I decided it was time to start talking as well, but not to them. If I was lucky, the three UN four-by-fours up ahead were guarded by cousins of Charlie, our Marine escort from such a long time ago. I didn’t want any misunderstanding as I blundered my way toward them, carrying a loaded rifle in my hands.
‘UN coming in!’ I yelled. Then I remembered a code phrase I had learned back when I’d thought I could make a damn difference in this damn country, a code phrase of identification. ‘This is Geneva, Geneva, coming in!’
Finally the brush gave out and there I was. The three Toyota Land Cruisers were all parked on the side of the road, in a row. And if I could have cried, I would have started weeping.
For all three vehicles were abandoned, shot up, tires flattened and glass shattered. Even the UN banner was torn and burned, and judging by the rust around the bullet holes and shrapnel gashes, these Land Crusiers had been here for a while. What I’d earlier thought had been a person was just a coat, hanging from the side of an open door. The place was deserted.
Abandoned. Just like me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
But I wasn’t ready to give up, not yet, especially since those fine fellows out there who were hunting me probably had plans for my capture, trial and sentence. Plans that all ended up with me getting shot in the back of the head on this stretch of American highway in about five or ten minutes.
I kept my head down, looked through a Land Cruiser’s smashed windows and open doors, hoping I could find something, anything, to help me out. Perhaps a radio with its batteries still working, maybe even a weapon left behind by one of the military escorts. I peered through the open doors and rummaged among the wreckage, trying to ignore the rusty stains on the tom upholstery, the remnants of bandages and some tom clothing.
Nothing.
More gunshots, and a thonk! as a bullet struck metal. I got behind the middle vehicle and fired off a shot in reply. How many left? I counted back. Just three. Damn it, just three.
‘Hey, UN man, we’re gonna get ya! Just a matter of time!’
Another shot, coming from further up the highway. Damn it all to hell. They had me surrounded. I looked at the only path remaining open for me, to the right of the vehicles and leading away from the highway. But there were no woods or shrubbery there, just a knee-deep swamp of cattails and other growing things. If I started slogging through there, they would—
Thonk, thonk! More incoming gunfire, and by instinct I fired three more times — and then felt the stubborn weight of the dead trigger.
Empty.
I squirmed away toward another vehicle that had its rear door hanging open. Crazy, random thoughts were galloping through my mind, everything from simply hiding under one of the shattered Land Cruisers to trying to jump-start one of the engines and maybe make my escape that way. But I didn’t think I would have the time to learn the intricacies of how to jump-start a shot-up Toyota four-by-four.
I looked into the rear compartment. More bloody bandages, an open first-aid kit, and attached to the side wall, above the tire well, a bright orange plastic box, secured by straps. I unsnapped the box and sat down on the ground, with a rear tire against my back. I opened the lid—and nestling there was a flare gun, with three cartridges. I pulled out the gun, popped open the barrel, and slid in one of the fat flare shells. I snapped the damn thing shut, looked at the instructions pasted into the lid of the container—which looked to be about twenty paragraphs of fine print with illustrations in orange and red. Sorry, no time. There was a hammer just above the gun’s handle, which I pulled back.
I wiggled my way below the Land Cruiser’s undercarriage, holding the flare gun out in front of me. The shooting had stopped for just a moment, and across the other lanes I saw figures scurrying forward, coming up the embankment. Somebody yelled out something and a line of about six or seven militiamen came up from the other side and started trotting across the asphalt lanes. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger of the flare gun. There was a pop! and a loud whoosh! as the flare, bright orange and red and almost too bright to look at, shot out from the wide-mouthed barrel and went across the highway, trailing sparks and smoke. The approaching gunmen scattered as the flare actually bounced twice on the asphalt before burying itself into the far woodline and brush.
Then I heard something.
More shots, and a couple more yells. I was breathing really hard now as I squirmed my way back out, banging my head against a piece of the four-by-four’s transmission. I tried to listen even harder, but all I could make out was the pounding of blood in my ears. I sat up, looked about me. Samuel’s Last Stand. If my father was lucky, maybe he’d find out in a week or two. Maybe.
What now?
Trust, I thought. Trust in what you heard.
I reloaded the flare gun and this time, instead of pointing it at my pursuers, I aimed it straight up into the sky. Another satisfying pop! and whoosh! and the orange-red flare went way up, almost as bright as the sun to look at. It seemed to go up a couple of hundred meters before arcing over and falling back to earth. Another couple of thonks! and some glass from a side window fell into my lap.
One more time with the flare gun, and even though the cartridge was as fat as a child’s fist my hand was trembling so hard that I could hardly put it into the barrel or breech or whatever it was called. I spared another quick glance, saw more figures coming my way, less than a hundred meters, closing in from both sides. Again, I thought I heard something.
No time to think. Just time to act.
Pop! and whoosh! My last flare went up into the sky, and this time, oh, this time, before the flare sputtered out and fell back to the bloody ground the noise was louder—much louder.
Helicopters, heading this way.
‘C’mon, boys, c’mon,’ I said. Then, louder, I yelled, ‘C’mon!’
Oh, what a sight. Three helicopters were racing toward me. Two of them peeled off as the other one came closer in and then spun to the side. There was a harsh rattling noise and I saw what looked to be sparks coming from the side of the ‘copter, and I realized it was a door gunner, chewing up the scenery. And there sure as hell didn’t seem to be any return fire coming from the scattered militiamen.
‘There you go!’ I yelled. ‘Hose those bastards!’
But then I thought, shit, they might think I’m one of those bastards. I made sure I was well away from my discarded rifle and then I half-crawled, half-ran back to the last Land Cruiser in the line and tugged at the tom UN banner there, pulling it free. Now one of the helicopters was over the swampy area to the right, and I waved the flag at it. A gunner in the open door at the side waved back, and the helicopter came forward, touching down just ahead of the vehicles. There was a national flag on the tail, red and white and blue, just above the black stenciled UNFORUS, The gunner and another guy in a green jumpsuit and helmet were waving at me and I ran toward them, dropping the flag on the ground and shielding my face and eyes from the dust and gravel being tossed up. The roaring noise from the engine hurt my ears and the prop wash was pushing me back, like in one of those nightmares where you’re trying to escape the knife-wielding madman and your feet seem stuck in taffy.
Yet I kept on running, smelling aviation fuel now, and came up to the doorway where the machine gun rested on its mount. I tried to lift myself in and a couple of strong hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me aboard. And even before I got my feet into the open cabin the helicopter was up and away, gaining altitude. I rolled over on my side, breathing as hard as before but feeling as light as a feather, and exhilarated. I had made it. I was going to live. No more bad guys. No more nights on cold ground.