AMBER ALERT
Copyright2006 Tanya Allan
This work is fictitious, and any similarities to any persons, alive or dead, are purely coincidental. Mention is made of persons in public life only for the purposes of realism, and for that reason alone. Certain licence is taken in respect of medical procedures, terms and conditions, and the author does not claim to be the fount of all knowledge.
The author accepts the right of the individual to hold his/her (or whatever) own political, religious and social views, and there is no intention to deliberately offend anyone. If you wish to take offence, that is your problem.
This work is the property of the author, and the author retains full copyright, in relation to printed material, whether on paper or electronically. Any adaptation of the whole or part of the material for broadcast by radio, TV, or for stage plays or film, is the right of the author unless negotiated through legal contract. Any commercial use by anyone other than the author is strictly prohibited.
PROLOGUE.
1977 - Somewhere in the Caribbean.
Bright lights bathed the large house on the hillside. Tall palm trees spaced at a discreet distance had floodlights high on their bare trunks, located just under the leafy canopies, providing complete illumination of the whole exterior. It was a typically British colonial mansion, painted white, set against the tropical backdrop, with a large flagpole on the very English lawn at the front. On the pole, a tatty, dirty and obviously homemade red flag fluttered pathetically in the very slight breeze.
The house commanded superb southern views over the small Caribbean island, dominating the single large hill that stood proud above the main area of civilisation. At first sight, it looked like the travel posters advertising the island for the tropical paradise it should have been, however, as one took a closer look, the paradise vision soon evaporated.
Scruffy hovels, mainly with rusting, corrugated iron roofs were placed higgledy-piggledy down the hillside and up to the fringes of the more substantial town. A few abandoned and derelict cars were the playgrounds for the many barefoot and tatty children, while armed guards seemed to be everywhere, particularly at the large while mansion. Some patrolled with dogs, while each door of the mansion had a sentry. A few of the soldiers appeared to be well-equipped Cuban professionals, wearing slightly dated east European uniforms. However, the majority were scruffy Afro-Caribbean militiamen armed with old AK47s, rusting Lee Enfield .303s, or ex-US army cast-off M1s. Wearing anything that looked as if it might, at some time, have been worn by someone in a military organisation, somewhere in the world, they all looked nervous as they strutted and pretended to be courageous soldiers. Many wore old tennis shoes, while some were barefoot, displaying the rather over-ambitious show of force.
The grounds were extensive. Lights and guards at sporadic intervals made it a secure and dangerous place to attempt to infiltrate.
It was a warm night. The crickets were chirruping in the tall grass, and the very slight sea breeze made the palms rustle at the very tops of the trees. The ragged band of soldiers seemed slightly on edge, as if uncertain as to just how much was for show and how much was actually for real. A man wearing an ornate uniform stood on the balcony of the first floor. His tunic had belonged to a British Governor at one time, but now it was festooned with medals and a bright red sash. He looked out across the bay of Freetown, or rather Saint Emelia Town, as it had been re-named after the Island’s patron saint a few days before.
Just like the guards, General Abraham Ezekiel Mbtanga of the Peoples’ Revolutionary Army was a nervous man. He was taking a great risk in inviting the Russians and Cubans to help with his revolution. His name had been Abraham Jones, but he had taken a fancy to the name from a list of slaves that had been the first to arrive on the Island in the early nineteenth century.
An overweight black man in his forties, Abraham had previously been a sergeant in the small Island militia. He had organised and executed this coup with some outside help. The Cuban ‘advisers’ were still present, helping his rag-tag army of a hundred men to set up communications and defences. They would stay as long as he needed them and, as his army was likely to disappear by the next weekend’s carnival, he needed all the help he could get. It was the defences that made him nervous. The island had been part of the British Commonwealth, so all inhabitants were subjects of the Crown. Did this mean that the British or Americans would attempt to land and fight him for the island?
He had deliberately chosen 1977, the year of the Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee, to act. He had seized power from the Anglo/American puppet Dr. Samuel Henderson less than three days before. First Minister Henderson and his family and other members of the government had escaped before the Cubans took control of the airport.
There were several hundred European and American tourists on the Caribbean island, so he hoped to use them as hostages to prevent aggressive action by the British or Americans. These were all confined under guard in the three hotels near the beach.
An elderly Triumph convertible car approached the main gates, so the two local soldiers who were supposed to be guarding the gate glanced at the driver and grinned at each other knowingly. The driver was a very attractive coffee-skinned beauty, with long black curly hair. Her enormous hoop gold earrings flashed in the artificial lights. Her very white teeth gleamed in the darkness of the car, in stark contrast to her dark skin.
Smiling and waving at her, they raised the barrier without a word and allowed the car to drive through, much to the annoyance of Major Hernandez.
“Why didn’t you stop it and check the driver?” the Cuban officer asked.
“That was Melanie, the General’s mistress,” the soldier explained.
“Are you sure?”
The soldier looked at the officer and grinned.
“I’m sure,” he said, laughing and making a crude gesture with his fingers.
The major turned away in disgust.
Melanie was a highly priced whore at Mama Cash’s place. As soon as it looked like he would succeed, the General found he acquired his choice of female companions, so Melanie was that choice. His wife was still in the small house on the western side of the island, with their five children.
The car pulled to a halt outside the house, which had been the British governor’s mansion in happier times, and the woman got out. The Cuban soldier by the door whistled through his teeth.
This girl was stacked.
Her large breasts were only just restrained by a very tight top, which had a low cut bodice that displayed a cleavage that caused many men to suffer from vertigo.
Her mini skirt was short, so short it should really be called a wide belt, yet the girl’s long dark legs acted as a directional pointer for any masculine eye to follow, from her high-heeled sandals to the promise of whatever happened at the top. She oozed sex appeal.
“Hello Maxwell. Howya doin’ babe?” she said to the local soldier who was trying to look smart and efficient while fighting an enormous erection. He conveniently placed the stock of his rifle across the front of his bulging pants.
“I’s fine baby, you?”
“Oh, I’m good, I’m very good,” she said, her husky voice like cool velvet, as she walked past him into the house, All male eyes watched her tight and well rounded rear as her hips wiggled deliciously with each step, with her four-inch stiletto heels tapping delicately across the mosaic marble floor and up the staircase.