Countdown_ The Liberators Part 20

Terry and his boys, and Konstantin and his, looked thoroughly refreshed when they stepped off the plane from Port of Spain. That only added to the intrinsic dislike Harry Gordon had for Special Forces types. He hid it well, generally, but then Terry-Must resist saying 'Terry and the Pirates,' thought Gordo-and crew hadn't been around much, first shunted to Stauer's country place and then off to Myanmar. Why the dislike? If asked, Gordon probably couldn't have articulated it. It had to do, perhaps, with a certain 'more military than thou' att.i.tude he'd found in some SF types over the years.

"Had a good time in Trinidad and Tobago, did you guys?" asked Harry Gordon, sarcastically.

"If sleeping well and eating well and drinking well and f.u.c.king b.l.o.o.d.y d.a.m.ned well const.i.tute a good time," Terry admitted, "then I guess you could say, 'yes,' Gordo. And, after all, it's not as if Stauer wanted us here one minute before now. Or that we didn't deserve a little I & I"-intercourse and intoxication, the unofficial name for R & R-"after springing Inning from, as you said, 'durance vile'."

Gordo agreed, with somewhat bad grace, and asked, "Who are your new pals? The Russians I heard about?"

Terry nodded and called out, "Konstantin, come meet Harry Gordon; you and he are going to be working together."

"'Working together?'" Gordon asked as the Russian ambled over.

"Part of Victor's contribution to the war effort," Welch explained. "Konstantin and his men are going to help you with transs.h.i.+pment."

"Some of the equipment is coming in mixed, disa.s.sembled, hidden, what have you," Konstantin said. "We know how most of it goes together. After all, we've been doing this with Victor for quite some time now. I think you'll find we are useful."

"Can you and your men drive?" Gordo asked. "Can you drive the way they do here, which is to say like maniacs?"

"Ever been to Moscow, Mr. Gordon? Or should I use your former rank?"

"We're all misters or first names here," Gordon replied, shooting Terry a dirty look for his previous use of Konstantin's rank. "Later on, and further south, we can expect to have a more military social hierarchy."

"Works for me," Konstantin answered.

"Good. Anyway, Terry, you and your boys fly out tonight via one of our Pilatus Porters. The people who didn't go to Myanmar are waiting for you at the camp, down south.

"In the interim, there's a safe house between town and the airport. You'll go there and, I guess, that's where the Russians can stay. At least until I work out something better. The safe house is close to Barama Company, with which we've had some useful dealings. Enjoy."

"Useful dealings?" Welch asked.

"They've given us secure computer time and office s.p.a.ce, plus access to their truck fleet. We've told some of the bureaucrats hustling them for bribes that death ends all need for money," Gordo said. You're not the only type of soldiers that know how to make a credible threat of violence.

D-101, Helmdon, Northampton, United Kingdom

Sergeant Victor Babc.o.c.k-Moore, black, and Captain Gary Trim, white, both late of Her Majesty's Royal Engineers ("With the rank and pay of a sapper!"), took turns ground-guiding and backing the armored cars into their s.h.i.+pping containers, three to a box. The Ferrets were angular little things; at about two meters by two meters by four, they weren't so very much larger than a normal SUV, and rather smaller than some such. Indeed, they were dwarfed by some SUVs, most notably the Chevy Suburban. On the plus side, a Suburban could fit upwards of nine. A Ferret was cozy for two, with their personal gear and the ammunition.

Armored against small arms fire up to 7.62, the scout cars carried a sting of their own in their small, one man, turrets. That is to say, these used to carry a sting. They would again, too, as soon as they were taken to Brazil and modified back. Even then, though, they'd be carrying Russian PKM machine guns rather than the .30 caliber Browning. Exactly how the different guns were to be mounted was still a matter of some conjecture.

Trim and Babc.o.c.k-Moore had had one task to accomplish before booking a flight for Georgetown, whence to be flown somewhere further on to take up a position as a.s.sistant engineer and section sergeant to a small group being a.s.sembled for mission or missions unknown. That job had been to inspect and, if found serviceable, buy and s.h.i.+p onward nine Ferret scout cars, Mark II or higher. In this Babc.o.c.k-Moore had been of rather greater use than had Trim, since the sergeant had actually been a Ferret driver early on in his career.

It had been Babc.o.c.k who'd known to jack up first one side and then the other of each vehicle, turning the forward wheels by hand to ensure the rear wheels on the same sides turned as well. On one occasion Babc.o.c.k had p.r.o.nounced, "Blown bevel box, sir. They'll have to replace it before we can take delivery." Babc.o.c.k had said it, as he p.r.o.nounced everything, in an accent sufficiently superior to Trim's own that had they not been old comrades and friends the former officer might just have been insulted. Instead, given that the sergeant was an immigrant from Jamaica, Trim found it highly amusing. It had been even more amusing when Trim had been a mere subaltern, but the song-"Why can't the English teach their children how to speak?"-had eventually gotten a bit old.

Likewise it had been Babc.o.c.k who taught Trim how to start the things properly, a complex procedure for what was supposed to be a very simple machine. Babc.o.c.k, too, had explained that except for hills and such, it was better to start in second gear, that the gear change pedal was not a clutch-"And for G.o.d's sake, sir, don't use it as one."

The engines had all been Rolls-Royce and dating from before the days when nationalization had ruined the British auto industry. They'd all been fine, or better than fine. Of course, they all used gasoline, rather than diesel, and this could be expected to impose certain logistic issues in the future. Still, the engines were Rolls and what was a little complexity in providing two kinds of fuel compared to the advantage of utter reliability? (The same could have been said for .30 caliber Browning machine guns, which Victor was sure he could procure. "The Vietnamese have a s.h.i.+tpot lot of them captured in the war there," he'd said. But while changing out the engines would have been a major job for a minor logistic advantage, using .30s would have been no job at all but at a significant logistic disadvantage. Besides, the Vietnamese record for caring for captured arms since the war was not a particularly good one. "No, we'll fit PKMs," Stauer had insisted.) None of Babc.o.c.k's checks had incited any anger in the dealer until he'd done a stall check on the first Ferret. This had involved leaving the handbrake on and starting in third gear, then fourth, with the foot brake depressed and the accelerator floored for five seconds.

"What the fock do ye think ye're doin'?" the dealer had asked, belligerently, though he knew exactly what Babc.o.c.k was doing.

"Ensuring my investments are sound," Sergeant Babc.o.c.k had answered.

"What do you need so many of these things for?" the proprietor asked.

"Movie props," the black man lied, with a perfectly straight face.

In the end, Babc.o.c.k's checks and insistences had had three effects. One was to drive the cost of the Ferrets up to roughly the six thousand, five hundred pound point, each, on average. The second had been that all nine were reasonably mechanically sound before delivery was accepted. The third was to delay acceptance by about ten days.

Still, "All's well that ends well, and all that rot." The cars were ready now, loaded in containers, even, and would be leaving this evening for Portsmouth, a roughly two hour drive. From there, they'd be loaded on a freighter within the next two or three days, thence to Georgetown.

Trim and Babc.o.c.k were to fly out as soon as they'd seen the things loaded. Their friends and families knew nothing but that they'd be gone for quite some time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO.

They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung The stair-ways of the tallest G.o.ds when tyranny was young.

-Gilbert Keith Chesterton, "Lepanto"

D-100, Suakin, Sudan

Adam could feel the armed guards on the other side of the curtain that hung in the coral-framed door. He couldn't see them, generally, nor even hear their bare feet most of the time. They almost never talked when on duty. But the fact of their presence, that he could feel even when no other indicator said so.

The room outside of which the guards kept watch was a cubicle of about three meters on a side. Once, when Suakin was still a busy port, it had had plastered walls. The plaster had long since fallen off, except for a few stubborn little traces here and there. It was also an interior cubicle, windowless. What light there was came from bare bulb, run by a generator Adam could hear whining in the distance. Warmth, when needed, came from a light blanket and the slave girl, Makeda. She and he lay under the blanket, on a foam rubber pad with a sheet. A few times a week the girl took the sheet out and washed it by hand, early in the morning.

Adam couldn't be sure how long it had been since his capture. At least fifty-seven days that I've counted. But he'd spent enough time sedated or-since arrival here-genuinely ill, that it might easily have been seventy-five or even eighty. Labaan, in any case, refused to tell him, and Makeda didn't know.

"It would just upset you, and for no good end," his captor insisted. "Trust me that you will not be going home any time soon. And if you ever are released, what you return to will not be what you think of as home." Not after my chief finishes squeezing. "So try to be happy-as much as you can-in the life you have here, or wherever else you may be brought." The enemy tribesman had seemed to Adam to be almost regretful as he'd said the words.

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 sh.o.r.e was closest, they were always there, their fins cl.u.s.tered 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 compa.s.s. 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 b.u.t.tocks suggested she was performing only, like any trained animal. And somehow the pa.s.sion 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 f.u.c.k 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sion. 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 s.e.x 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, repet.i.tive, "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 pa.s.ses."

"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. 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 wors.h.i.+p of the G.o.d of love and the G.o.d 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 G.o.d of battles. It is the uniform and not the cross which impresses me and others.