The Shark Boats, page 30
The Brotherhoods’ insignia.
“You’re Brotherhood?” Chavez demanded. Incredulous.
How could a disrespectful punk like Albertino have been admitted to the Brotherhoods? Let alone stay there?
Unless…
It was all making too much sense.
“Special Brotherhood,” said Albertino curtly. “Colonel.”
It was death for anyone outside the Special Brotherhood to have that false birthmark combination on their hands. Not many people outside the Brotherhoods themselves even knew of its existence.
Munoz and his men were rapidly putting on the USC uniforms.
“Let him go,” Albertino ordered. “Chavez, this was planned. You say you’ve read The People’s Direction?”
“Memorized it,” said Chavez. Still confused.
“Test me.”
“How does the third chapter open?”
“‘Service. It is an essential characteristic of leaders, and in a People’s society all men are leaders.’ Should I continue?”
“No,” said Chavez. “I believe you.”
“Then change. Quickly.”
“You said you were a full colonel, Albertino?” Chavez asked as he began to strip.
“Yes. I expect to be addressed as ‘sir’ in future. And we speak English once we’re out of the cell.”
“Sir, this was – all planned?”
“Yes. Not being taken prisoner. You were supposed to drop Munoz’s team off outside Angle and pick them up, if possible, when the objective was accomplished.”
“Yessir,” said Chavez. “I apologize for volunteering for the tender mission. Sir, if I’d only known-”
My God, Albertino is a full colonel of the Special Brotherhood?
“You didn’t know,” Albertino said curtly. “In this line of work, plans change. We accomplish the objective regardless.”
“Sir, if I may ask – what is the objective?”
Albertino smiled thinly.
“Emmanuel Goldstein.”
*
“Skeleton guard on the prison,” Munoz noted as they passed a slumped sentry with his throat slashed wide. Drying blood all over his uniform.
“They need every man at the front,” Albertino said. “Salazar’s close to breaking through. They’ll have Angle within a week. Evacuation’s already starting.”
On the street, the Special Brotherhood colonel gestured.
“Polina, take your section and go to the house. Arm yourselves, hit 301 with everything you have and send them into Angle.”
“Arm them how, sir?”
“Not relevant. They’re a distraction, that’s all. Meet us at Beta Five.”
“Do you know where he is, sir?” Munoz asked.
“I met him this morning,” said Albertino. “This way.”
A silenced pistol in his belt, Chavez followed Albertino, Polina and the remaining four Brotherhood men down the street.
*
“Shouldn’t you be out jigging your bi—Ms. Lewis, sir?” Pulli asked Reiner.
“She’s working late. Goldstein doesn’t fuck around when he’s making movies, it seems,” said Reiner. They were smoking together outside the officers’ mess.
“What I saw, man don’t fuck around anywhere,” Pulli said. “And heard. He’s sticking it to Nick hard. Oughta be proud Ms. Lewis’s working with him, sir.”
“I am,” Reiner said. He checked his watch. A few minutes to nine, and Sarah had said she’d be free at ten thirty. He’d head in that direction at about ten, in case they finished a bit early. On the one hand, he enjoyed looking at her. On the other, his presence would probably be a distraction.
“How’s the refit going, anyway, sir?”
“Gascay says they’re pretty much complete on the Isabella, and they’ll have the Krantz done by this time tomorrow. I need to talk with General Voerkein about staying around long enough to at least see Chavez hang.”
“That bastard deserves it,” Pulli agreed.
They were silent for a bit, watching as men carried stretchers of wounded men up gangways onto the St. Marie, a large white hospital ship. They’d been loading these wounded guys for almost an hour, and there seemed to be no end to them.
“A doctor told me they’re evacuating the hospitals around here,” said Reiner.
“Yeah, looks like they’re packing `em in tight on the Marie, sir.”
“And I heard artillery this afternoon. The PNA’s drawing closer.”
“I don’t want to be here when they take the place, sir,” said Pulli.
“Me neither, Pulli. Me neither.”
Rob Cromwell came staggering out of the bar, swigging from a bottle. He headed off into the darkness.
“How much time do you think the place has, sir?”
Reiner shrugged.
“Could be weeks. Could be only a few days. Now the PNA has the Gap, it’s not going to be indefinitely.”
“Glad they’re gonna send us off on assignment, then.”
Yeah, but what about Sarah?
She’s with Emmanuel. He’s important. They’ll give him and his people priority on the ships out.
They’d better.
*
“Good job,” said Goldstein to his small cast. “I think we’ve got it there. We’ll be shooting the final jungle scenes the day after tomorrow, so let’s just make sure that we have all the indoors stuff right. Take five for now, people.”
He gestured Lewis and Montgomery over.
“I think we’re ready to send this to the mixing rooms,” Montgomery said. He looked at Lewis.
“Any dialog changes you’d make while we still have the chance?”
“I’m going to have to listen to the recordings. There’s probably something, given the taste these guys have for ad-libbing. We can do that without having to reshoot the entire scene, right?”
“Right,” said the director. “Less than ideal, but this is wartime. I never got around to showing you how to use the playback equipment, did I?”
“No. I hear it’s pretty simple.”
“It is.”
“You show her how,” said Goldstein. “She can do it now. It’d be a shame to keep her late. She probably has, er, better things to do, with Major Reiner in town.”
Lewis smiled.
“Thank you, Emmanuel.”
The playback equipment was in a small room next to the sound stage. Lewis followed Montgomery in.
*
Quickly, Albertino outlined the plan. Everyone had silenced pistols, which Albertino had given them from the same rucksack that’d contained the USC uniforms. The Brotherhood colonel was the only one with anything bigger, a Jimmy-gun.
“Sir, how do we get out, if that’s the case?” Chavez asked.
“I have that taken care of,” Albertino replied. The Jimmy-gun slung over his shoulder, he drew and cocked his pistol.
“You all ready?”
Munoz, Chavez and the four others nodded.
“For the People,” Albertino growled.
*
There’d only been a skeleton guard on the prison camp. It had been easy – easier than most training exercises, because these guys hadn’t suspected a thing – for Polina and his four men to approach the main entrance to the camp, where the core of the garrison and the facilities were.
A few minutes of quick work with knives and silenced pistols had taken those twenty or so men out. Polina had sent two men, captured rifles slung over their shoulders like routine sentries, out to the four towers that overlooked the small camp. They’d taken care of the overlooking machine-guns.
Camp of this size – about a thousand POWs – should have at least half a company. Not a couple of squads, thought the Special Brotherhood lieutenant. He wasn’t complaining.
Within minutes, Sergeant Ruiz came running back.
“Towers neutralized, sir. They’re all dead.”
Polina’s other two men had taken the time to break into the camp’s weapons locker. There were enough guns to arm about half a company.
They were fifteen minutes at a fast run from the center of Angle. The USCers wouldn’t suspect a thing, and the confusion was more important than the actual damage.
All you needed to cause confusion was a book of matches, anyway.
*
The door flew open and half a dozen soldiers burst in, spreading out across the studio with guns in their hands.
What? thought Goldstein. A momentary stab of cold fear – they’ve come to get me – before he noticed the uniforms. USC. Thank God.
“Is this someone’s idea of a joke?” Montgomery demanded, marching towards the colonel.
“Get in a line against that wall,” a major ordered in clear, unaccented English. He motioned with his Jimmy-gun.
The rest had silenced pistols. And dark complexions. All of them.
Oh, shit.
“We’ve got shooting to do,” Montgomery snapped, moving to push the Jimmy-gun aside.
The second-ranking man in the room, a burly captain, fired his pistol.
Phut.
Red-grey-purple flecks spattered the white wall behind the director’s head. A neat circular hole appeared in his temple. Montgomery fell to his knees and collapsed on his face.
One of the actors screamed.
“I said to get in line against the wall,” the major repeated.
It’s the PNA. PNA infiltrators, thought Goldstein. Calmly – very calmly, like he’d been when the PNA had almost got him off the coast of Rienfuegos.
They’ve come for me.
*
Was that a gunshot?
Lewis took the headphones off. Someone was barking orders in the adjacent room.
Are we under attack? Already? I’ve heard the PNA is advancing fast, but we’d have warning in Angle.
No. That’s a silenced gunshot. I recognize that sound from the movies.
Something was wrong. People wouldn’t bark orders to Emmanuel Goldstein even in a crisis. The man was nationally famous. They wouldn’t use silenced weapons, either. And there’d be more of a commotion outside.
I need a weapon.
No. There was one of her and a bunch of them.
A half-closed closet was nearby. She moved for it, slid inside. It was full of black crates, the type you carried expensive audio-visual equipment in. Enough room for her. She slid the door closed except for a slit.
Just in time. Two men in USC uniform came through the door, covering the room with their pistols.
“Nobody here, sir,” one of them called. In Spanish.
Spanish. PNA. In stolen uniforms.
Then the other man turned, and from that angle Lewis recognized him. The same PNA officer she’d last seen being handed over to a group of MPs at the dock.
That’s Chavez.
He’s escaped. Or these infiltrators freed him.
Oh my God. Jack is going to be furious.
*
Humming a show-tune as he walked, Reiner headed up the street for Goldstein’s headquarters. He was forty-five minutes early, but he had nothing better to do and perhaps he could help Goldstein out. If nothing else, hanging around a movie set would be interesting.
And if I’m in the same room as Sarah, it’ll be an enjoyable view even if it’s boring, he thought, smiling.
*
Lieutenant Polina drove the stolen jeep towards the Angle docks.
“You sure wouldn’t have been a good idea to have those prisoners go into Angle?” asked Sergeant Ruiz, who was riding shotgun. “Having `em spread out and cause harm behind the lines doesn’t help our mission one bit.”
Polina shook his head.
“We don’t need it – our job’s in and out. Better to create a long-term nuisance. Chasing all those boys down in the jungle is going to take a brigade, and sixty of them are armed. With luck they’ll go guerilla behind Southern lines. Make sense to you?”
“Yessir.”
Polina gave the sergeant a nod. Ruiz’s questioning him wasn’t insubordinate. It would have been in most units, but Brotherhood Strike men were chosen partly for their ability to act and think independently. Initial vetting took care of trust and loyalty.
“Wait,” said Ruiz. “Stop the car!”
Polina braked.
“What?”
Ruiz pointed at a man walking up the street in the other direction.
“That’s Jack Reiner. Shark boat commander. One that got us.”
“We could waste him easily,” said Senior Sergeant Roca. A clack as he un-safetied his gun. One or two similar sounds as other men in the jeep did the same.
Polina thought for a moment. Then hit the gas again.
“No. Not on the street. It’d compromise the mission.”
*
“He’s going to shout for help the minute we get onto the street,” Sarah Lewis heard one of the infiltrators – Brotherhood Strike, almost certainly – say.
“Good point, Chavez. Gag him.”
The sound of ripping fabric. Meanwhile, others seemed to be destroying the studio equipment.
They’re abducting Goldstein. And there’s nothing I can do about it.
She wished she she had a gun. Even a pistol would allow her to do something.
The deadliest thing had on hand was – she had to think for a moment – her keys. There wasn’t even a knife in her purse.
Which is in the studio. What if they see it and wonder where the owner is?
They’d probably assume it belonged to one of the female extras. She hoped.
What was going to be done with them, anyway? With Montgomery and the others.
One of the Brotherhood Strike team must have muttered something to that effect, or gestured at them.
“You know what to do,” the commander said.
Phut. Phut. Phut. Phut.
*
A Strike man held Goldstein by each arm. Handcuffs would have been too obvious.
“Sedate him,” their leader – the apparently-false defector called Albertino, if that was his real name – ordered.
One of the men took a needle.
“When this morphine wears off,” the Strike man said, “you’re gonna be on a boat back to Cajamarca. Did you really think you could fuck with President Ramirez forever?”
They’ll parade me around in front of the cameras, give me a show trial and then torture me to death over a period of weeks, thought Goldstein.
Staying calm was impossible. Staying half-calm was difficult.
I have to do it anyway.
The needle slid into a vein on his arm.
“Let’s get out of here. For the docks,” said Albertino. “Pistols away. We’re a bunch of soldiers escorting a drunk buddy.”
“A doomed buddy,” smirked Munoz.
“One thing before you totally float away,” said Chavez. He raised an eyebrow to Albertino, who nodded.
Stay focused. Keep your mind together. Resist it.
The shark boat officer went over to Goldstein and punched him hard in the stomach.
Through his growing haze, Goldstein felt sharp agony. He’d have doubled over if the two men holding him hadn’t had a firm grip.
“That’s for Rienfuegos, you fuck,” he said. And spat in Goldstein’s face.
“You can mess with him more on the boat,” said Albertino. “We don’t have time now. Polina’s waiting at the Isabella. Time to go.”
*
Normally there was a soldier – someone unfit for combat but able to keep autograph-seekers from disturbing production – at the entrance to Goldstein’s building. Nobody was standing at the front door now.
Probably just gone out to grab a bite, thought Reiner. He knocked hard on the door a few times. No response. He shrugged and pushed it open.
A soldier with a cast on his left leg lay sprawled just inside the door, his throat slashed wide open and blood everywhere.
Oh, shit.
His .45 materialized in his hand almost without thought. He chambered a round and drew the slide back. Just in immediate line of sight, on this ground-floor studio, he could see three other corpses.
Sarah!
Shocked, furious and terrified, he bolted up the stairs.
*
The primary studio had been comprehensively trashed. Smashed cameras and broken spools of tape lay amidst the corpses.
Reiner gasped in horror, covering the room with his pistol. Whoever had done this was gone.
He touched the nearest body. It was warm. Not too long-gone.
Sarah. I don’t see Sarah’s body.
Or Goldstein’s.
Faint hope.
“Sarah! Emmanuel!”
Movement from the door that led to one of the side-rooms. Reiner’s gun moved to cover it. Then Sarah came stumbling out.
“Jack!”
“Sarah! Thank God you’re alive! What happened here – where’s Goldstein?”
“They took him away. Jack, it was Brotherhood infiltrators. I was listening to audio in the other room. Hid in a closet.”
“They took him. They only left a few minutes ago. For the docks. They said something about the Isabella. They’re going to steal it, I guess, for their getaway. Their commander said he was going to be tortured to death. And Jack, you’re not going to want to hear this.”
“What?” He was already at full alert. If they’d only left a few minutes ago – he knew the way from here to the part of the docks where the Isabella was.
If they had a prisoner, they’d be moving slowly. He could run. Raise the alarm and stop them.
“Jack, one of them was Chavez. I saw him. Somehow he escaped. Maybe they sprung him. He’s with them, Jack.”
“Chavez? He’s escaped?”
Everything else – shock, relief, urgency – was blown away by a cold, murderous rage.
Sarah nodded.
“I saw him, Jack. It’s definitely him.”
