gas stove. He had a clear view of the surrounding area. A dry riverbed ran along the edge of the hillock; with some digging he would have an ample supply of water.
Roebuck lifted his eyes to the horizon. He had a clear view for miles in the cool morning air. Bryden had left his camp late last night and Roebuck had followed. He headed in the direction of the poachers who had set up camp two miles from them. The place was lit like a beacon in the night; he had seen it clearly from his own vantage point.
Bryden had disappeared behind some brush, and then Roebuck heard the gunshot. They were amateurs. The cigarette coal was visible in the dark from a mile away. Now their campsite was deserted, embers still smoldering on the ground.
Colonel Roebuck glanced at his watch. 5:45 a.m. He dialed a number and waited for the call to be answered. “Metcalfe? Roebuck here. He took out José last night.”
Metcalfe kept silent for a moment as if contemplating what to do. “All right, Colonel. Take care of him. How far away is he from your exact location?”
Roebuck looked up, estimating the distance. “About three hundred yards. I’ll phone you back when he is dead.”
“Good. Wait another fifteen minutes before you proceed. Perreira needs to send a recovery crew,” Metcalfe said and disconnected the call.
Metcalfe disconnected and punched a number on his phone. It was answered after one ring. “Captain Babbitt, this is Senator Metcalfe. How is Suzy doing?”
The man seemed happy to hear Metcalfe's voice. “Senator, very well, thank you. She’s recovering well after the skin graft. The doctor said that the burn wounds would look fine after a couple of months and another graft. Thank you for the donation to our charity.” He hesitated for a moment. “I was still meaning to call and thank you personally,” he said apologetically.
Metcalfe leaned back in his chair. “Never mind, Captain. It was my pleasure. The Burn Foundation is a cause that is very close to my heart.” He drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. “Captain, I need your help to do some good as well.”
“Anything, Senator,” the captain answered without hesitation.
“I need you to take out a poaching ring for me. My undercover man has planted a beaconing device in their area. I will give you his exact coordinates. This operation will be authorized by me.”
“No problem, Senator.”
The man sounded keen to pay back his debt. Good, these military types were so predictable, strong moral code and all.
“When will you need to do this? And where?” he asked.
Metcalfe scratched his chin. “In fifteen minutes, lower part of the Kruger National Park."
"That's not a problem, Senator. I have some F-15s on standby in Swaziland. We can be there in ten minutes,” Captain Babbitt answered.
Metcalfe smiled and nodded. "Excellent, Captain. Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes, Senator?”
“I need you to take out an area of five hundred yards around the beacon. I want to get rid of the entire gang and the contraband that they have with them.”
Captain Babbitt went silent. Metcalfe heard him breathe. “We recently received a shipment of IFB-500s. I could set it for low impact detonation, which would make the kill-zone radius about a mile,” he said, his voice sounding hesitant. “But everything in that area would be annihilated, including animals and plants.”
Metcalfe cupped the phone and chuckled, then took his hand away. “I understand, Captain. It was a difficult decision, but it’s all for the greater good.” He sighed. “Collateral damage, Captain.”
“Very well, Senator. Thank god I don’t need to make the decisions.” He chuckled. “I will warm up the burners. We should be there in ten minutes.”
“Excellent, Captain. Godspeed.” Metcalfe disconnected the call. He shook his head in amazement. These military men with their codes of honor and false morality drilled into them by years of brainwashing. Sock puppets, each one of them.
Roebuck lowered the binoculars. The hair stood up on his neck. Something didn't feel right.
Metcalfe seemed preoccupied; he wasn’t as involved in their smuggling ring anymore. He had confronted Metcalfe a couple of months ago. Without Metcalfe’s oversight, small things were going wrong. Supply routes closed down. Business was slow. Roebuck hadn’t received his regular payment for more than a month.
And now this Bryden mess. Metcalfe should have stepped in a long time ago.
No, Metcalfe was busy with something else, about that he was certain. And they didn’t want to let him in on it. He was sure Callahan and Perreira knew what it was all about. He would get Perreira to square up to him after he had completed this mission.
Their phone conversation bothered him as well. The pause? No, there was something else. Why did he want to know how far Bryden was from his location?
He lifted his gun and studied Bryden through the scope. The man was packing his supplies and weapon into the hollowed-out trunk of the gigantic baobab tree, then he closed the opening with some branches.
Bryden travelled light. A backpack with binoculars and small gas stove. A couple of bottles of water. He was sweeping the ground in front of the tree with a leafy branch, then he scattered some pebbles and sand around the entrance.
Bryden peered up the hillock, then started walking in Roebuck’s direction.
“C’mon Bryden, come to papa,” Roebuck whispered, steadying the crosshair on Bryden’s chest.
Bruce Bryden turned around and lifted his eyes toward the sky, and then Roebuck heard the F-15 Strike Eagle roar over his head. The plane made a graceful arc, the jet propulsion engines leaving a white contrail in the clear blue sky.
Then the fighter jet changed course and headed straight at them. A missile dropped from the side of the aircraft, and orange flames spouted behind the projectile as the turbojet propulsion system kicked in.
“What the fuck?” Roebuck shouted as he jumped up and started running, fumbling for the memory stick in his pocket.
Metcalfe’s phone rang and he snapped it open.
“Yes?”
“Senator Metcalfe. Captain Babbett here. The mission has been completed.”
Metcalfe grinned. “Excellent, Captain. I knew that I could rely on you.”
The man hesitated. “The impact zone was somewhat larger than we anticipated, probably about a mile and a half.”
“That’s fine, my boy. I will deal with it. We’ll coordinate some cleanup crews.”
“Sena
tor, we didn’t see any poachers, only a single soldier. And another guy running for cover,” Babbett said.
Metcalfe paced energetically around the room. “They were probably in hiding. Did you get both these men that you saw?”
The captain chuckled. “Without a doubt. Your cleaning crew will be scraping them off the rocks and trees.”
Metcalfe smiled. “Excellent,” he said and disconnected the phone.
Now that is how you kill two birds with one stone.
Bruce looked up toward the glint on the hillock above him. Last night, the soldier had tried to follow him, but he probably wasn’t used to the terrain. He easily got rid of him in the dense riverine bush.
He then waited until 3:00 a.m. and followed the soldier's tracks from the dry riverbed, up the hillock to where the man had set up his own little campsite. He had to give it to the man, he travelled light. The soldier had nothing but his weapon, slept out in the open. He had no distinguishing insignia or rank, but he wore a US Marine uniform, the type issued to soldiers in the jungle. The soldier had set up a trip wire to alert him of movement close to the camp, but it had been set off, probably by small animals, and the soldier hadn’t bothered setting up another.
An M16 with a mounted Hightech scope had been propped against a small tree. It was an awkward weapon to use in the bush, not really accurate beyond a hundred and fifty yards, long and unwieldy. The man came to the bush with what he had in his locker; he didn't have a lot of time to prepare. Which could be fatal in the bush.
Bruce had removed the firing pin from the rifle then reassembled it in less than a minute. The man now had a bludgeoning tool, if he didn’t notice that the pin was gone. And you usually didn’t carry a spare.
The glint from the binoculars beaconed the man’s position once again. Now would be as good a time as any to find out what he wanted. Bruce started trudging up the hill toward him.
He looked up as the F-15 screamed toward them. He saw it loop around and fly back their way. When the aircraft was four hundred yards away, it released a missile, the projectile’s flight path aiming over his head.
Bruce made some quick calculations. He had about eight seconds before the missile hit. He bolted away from the impact zone, which he guessed was about two hundred yards south of him.
Bruce scurried down the hill, slid on a rock and fell, breaking his fall by going into a tumbling roll. He bounced to his feet and stumbled headlong toward the baobab then scrambled into the opening, turning his back to the opening and bracing his head as he lunged inside.
The tree shuddered from the initial dull detonation. A moment later an ear-splitting explosion shook the tree violently, breaking and tearing into the branches, as if they were being mowed down by multiple flying circular blades. Tree limbs came crashing down on top of him, and the air was thick with dust and leaves floating to the ground.
He waited a couple of seconds then pushed away the broken branches and crawled out of the opening. The entire landscape was a scorched black dustbowl. Broken branches hung limply to the sides of damaged trees. He dug a slug out of the bark of the Baobab with his knife and examined it.
Bruce immediately recognized the damage done by the IFB-500, developed by Israeli Military Industries. It was an antiquated version of the bomb being used by the US Air Force.
It was a fragmentation bomb containing more than twelve thousand steel balls. And it was lethal, built to eliminate ground troops and munitions. He was fortunate to have made it back to the baobab.
He jogged up the hill toward the impact zone. Blood splatter and shreds of uniform were the only evidence that another soldier had ever been there. He found the M16 fifty yards away. The scope had been cracked by a metal pellet, but otherwise it was undamaged. He noticed a glint another twenty yards away, hunted through the undergrowth, and collected a silver USB memory stick from between the grass. Bruce made his way back to his shelter, removed the magazine, and dumped the rifle inside the baobab.
Alexa received an SMS from Laiveaux, which made her day. Bruce was OK. The general informed her that the previous day Callahan had made a phone call she might find helpful. He sent her a message containing the URL to the recording. She clicked on the link and opened an archive of recordings. She listened to the first one.
“Temptations, good day. This is Carrie speaking,” a friendly female voice answered.
“Mr. Gardo, please.”
“Please hold on while I transfer your call,” the friendly voice answered.
She heard a click. After two rings someone answered. “This is Gardo.”
“Good day, Mr. Gardo. This is David Callahan from Bellevue drive. Nurse Angelique missed her weekly visit yesterday.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Is there a problem that I am not aware of?”
Gardo cursed. “Yes, you hurt her, you sack of shit. You can be glad I didn’t come over there and beat the shit out of you.” The man spoke with a heavy Irish accent. Alexa had to rewind and listen to the conversation a couple of times to understand what the man had said.
“Please, Mr. Gardo. Do not make idle threats.”
“I don’t threaten people, Mister—”
“I want someone here tomorrow. I’ll double the money.”
“I don’t like my ladies getting hurt. My business suffers when my merchandise is out of order.”
“I’ll triple it.”
There was a pause. Gardo was thinking about the offer. “Quadruple it. And no more funny stuff.”
“Deal. When can I expect the replacement?” Callahan asked.
“I need to make some calls, source somebody according to your . . . special needs,” Gardo answered.
“Well get it done. I need to satisfy my—as you call it—special needs.”
The call was disconnected.
Alexa punched a number on her phone to her travel agent. “Hi, I need to book a flight to Dublin.”
Dublin, Ireland
Alexa adjusted the blonde wig and touched up her lipstick in the rearview mirror. The guards at the gate had expected her and let her straight in. She climbed out of the rental and popped the trunk then removed a trolley containing an oxygen cylinder and mask. She hauled it over the cobbled driveway and up the steps to the front door of Callahan’s mansion.
Alexa gave herself a final look-over in her makeup vanity, undid the top button of her nurse’s outfit, and rang the doorbell. Footsteps scurried toward the door and it swung open. An elderly gentleman wearing a black tuxedo appraised her with a frown. “The new nurse, I presume?” he asked with raised eyebrows.
Alexa nodded and smiled sweetly. “That’s me,” she said, chewing her gum.
“You’re early. Master Callahan is enjoying dinner, but he is expecting you,” he said haughtily, then he swiveled around stiffly and walked down the impressive foyer. “Follow me.”
He led her past a marble stairwell and down a passageway, their footsteps reverberating through the hall. The walls were lined with photographs and stuffed animal heads, Callahan posing with a smile next to each sullen specimen mounted on the wall. The butler stopped next to a large double door, plastered a wisp of thinning hair over his scalp, and opened the door with a flourish. “The nurse is here, Master,” he announced with a bow.
Callahan looked up from his dinner, the table laden with silver cloches, china, and cutlery. “Ah, nurse, you’re early.” He stood up from his chair and walked over to the leather sofa, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Come, please sit down.”
Alexa smiled sweetly, sauntered over and took a seat, revealing a black garter belt beneath her short, white dress. “I’m sorry that Nurse Angelique couldn’t attend to you,” she said.
“Ah, yes, yes, the agency told me about her accident. You were told of our, ahem, arrangement?”
Alexa nodded. “As long as the money is good.”
“Of course. And what is your name, dear?” Callahan asked as he pulled some bills from a roll in his pocket. He handed them to Alexa and di
smissed the butler with a jerk of his head.
“Let’s keep it simple,” she said, fluttering her eyelids. “Call me Angelique.” She stood up and straightened her dress that had hitched up high on her legs. “Should we start?”
“Sure,” Callahan said with an excited grin, his eyes darting over her body. He seemed pleased with what he saw.
She made a show of preparing the oxygen mask and fiddling with the dials. She removed the mask and placed it over Callahan’s mouth and nose then hitched up her dress above her panties. Callahan smiled as she straddled him.
He grabbed her bottom. “It’s delightful to have someone new.” Unbuttoning Alexa’s shirt, he slipped his hand inside and squeezed her breast.
Alexa smiled, waiting for the gas to take effect.
Callahan’s eyes widened, and he tried to rip the mask from his face, but Alexa held it in place. “Good night,” she said and stood up when Callahan’s head lolled to the side. He was out cold.
Callahan’s eyes opened wide and he shook his head. He tried to wipe his face, but his hands had been tied to the armrest of the chair. His eyes darted down to the cannula inserted into his vein. He looked back up at Alexa, a deep furrow on his brow. She stood causally in front of Callahan’s liquor cabinet, running her finger down the rows of bottles.
She glanced over at Callahan. “You’re awake. Fancy a drink?”
“Who are you?” Callahan asked, shaking his head groggily.
“Suit yourself. I’ll choose.”
She pulled out a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue from the rack and unscrewed the cap, poured the whiskey into a resealable, clear plastic bag, and attached it to an intravenous drip stand. She wheeled it toward Callahan and attached the bag to the IV pipe in his arm.