Oil Slick

by Warren Murphy

  “But suppose they said no?”

  “Will you get out of my sight?” yelled Baraka. “Go. Go.”

  The minister turned and headed for the door.

  “Idiot, leave the list,” Baraka snarled.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” said the minister, unable to understand how he had angered Baraka.

  He returned quickly to Baraka’s desk, put the list down, threw a snappy military salute, and backed toward the door, watching Baraka in case the colonel should decide to shoot him.

  Baraka waited until the heavy door had completely closed, then reached his hand under the left front of the desk and pressed a small red button. A heavy bolt built into the door frame slid out slowly, into a groove cut in the door’s side. Automatically, a red light went on over the door, signifying to Baraka’s Lobynian secretary that the ruler was busy and must not, must not, absolutely must not, under pain of death, be disturbed.

  Teaching the secretary this was a monument to Baraka’s perseverance.

  At first, Baraka had had only the do-not-disturb light installed. He pressed the button on the day of its installation so that he would not be disturbed, but three minutes later his secretary came in.

  He told her gently that he was not to be disturbed when the red light was on; she responded that she had not seen it.

  He told her to look for it from now on, before entering his office.

  She barged through the red light twice more that day.

  The second time, Baraka suggested that she would spend the rest of her life in a brothel servicing goats if she did not respect the red light.

  That she regarded this as an idle threat was apparent the next morning when she barged past the red light and into Baraka’s office.

  Baraka responded by putting a bullet into the fleshy part of her left calf.

  She was back at work in two weeks, her leg heavily bandaged.

  Baraka had arrived at his office early that day. He heard the secretary arrive. He turned on the red light, then waited.

  Five minutes later, she limped into his office, carrying a pile of papers.

  Baraka sighed. A minute later he was on the phone to the palace electrician, ordering the bolt to be installed in the door.

  The electrician promised it his personal undivided attention, and only six weeks later, the bolt was installed. It was a new Lobynian record, since the installation of just the red light had taken four months.

  Now Baraka heard the bolt slide closed, locking the door. He waited while a side door to his office opened and the small Oriental, Nuihc, entered.

  “I have the list,” said Baraka politely to the man who still terrified him.

  “I know that,” said Nuihc, his voice low and unmenacing, matching the appearance of his body in black business suit, white shirt, and striped tie.

  “I had the minister of transport obtain it,” said Baraka.

  “I do not care how you got it.” Nuihc sat on a sofa on the far side of the room. “Bring it here, wog,” he said.”Fetch.”

  Baraka rose quickly and almost loped across the office, holding the list in front of him, as if offering it to an outraged god.

  Wordlessly, Nuihc snatched it from his hand and looked quickly down the rows of names.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. He looked up smiling.

  “You look for someone?”

  “Yes. Two men. And here they are. Mr. Park and Remo Goldberg.”

  “Goldberg? What is a Goldberg doing coming to Lobynia?”

  “Do not worry,” said Nuihc. “His name is not really Goldberg. He will not contaminate the magnificently pure stock of the Lobynian people,” he added contemptuously.

  He looked again at the list.

  “Who are all these other people?” he asked.

  “One is Clogg. He is the president of Oxonoco. One of the oil companies. The others are delegates to the Third World International Youth Conference. Accursed fools.”

  “What will this Clogg want?” Nuihc asked.

  “I do not know,” said Baraka. “No doubt, he is supposed to be here to talk about the oil embargo. His real reason for being here may be to take advantage of the little boys in our city’s brothels.”

  Nuihc looked disgusted.

  “And the young people for the conference?”

  “They are nothing,” said Baraka. “A thing common to the United States. Rich, overfed, spoiled, and reeking of guilt because someone else has never tasted escargot. They will make noise. They will pass resolutions condemning Israel and the West. The really fortunate ones will be beaten up on our streets and this will guarantee them happiness because it will confirm to them that they are worthless creatures fit only for the world’s scorn and abuse.”

  “Do you let them wander around your country?”

  “By the beard, no,” said Baraka. “I keep them under lock and key. The soldiers are instructed to be brutal with them. They enjoy it.”

  “Why?” asked Nuihc.

  Baraka shrugged. “Their entire lives are spent trying to demonstrate their worthlessness. Our soldiers assist them. They are grateful. They smile for black eyes. They laugh aloud when cut bloody. I think they are sexually gratified with broken bones.”

  “You know, Baraka, you are not such a total fool as you sometimes seem.”

  “Thank you. Is there anything I should do about the two visitors you have been looking for?”

  Nuihc answered quickly and firmly. “No. Just leave them alone. You do not have enough soldiers for that. When I decide the time is right, I will deal with them.”

  “Are they of the legend?”

  “Yes. Leave them alone.”

  “As you will,” said Baraka.

  “Yes,” Nuihc agreed. “Remember it. As I will.”

  When the Air France plane landed, armed guards were waiting at the bottom of the boarding ladder.

  “Hey, look, real guns,” said one of the delegates to the Third World Youth Conference. “Heavy. Real heavy.”

  The young man was the first one down the ramp of the plane. He grinned at one of the fourteen soldiers who formed a passageway and stuck his finger into the barrel of the man’s rifle.

  The soldier next to him stepped forward and slammed the butt of his rifle into the young man’s jaw, knocking him back onto the ground. Blood poured from the gash on his chin.

  The soldier stepped back into line without a sound or a glance at the fallen youth.

  A young Army captain approached the plane between the lines of soldiers. “I am the cultural liaison officer,” he declaimed. “You will all follow me. Anyone who does not will be shot.”

  “Hey, did you see that?” asked a black youth of a pimply-faced girl with straight black hair, standing next to him on the top of the plane steps.

  “Yes. Serves him right. He got what he deserved. I’m sure the great nation of Lobynia has reasons for what it does. We should just do what we’re told, because we’re totally unqualified to understand or question their society.”

  The young black nodded in agreement. After all, how could one argue with the girl who was, back at their New York City college, the chairman of the Free Speech Committee, the president of the Antibrutality Association, the vice chairman of the Crusade to End Fascism, and chairperson of the Stop Secrecy in Government Committee, ad hoc Presidential War Crimes division. That she had picketed the White House and the Capitol on fourteen different occasions, often sticking flowers into soldiers’ guns, winning nothing more for that than surly glances, did not strike her as ironical. She had no time for irony. She was in Lobynia to help all Americans to see it as an example of what they too could become, if they really tried.

  The groups of youths scampered off the plane and marched between the twin lines of soldiers, hard on the heels of the cultural liaison officer. The young man who had been slugged picked himself up and staggered along after them.

  Last off the plane were Father Harrigan, Clogg, Remo, and Chiun.

  Father Harrigan posed drama
tically on the top of the plane steps. He raised his arms skyward.

  “Lord, thank you for granting my wish to set foot on free soil before I die. Lord, you hear me? I’m talking to you.”

  His raised voice prompted the soldiers at the bottom of the steps to raise rifles to shoulders and point them at him.

  Remo pushed Chiun back in through the door.

  “Wait until Marjoe either gets killed or gets down,” he said.

  Finally, after another long loud demand upon God for his undivided attention, Father Harrigan went down the steps. Remo stood in the doorway watching him. If Harrigan had had a straw hat, he would have looked like something central casting had sent over for a remake of the Wizard of Oz, Kansas segment.

  Finally, Remo and Chiun left the plane, with Clogg behind them.

  Still waiting at the bottom were the twin lines of soldiers, seven on a side.

  Now another uniformed officer came up toward the steps, his face wreathed in a smile.

  “Mr. Clogg,” he called out. “One of my happiest duties as Minister of Energy is greeting you on your all-too-rare visits.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” said Clogg. “Let’s go. My nerves are shattered after the noisy trip.”

  “Most assuredly,” the energy minister said. He took Clogg’s elbow and they turned from the plane.

  “Hey, what about us?” called Remo.

  The energy minister turned. “I suggest you join your party,” he said, waving in the general direction of the seventy-member group of delegates to the Third World Conference. “The guards may become impatient.”

  He dismissed Remo and Chiun and walked away with Clogg toward a limousine parked on the apron of the landing strip.

  Remo shrugged. “Come on, Little Father. We’d better go.”

  “And what of my luggage?”

  “It’ll catch up to us. They must have a system for delivering it.”

  “Look about you, Remo, at this land, and then tell me that. You know they have no system for doing anything.”

  “Well, we can’t stand here all day and night.”

  “We won’t.”

  Chiun brushed by Remo and walked lightly down the steps to the first soldier on the right side of the line.

  “Who is in charge here?” he demanded.

  The soldier remained silent, staring straight ahead.

  “Answer me, you oil slick,” Chiun ordered.

  The soldier next in line stepped forward, as he had with the youth who owned the intrusive finger, and smoothly and efficiently, lowered his rifle from his shoulder, grabbed the top of the barrel with his left hand, and with his right hand propelled the butt forward toward Chiun’s face.

  The rifle never reached the face. It was intercepted by Chiun’s thin, frail-looking hand, and then the wooden butt dropped, thudding dully on the sticky tar, and came to rest. The soldier stared in astonishment at the metal barrel still in his hands.

  Chiun stepped in front of him. He reached up a hand and put it on the soldier’s left shoulder. The soldier’s mouth opened to scream. Chiun moved his fingers and the soldier found that no sound would come.

  “I will ask you now. But only one time. Who is in charge here?”

  He released the pressure. “I am the ranking noncommissioned officer,” the man said.

  “Good,” said Chiun. “Now look into my eyes and pay attention. Your men will get my luggage. They are extremely valuable and ancient trunks and they will treat them with great care. If they drop one, you will suffer. If they scratch one, you will suffer. If they somehow fail to carry out the assignment, you will suffer. But if they do everything correctly, you may live to see another day dawn upon your worthless life. Do you understand me?” Chiun asked, twisting his fingers into the man’s shoulder for emphasis.

  “I understand, sir. I understand.”

  “Come, Remo,” Chiun called. “This fine gentleman has offered to help us.”

  Remo hopped down the stairs from the plane and followed Chiun, who set out resolutely after the delegates to the Third World International Youth Conference.

  “People are always willing to help, if you approach them correctly,” Chiun said. Behind him, the noncommissioned officer with the broken rifle was ordering his men into action.

  “Move, worthless scum. Into the terminal. We have an opportunity to render service to that fine old gentleman of the Third World. Move now or feel my wrath.”

  The men suppressed smiles and began marching in military fashion toward the terminal, six of them on the left foot, while six more were on the right foot, and the other soldier was between steps. Behind them, the NCO looked at the broken stock of his rifle in wonderment. He picked it up and carried it, moving behind his men. Going into the terminal, he dropped both pieces of the weapon into a trash basket. It was no great loss. The gun had never fired properly anyway. And ever since it had come back from the repair shop, he had been afraid to test it. The last man had found that the repair shop had somehow stuffed the barrel with solder, and when the man had pulled the trigger on the firing range the backfiring bullet had scored a bullseye. On his face.

  Lobynian Airport Number One—named back in those optimistic days when people thought the Lobynians might have a reason to build a second airport—was a mile outside the capital of Dapoli.

  The caravan was going to have to make the trip on foot. Lobynia’s bus had been out of order for the past three weeks, having its spark plugs replaced.

  The seventy young Americans marched between columns of armed soldiers. Straggling along behind them came Remo and Chiun, and behind them, falling into place one after another, came fourteen soldiers carrying steamer trunks on their heads or in their arms.

  At the head of the entire improbable caravan was the cultural liaison officer who counted cadence.

  “Hup, tup, turrip, fourp. Hup, tup, turrip, fourp.”

  Father Harrigan, resplendent in his bib overalls, tee shirt, and Roman collar, fell in with the martial spirit of the day.

  He called out, “Cadence count,” then led the way in singing. “One, two, three, four, / We won’t fight no fucking war, / One, two, three, four, / We won’t fight no fucking more.”

  “Company, halt,” screamed the cultural liaison officer.

  When the group had staggered to a stop, he turned and addressed the Americans.

  “Never having had the opportunity to visit the United States of America, I do not know what kind of country it is you come from,” he began.

  “No fucking good,” shouted Father Harrigan.

  “Right on,” shouted someone else.

  The cultural officer raised his hands for silence.

  “However,” he said, “Lobynia is a civilized country. We do not use profanity in the streets. In fact, one who utters an obscene utterance in a public place will have his tongue cut out with a dull knife. Such,” he said proudly, “is Lobynia’s concern for decent civilized humanity and the sensibilities of other persons.”

  “It would be good if that priest’s tongue were cut out,” Remo said.

  “He would grow a new one,” said Chiun. “Useless appendages always grow back.”

  “Therefore, I must ask you not to utter obscenities in public places.” The cultural liaison officer looked from face to face. “Of course, you will be allowed to think obscenities in the recesses of your private mind,” he added gallantly.

  “Let’s hear it for the wonderful Lobynian people,” said Father Harrigan. “Hip, hip, hooray. Hip, hip, hooray.”

  The other delegates joined in with a rousing cheer.

  The cultural officer nodded, satisfied, turned, and with a “forward march” led the visitors, who could neither talk nor walk freely, on into what they were sure would be an even greater manifestation of even greater personal freedoms, unlike those in hated AmeriKKKKKa.

  “Sometimes I think there’s no hope for our country,” said Remo.

  “There has never been any hope for your country,” Chiun answered. “Not si
nce you abandoned the good King George and decided to try to rule yourselves. The common man. Ptaah.”

  “But we’ve got freedom, Chiun. Freedom,” said Remo.

  “Freedom to be stupid is the worst slavery of all. Fools should be provided protection from themselves. I like Lobynia,” said Chiun and pressed his lips firmly together, opening them again only to shout behind him to the laboring soldiers that their lives were forfeit if they so much as got a sweaty handprint on any of his trunks.

  So much for freedom, thought Remo.

  The capital city of Dapoli did not loom suddenly in front of them. Rather it grew slowly out of the narrow paved road. First a shack, then what looked like an outhouse, then two shacks, then three. A small store. An occasional bicycle sprawled in sand at the side of the road. Then the appearance of cracked sidewalks. More shacks. And finally when they were surrounded by shacks, they were near the heart of the city. Shacks and gas stations, Remo observed.

  The cultural liaison officer raised a hand to halt the group. He waved them to the side of the road because traffic now had grown dangerously heavy, sometimes as much as one car a minute passed their group. He mounted the chipped and broken sidewalk to address them.

  “We are now going to a funeral of state for brave Lobynian commandos killed carrying the message of freedom and glory into the heartland of the Zionist pigs. After that, you will be taken to the barracks which will be your home until the conference is over. The barracks has been created especially for you for this visit and in it, you will find everything you need to be comfortable. There is soap and toilet paper. For privacy, walls have been erected around the slit latrines. Sleeping mats will be provided all. Our glorious leader, Colonel Baraka, has ordered us to spare no expense to bring you all the fine touches that you are used to. No one will be permitted to leave the barracks compound, except to travel in a group to the Revolutionary Triumph building where the conferences will be held. This rule must be observed and security must be maintained because of the presence of so many Zionist spies in our midst. Any questions?”