“Today we did what we had to do. They counted on America to be passive. They counted wrong.”
-Ronald Reagan
It was an impressive structure; twenty-by-twenty-by-ten of reinforced steel; six-inches thick, with a huge, circular door. To open it would require two combinations; one a rotary lock, the other a keypad-retinal scan. To open it, the rotary lock would have to be set in place, then the correct person would have to enter the code while undergoing a retinal scan. The vault, therefore, was all-but impossible to crack.
Strasser lay his hand against the cold metal of the vault, feeling the incredible weight of it. Behind that door lay the key to the future. Whoever possessed that key would control that future.
The plan had been to force Calvan to open the vault. That way they would have been in and out of the building within an hour or less; depending on how long it took to persuade him to cooperate. Once he had confirmed that Calvan hadn’t shown up, Strasser had moved on to plan B. Leaving about half his men to watch the hostages, he had divided the rest. Some he had sent into the wings to establish lookout posts. Others had gone to reinforce the men holding the ground floor. And a select group had come with him up to the penthouse where the vault waited.
“Now,” said Strasser, without turning around. “You can open the vault, can’t you?”
Behind him, the huge mass of muscle and scars that was Commander Gidan grunted.
“What else would I be doing in this damn country?” he answered. Snapping his fingers, he barked an order in Swahili at his men, and they quickly began setting up the equipment they had brought.
“How long?” Strasser asked.
Gidan looked critically at the mass of steel before him.
“Two hours,” he said. “Maybe three.”
Strasser withdrew his hand from the polished metal surface and turned to offer the Tanzanian an icy smile.
When George saw the gun pointing at his face, he reacted without thinking. Had he been a little more experienced with such matters, he probably wouldn’t have tried it, and if the other man had been a little more on his guard the move most likely would have gotten George killed. His hand was on the light switch, which was just under the muzzle of the Kalashnikov. He flipped it up with move like he was tossing something over his shoulder, flicking the lights off in the process. The muzzle was knocked upwards and his good ear was pulverized by the roar as it fired into the ceiling. Somehow he managed to get hold of the shortened barrel with one hand (it burned him, but he held on), then found the stock of the gun with the other, pulled, and twisted.
The gun came free of the terrorist’s hand, but before George could get a grip on it himself he was hit hard under the right eye, then again in the side, and again in the shoulder. The gun went spinning out of his grip and his put his arms up to defend himself. In the dark, and with his eyes still adjusted to the lights he’d been flicking on and off, his enemy was little but a formless shadow barely illuminated by the lights coming in from the window and the hallway.
He caught one incoming blow with the point of his elbow, eliciting gasps of pain from them both, but followed up with a blow to what he guessed was the man’s nose, then another to what he hoped was his stomach, but turned out to be a forearm.
The terrorist apparently gave up the idea of boxing in the dark, because he suddenly closed in, grabbing at George, who backed away, struggling to keep his distance. He collided with a filing cabinet as the terrorist pressed up against him, one hand grabbing the back of George’s jacket, the other trying to pin his right arm. George had no experience with wrestling, so he just kept trying to pummel his opponent in the ribs and back. The man snaked his arm in under George’s elbow, trying to trap the arm. With no better options, George pushed off from the cabinet, driving his opponent back through the door and into the dimly-lit hallway, where he discovered that the terrorist was a heavy-set young man with skin several shades darker than his own, a deep scar crossing the bridge of his nose, and short, bristly hair.
His arm freed from his opponent’s abortive grappling attempt, George aimed a cross at the man’s temple, but the other blocked it and entrapped the arm before George could withdraw it. Then, pulling him forward by the back of his collar, the man head butted George so hard that he nearly blacked out. The terrorist released him and George fell backwards against the wall, feeling as though the whole building had suddenly been transplanted to an extremely stormy sea.
The terrorist grinned and said something, though whether because of his swimming head, his ringing good ear, or because it wasn’t in English, George had no idea what it was. Probably wasn’t friendly, though. That supposition was confirmed when the man pulled his fist back like he was going to pitch a fastball and hurled a huge lunge-punch right at George’s nose.
George could barely think, but he had boxed in school, and his instincts, though rusty, still worked. He ducked. The fist that had been intended to smash his nose flat instead hit the wood paneling. The paneling cracked with the impact, and judging by the man’s reaction, so did the hand.
Still feeling woozy, George drove himself forward like a tackle, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist (if he hadn’t been so disoriented, he probably would have thought to go for his knees), pushing him back into the wall. The man responded by wrapping him in a headlock and dropping his weight to the ground. If he had a better grip, that probably would have snapped George’s neck, but as it was it only pull him further off balance, which gave the other time to spring to his feet and resume the attack.
As he rose, the terrorist drew a big, wicked-looking knife from a sheath behind his back. Holding it overhand, he slashed at George, who ducked the blow, but then the terrorist brought his injured hand up, snaked his arm around George’s neck, and pulled him back against his body in a tight headlock.
George gasped for breath as the man’s arm tightened around his neck. He tried to pull the arm free with one hand while the other held the knife at bay, but it was no good: the grip around his neck was too strong, and the knife was creeping slowly closer and closer to his heart. The only question now was whether he would black out from lack of oxygen before he was stabbed in the heart.
He never really knew where the idea for what happened next came from. It simply presented itself to him, fully formed, as though by divine grace.
Releasing the arm around his neck, George reached into his jacket pocket, fumbled a bit, and ripped out his epinephrine pen.
The terrorist, intent on his kill, didn’t notice what he had until George flipped the cap off with his thumb and plunged the needle as hard as he could into the man’s side.
The terrorist screamed horribly. Releasing his grip on George and dropping his knife, he clutched at his side trying to stop the pain. George lifted the still-squirting needle over his head and plunged it into the man’s neck. He gasped and grabbed at it, but George wrenched it out and stabbed it into the other side, unleashing a spray of blood. By pure luck, he must have hit the man’s jugular vein. The terrorist grabbed at the spot, trying to stem the flow of blood from both sides with only one working hand. George staggered back away from him, trembling, the blood-soaked epi-pen still clutched in his fist. The wounded man sank to the floor, gasping as the blood escaped from between his fingers.
George stood there, breathing hard, watching his enemy choke on his own blood. He didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, this man had just tried very hard to kill him. On the other…
Dropping the pen, George stumbled to the man’s side, took his handkerchief out of his pocket, and pressed it against the more serious wound, holding it down hard. The man was already very weak, and the blood-flow showed no sign of stopping. George’s handkerchief was almost instantly soaked through with blood. He kept his hand in place, trying to at least prevent him from losing any more, but he could see from the man’s wide, terrified eyes that he was fading fast. George grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt and pressed it on top of the saturated handkerchief. He had never seen so much blood.
The terrorist’s eyes rolled up into his head. His hands dropped limp to the ground. George kept pressure on the wound, but he could feel the pulse weakening under his fingers. Then it stopped altogether.
He was dead.
After another few minutes, it occurred to George that he didn’t have to keep holding the wound any more. He let go and sat back on his knees, looking down at the dead man who had tried to murder him not two minutes before. It was a strange and disturbing feeling. He had just killed a man. In self-defense, it was true, and he wasn’t exactly sorry he’d done it, but he felt it. He felt the fact that he had taken this man’s life. As he knelt there, looking at the blood-soaked corpse before him, he found himself wondering who this man was. How had he come to be here? Did he have any family? And how had he come to be fanatical enough in his devotion to end up here? What kind of life had this man known?
These and other questions passed through George’s mind as he sat there, contemplating his first kill. He doubted he’d ever know the answers. He didn’t even think he wanted to know them. But through his meditations came, like ships emerging from the mist-shrouded sea, two conclusions, as clear and as certain as the sunrise. First, that this was the first of many times he would have to end the life of a fellow human being. Second, that he must never stop asking those questions. He might have to kill. He might even get to the point where killing seemed easy. But he could never forget what it meant. He would kill these men to protect himself, his friends, and his country. But he would always recall that they were men.
With those thoughts seared into his heart, George Adamson rose to his feet, leaving the man he had been behind forever.
He still felt a little unsteady, and his good ear wouldn’t stop ringing, though he could still hear, thank God. His first move was to return to the office and retrieve the man’s dropped Kalashnikov and check the magazine. It was about half-full. He slung the weapon over his shoulder and proceeded to search the dead man. He found a small pouch with two spare magazines and a flashlight, a wallet containing fifty dollars and a driver’s license that claimed his name was “Alfred Miller” and that he was from Sacramento. There was also a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He took the pouch and lighter, as well as the leather sheath for the knife, but left the rest.
Hooking the knife to his belt and slinging the pouch, George decided that it wouldn’t be either smart or appropriate to leave the body lying in the hallway, so he dragged it into Mabel Mayberry’s office and, with a vague desire to give some honor to the dead, tore one of the poster pages off of the easel that stood in the corner (containing some notes about health benefits, which he found mildly ironic) and draped it over the dead man’s face and chest. With a sigh, he left the office and closed the door behind him.
Laura watched the other building like a cat watching a mouse’s hole. She was breathing very fast.
Please say something, she thought. Please say you didn’t just get shot.
It seemed as if she sat there for at least an hour, though the stupid clock said it was only about ten minutes or so, before there was a flicker of light. Not the room lights he had been using before, but a flashlight like hers.
“Still there?”
“You okay?”
“Be fine.”
“What happened?”
“One of them jumped me. Got him instead.”
Laura wasn’t quite sure what he meant by ‘got him,’ but didn’t care to ask him to explain using a flashlight.
“Police on their way,” she signaled.
Ben awoke with a yell, flailing about him in panic. A gentle hand gripped his shoulder and he jerked away, but stopped when he saw that it was Martha.
“Easy there,” she said. “You’re okay.”
“I…what happened?” he gasped. He was finding it difficult to bring his recollections up to the present.
“He just shot past your face,” she explained. “See, he thought that if Calvan were hiding somewhere, someone would say something rather than letting you get shot. When no one did, he knew we were telling the truth. Then…well, I guess he just wanted to scare you.”
Ben felt his forehead. It was intact, without any blood or gapping bullet wound. His head was sore, though, as if he had hit it hard against something. But, at the moment, he was too glad to find himself still alive to worry about that.
“Thank God!” he gasped.
“Well, it was me who stood up for you,” she said.
Ben actually laughed. He wanted to kiss her, but he restrained himself.
“Okay,” he said. “So…how was I knocked out?”
Martha grimaced.
“Uh,” she said. “Well, actually…you fainted.”
“WHAT!?”
“Hey!” barked one of the Tanzanians. “You shut up!”
They fell silent, but inside Ben was burning with humiliation. He was a tough guy; a world-class sportsman, an adventurer. And he’d fainted when a gun when off in his face? Fainted in front of the whole damn company?
He looked around at the other hostages sitting on the floor. Most were watching their captors. A few glanced his way, and he thought he saw looks of disgust, or even of amusement on their faces.
He shook his head; he was imagining it, he told himself. No one cared that he had lost his nerve. Not tonight at least. Once this was all over, once they were all back to work…Then they’d remember.
Ben gritted his teeth in frustration. It wasn’t fair! He’d been caught off guard. No one could be expected to think clearly in a situation like that, not unless he’d been trained. Could any of them have done any better?
There seemed to be only one thing to do; do better next time. Surely, surely before the night was over he’d have a chance to do something heroic. He’d do it right this time.
Next Week:
Chapter Nine: The Wheel Descends
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