The Lazarus Moment (29 page)

“Yes,
sir!”

Gunfire
erupted from the men, the effect on the other side heard but not seen. He
stepped forward, his eyes glued to the other embankment, wondering when the
enemy might return fire.

Maybe
they fled into the jungle like the cowards they are.

Either
way it made no difference. He had 150 guns and there was no way they had
anything close. The harassment campaign waged against his men was like any
other he had waged against his own enemies. It was effective and annoying, but
it was too little, too late. They were here and there was no more room for
delaying tactics. The President would be his, and anyone who got in his way was
forfeit.

I
will
have my just rewards.

Dawson watched the river from about thirty yards back, slightly
upriver of the cable. The civilians had been moved several hundred yards back
so they’d be out of the field of fire, Jane and the other Air Force personnel leading
them south just in case this battle was lost.

But
right now, the rebels were playing right into their hands.

“Here
they come,” said Atlas, positioned about twenty yards to his right. He had nine
men with him including his team, the SEALs and the two Secret Service agents.
Nine guns should be enough, with five more on the other side of the river if it
became necessary.

He
watched as the rebels neared the center of the river, it shallow here yet still
up to their armpits. They were strung together in groups of four or five, hands
clasped at the wrists as they helped each other across.

Teamwork.

Something
he could respect.

Too bad
it meant their deaths.

He
watched the other side and saw a group still standing at the top of the other
embankment.

Ah
shit!

“Take
cover! Pass it on!” he hissed, the message relayed quickly in either direction
as he twisted, pressing his back against the tree he was stationed behind. As
predicted gunfire erupted from the other side, tearing into the trees. He made
himself as small as possible, tucking in his arms, squeezing his legs tight
together, hoping the others were doing the same.

The
orders he had given were clear. Should the enemy open fire before crossing the
river, do not return fire. It was essential that the hostiles think they were
long gone. Only then would they completely commit.

And only
then could this tiny force overcome such overwhelming odds.

Lt. Commander Jacobson froze, the distinct sound of gunfire so alien
to their environment it was easily heard. They were close, damned close, less
than half a mile, Squads Two and Three already having reached them, making
better time following the trail they had already blazed.

“Let’s
move!” he shouted, spurring on those in the lead as they hacked away at the
underbrush, the heavy fire continuing. “We’re almost there!”

They had
to get into this fight before it was too late. The gunfire was heavy and
sustained, as if whoever was attacking was in complete control of the
situation.

Which
meant all might have already been lost.

And he
had failed.

Domingos held up his hand. “Cease fire!” His men on the embankment
held their fire, the rest of the men, now on the middle of the river, visibly
relaxed, resuming their struggle across, excited chatter as they realized, as
he did, the unbelievable truth.

There’s
no one there!

It was a
foolish mistake, whoever was in command of the President’s security detail
unfit for duty and clearly not a combat veteran like himself. He had fought for
most of his life against the government forces and in the end, he had
essentially won, though he had never been rewarded for the part he played.

In fact,
it was an insult, a slap in the face, how he had been treated. And it wasn’t
just him, it was his men as well. The leaders who were closer to the urban
centers had become the politicians with the high salaries and cushy lifestyles.
The women, the cars, the houses, the power.

He and
those like him in the rural commands had received nothing but a pat on the back
and an order to relinquish their weapons.

Over his
dead body.

The new
government had tried to disarm them forcefully, but his men had fought them off
and retreated deeper into the wild, eventually the government giving up,
figuring they couldn’t do any harm hidden away where they were.

And they
were right.

He and
his men were no threat to anyone, the tiny area they controlled along the river
meaningless, the locals happy to have them there since they acted as a
quasi-police force, and in exchange, they collected a small toll from any boat
that passed through. They never collected from the locals—they wanted them on
their side. But the boats from north or south were almost always pleasure or
commerce, the passengers or owners far wealthier than he and his men.

They
happily paid the toll, or unhappily at the point of a gun.

Complaints
had been made to the government by some, a couple of gunboats sent up to challenge
them, but his men made quick work of one, the other fleeing.

And the
toll continued.

But once
he had his hands on the President, everyone in Maputo would listen to him,
would bow to his demands for autonomy and respect for his men. And the payday
would mean they’d be able to fund their own damned country.

And his
share meant complete freedom.

A girl
on each arm, a driveway filled with cars, and a house trimmed with gold.

He
frowned.

I’ll
have to buy my wife her own house.

He
stifled a grin at the thought. He was married with two grown children. He couldn’t
stand her though, it arranged when they were young. Usually those marriages
grew into loving relationships, or at least ones of mutual respect.

But not
his.

She had
been a hateful bitch from the moment they married. Sweet until the day, but
once the ceremony was completed, she had nagged at him over everything, every waking
hour.

So he
had gone to war, it more peaceful.

He came
back occasionally, though hadn’t been for several years. His sons had joined
him when they were of age though after peace was declared returned to the
village to establish families of their own. They had urged him to come home but
he shook his head. “She hasn’t changed, has she?”

They
both seemed crestfallen, his eldest answering. “No, father, she still hates
you.”

He had
hugged them both, smiling. “Don’t worry, the feeling is mutual. It has nothing
to do with how I feel about you. Now go home, take pretty wives for love, and
make me lots of grandbabies.”

He
hadn’t seen them since they left, though he did receive news of them through
word of mouth up and down the river. They were doing well, and after he
received his ransom, he’d make sure they were taken care of. And he knew them
well enough to know that if he didn’t take care of his hateful wife, they would
use their money to make her life better.

So he
might as well do it himself so they could enjoy their own share without having
to dilute it.

They
loved their mother. Why, he couldn’t fathom; she treated them barely better than
she treated him.

He
thought of how he loved his own mother and shrugged.

Boys
and their mothers.

He made
a vow to see her when this was all over.

He
motioned for the others to come down from the embankment and they all stepped
into the water. The current was swift and he felt his foot slip slightly. He
stopped and pointed to one of the men still near the shore. “Get that rope.”

The man
looked then nodded, pushing himself through the water and grabbing a rope the
survivors had fashioned out of vines. It was still attached above and
apparently tied off at the other end. His man cut it off with a chop of his
machete, then reeled in as much of the slack from the other side as he could,
another hack rewarding him with a good ten meters of it.

He
brought it over to Domingos who handed one end to his nephew. “Wrap this around
your left wrist.” His nephew complied then Domingos left about five feet of
slack between them, looping it around his own left wrist. He handed the rest to
the next man, in all five of them able to move forward, the rope looped between
them in case one of them should fall. The first of his men were almost at the
shore as his group neared the middle. The current was stronger than he was
expecting. Manageable, yet strong, each raised foot pushed slightly downriver,
making it a little challenging to keep one’s footing.

The
water was almost to his armpits, it a pleasant cool, and he was enjoying the
respite from the heat they had endured all day when he heard his nephew yelp
then a tug on the rope. Domingos’ head spun toward the boy but he was nowhere
to be seen. He pulled on the rope, the boy’s arm appearing for a moment, then
suddenly he felt his own feet slip out from under him.

He
sucked in a breath just before he dropped below the surface, his nephew tugging
on his arm. His legs swept out from under him and he dropped even further, then
suddenly stopped, the rope biting into his arm as the other men pulled. He
reached up with his free hand and gripped the rope, kicked out with his feet,
one managing to hit the bottom enough to catch hold. He turned, letting go with
his right hand and flipped around on the rope, keeping his foot planted on the
river bottom, improving the angle and breaking the surface.

He
gasped for breath as his other foot touched bottom. His nephew was still under,
the tugs on the rope continuing but they wouldn’t be for long. He grabbed onto
the rope with his other hand and pulled with all his might. The boy popped
above the surface for a moment, drawing in a gasp of air then dropped below
again.

And
Domingos’ feet slipped out again.

The
water enveloped him, it strangely quiet below the surface, almost peaceful. The
rope continued to tear into his wrist as it was pulled from both directions. He
hadn’t had a chance to get a full breath and he could feel himself starting to
panic as his lungs threatened to burst. Reaching with his free hand, he pulled
the machete from his belt and struck out at the rope, missing. He raised it
again, the blade breaking the surface, then chopped down as hard as he could,
his momentum cut as soon as he hit the water, but this time it hit the rope. He
chopped again then again, the effort leaving his lungs burning, his body
demanding he take a breath.

He swung
again.

And
suddenly the pull was broken, the others dragging him to the surface, one of
his men reaching around and wrapping an arm around his waist as he regained his
feet. He coughed the water out of his lungs, sucking in several large breaths
before he looked at the frayed end of the vine, his nephew’s screams fading in
the distance as the river carried him away. He felt bad. A bit. He wasn’t a
good kid. A selfish little prick that complained constantly whenever he was
asked to do any work.

He
wouldn’t be missed.

But his
mother’s going to kill me.

He
turned to his men.

“Nobody
tells my sister.”

His men
laughed and he joined in as they resumed their crossing.

Dawson watched as a group of the men laughed, one of their comrades
lost to the river. He could never understand the cavalier attitude toward life
in some parts of the world. He had watched the blade cut the rope, and he
didn’t blame the man for doing it. If you were both going to die, he could see
cutting the other man loose. Sacrifice one to save the other. It’s not something
he would necessarily do. He couldn’t imagine cutting Red or Niner away, dooming
them, just to save his own skin.

But he
could understand the rationale, and perhaps if he were desperate and dying, he
might do the same, unable to control the instinct to survive.

Though
he knew one thing.

There
was no way in hell he’d be laughing about it.

It
pissed him off.

“Let’s
give them something to laugh about.” He took aim. “Open fire.”

Nine
guns opened up on the unsuspecting force, the cries of the shocked enemy more
satisfying than he had expected, the laughter at the expense of one of their
own affecting him deeply. He was tired of this jungle, tired of running, tired
of not facing his enemy.

And now
he finally had that chance.

His
enemy had made a tactical error, a grave tactical error, and they were going to
pay for it. This cat and mouse game was ending here and now, and as each man
cried out then slipped below the surface, carrying them away, he could feel the
pressure of the past day lifting with each recoil of his weapon into his
shoulder.

The
return fire was sporadic, mostly sprayed unaimed into the air as they dropped,
their human chains breaking apart as they tried to take aim, the buddy system
failing. Their numbers dwindled rapidly and in less than two minutes the river
was empty, the last cries lost in the distance, the blood already swept away.

It was
as if it had never happened.

He
checked the opposite shore to make sure none had remained behind, then stepped
out from behind his cover, walking to the shore.

“Everyone
okay?” he asked, the others stepping out, a string of affirmatives coming from
his left and right. He put a hand up to his mouth. “You okay over there?”

Red and
the others stepped into view near where the cable had been tied off.

“The
only reason you won is because we thinned them out first!”

Dawson
laughed, tossing his head back, relief washing over him as he realized their
plight was nearly over. “Get your asses over here and we’ll thank you
properly.”