The Zombie Game (11 page)

I turned and said to Keyes, “I have a plan. Give me your phone.”

A man answered the ship’s phone after six rings. I didn’t recognize his voice but knew it wasn’t Lars.

“Give me Captain Paulissen. I have a medical emergency.”

I could hear a conversation going on between several men before I got a response. “He’s up on deck. Hold on. He’ll be here in a couple minutes.”

Finally, a man came on the line and identified himself as Captain Paulissen. This time, I recognized the voice.

“I see your vessel off the coast,” I said. “Can you take a surgical emergency?”

“No. I wish I could, but unfortunately, I’m already packing for my trip home.” Lars paused and then added, “We’ll stop for provisions in Saint-Marc in twenty hours, and then I’m on my way.”

Good. He recognizes my voice. And he’s trying to tell me something is going on in Saint-Marc in twenty hours.

I knew his end of the conversation was being monitored by the people guarding him. But I needed confirmation of what I suspected was happening.

“Going back to Denmark?” I asked.

“No idea where we’re heading.”

“Are you planning to celebrate by firing off a couple bottle rockets as you leave?”

He waited a few seconds before responding. “No, I’ll wait ’til Saturday for that.”

“Okay, I’ll find someplace else to do the surgery. Give your boys manning the bottle rockets a drink from the pharmacy, to toast your departure,” I said. “And I’d like to have that drink you promised me. Tonight. Just show me your lights to confirm the invitation.”

I hung up, and Keyes, Jakjak, and I jogged to a point just inside the tree line, about a hundred yards away, and sat down, out of sight.

Our job was to get on the ship, learn its mission, sabotage whatever weapon might be out there, and free Lars. Deep inside, I wanted to recapture the
Ana Brigette
and call for help, drawing the authorities to the ship, like Keyes had suggested. But with thirty men aboard, or more, now, that was frankly a pipe dream.

“Maybe if the crew gets drunk,” I said to Keyes, “we’ll have a little time to work on the missiles.”

“Jihadists don’t drink.”

“Maybe they will.” I looked Keyes in the eyes. “I think I can get you ten minutes with the missile, that’s all.”

“Mission accepted.”

Part 2

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Aboard the
Ana Brigette

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

7:00 p.m.

LARS KNEW HELP WAS
on the way. The ship was completely quiet. It was time for him to act. Turning his back to Tobias, Lars fumbled in his bottom drawer to retrieve a butter knife he’d sequestered. At the same time, Tobias reached in his drawer and lifted the hunting knife Lars had seen him hide. Tobias turned to face Lars, but the captain was a step ahead of him.

Holding the knife in both hands, Lars jammed it into Tobias’ abdomen and thrust upward with all the force he could muster. The dull butter knife tore through the second mate’s skin to just below the sternum, where the tough muscle of the heart stopped it. But with another lunge, the knife broke the surface of the left ventricle. Blood gushed from the wound.

Tobias’ eyes opened wide in surprise. He gasped as his knife fell from his hand. The last words Tobias heard were, “I hate traitors.” He fell backward and slid down the wall.

Lars took Tobias’ knife and stuck it in his belt. He removed Tobias’ white T-shirt with red horizontal stripes, which now camouflaged the blood, and replaced it with his ship captain’s coat. He put on the T-shirt. He traded his billed captain’s hat with the second mate’s sailor’s cap. He stuffed Tobias’ body in the captain’s bunk and pulled the blanket up to cover the blood. Then, he beat on the bars until a pirate came.

“Captain Paulissen is sick. He’s nearly unconscious with fever. Let me go, so I can go tell Captain Mobuto.”

The guard unlocked the door. As he stepped into the room, Lars struck the back of his neck with Tobias’ knife. The sharp knife severed the spinal cord. He fell without uttering a word. Lars put him in Tobias’ bunk and covered him up.

As Lars strolled to the pharmacy, he put on a show of being free. He carried a wrench in his hand and acted very busy and dutiful. Seeing no one, he opened the door to the hospital unit. He saw the dust and clutter of construction, and a single, young guard, standing watch. Where the hospital beds and operating rooms had been, there was now a big slab with two huge rocket launchers on it. The hospital unit’s pharmacy cabinet was still there, right next to the two missiles, and it was open.

Before the young guard could react, Lars walked to the cabinet. He scanned the shelves. All the pain killers, tranquilizers, and sedatives were missing. The medical cocaine shelf was also empty. He looked in the closet next to the pharmaceutical cabinet, which the hospital staff had filled with five-gallon jugs of sterile water, saline, and isopropyl alcohol. Neither had the four gallons of ethyl alcohol, the liquid Dr. James referred to as “
spiritus frumente
,” the centuries-old Latin designation for grain alcohol, the kind given to elderly patients as a toddy. With its 180-proof potency, a person could get drunk from it quickly.

In an adjoining room, next to the medical supplies, he counted five men, sleeping. He knew the guard standing watch on the other side of the launch room was watching.

Captain Paulissen kept his back turned and poured a small portion of the grain alcohol and held it up. He pretended to drink it.

The guard started to stroll over. Lars kept his head down as he poured another glass and then turned and started speaking Danish, waving the wrench and gesturing about repairing something important. He stopped and gave the young guard a friendly smile. He tried to give the guard the glass but the man waved a finger, and said “No.”

Lars looked around, then turned to the young man and handed it to him with a knowing smile. The young guard looked around for a moment, then downed it, all of it, grimaced, then motioned for Lars to go away.

Lars hurried back to his porthole, got his flashlight, and sent a Morse code light show that spelled out:

Most of crew asleep. Hurry.

Using Jakjak’s flashlight, I replied:

On our way. Half hour.

Beach at Port-au-Prince

Haiti

7:30 p.m.

An open-bed truck, an old VW bus, and the Fiat drove up. Four men got out of the Fiat, driven by Jean-Pierre, and fifteen men jumped from the flatbed truck to the ground. They unloaded their accumulated weapons.

From a rolled-down rear window of the VW, a frail hand beckoned me. I walked up to the window. It was Sanfia. She gestured for me to get in. I opened the door and saw five empty-faced men, all staring blankly ahead. They were pale, like they had never been exposed to sunlight. I got in the front passenger seat next to the driver, Emmanuel, and turned around to face Sanfia.

She spoke quietly. “I offer you five of my best men. I have many more if you can use them.”

“My name is Scott James,” I said as I extended my hand to the odd-looking man seated beside Sanfia.

The man apparently didn’t hear or understand me. He never moved. I recognized him as Benoit, one of the men with Sanfia on our first encounter.

“Benoit,” she said with a staccato tone to her voice. “Shake hands with Dr. James.”

The man extended his hand, grabbed mine with a strong squeeze, and pumped it up and down—without ever looking at me.

Sanfia nodded at the man on the opposite side of Benoit. “Doctor, you know Shaza. He was also with us the other day.”

Shaza never looked up but extended his hand and held on firmly, if only for a second.

Waving her hand at the three ghoulish-looking men in the rear seat, Sanfia said sharply, “Rene, Guillame, Bruno—shake the doctor’s hand.”

One by one, they forcefully took my hand, pumped it twice, and let go. I looked each man in the eye, but none of them returned my gaze. It didn’t seem like a cultural thing or an act of politeness. They just seemed otherworldly or somehow distracted as they stared somewhere out in space.

I turned to Benoit and asked, “How are you?”

His eyes moved to mine. “I’m fine. How are you?”

“How old are you, Benoit?”

I was surprised to get the answer. “Twenty.”

I looked at his features. His hair, like that of the other four men in the car, was snow white. His skin was not only pale as a ghost but also badly wrinkled, like an old man.

“Who is your father?” I asked.

Tears came to Benoit’s eyes. “Daddy,” he said quietly.

I looked at Sanfia, and she nodded her approval of my questions. So I continued. “Tell me about your mother.”

“She Mama. I love my Mama.” Benoit turned to Sanfia. “Mama loves me, too. Don’t you Mama?”

Sanfia leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

I was taken by surprise. I didn’t know what to say or think. First of all, in our prior encounter, Sanfia was bold, fiery-eyed, and authoritative. Now, she was kind and motherly, treating these men like children. Secondly, I was surprised by the condition of the men. I’d seen people like that in the mental hospital in Raleigh the year before when I did pro bono surgery on a couple of teenage mental patients with severe facial deformities.

Does Sanfia have retarded children? Or does she provide foster care for adults with psychiatric problems?

I felt empathy for these men and great respect for Sanfia in caring for these people. But time was of the essence. Perhaps they could help me, but I thought it best to separate from them and Sanfia and to fight my battle with people on whom I could depend.

“It was nice to meet all of you,” I said as I opened the door.

All turned and said in a rehearsed manner, “Very nice to see you.”

Sanfia whispered to me, “Thank you for all the money you gave Emmanuel and Jean-Pierre. It costs a lot to feed and clothe these men.”

I felt the sincerity of her words. “I’m going to use the men I’ve already assembled on the beach, but I’m thankful for your help.”

When I got out of the car, I bumped into Jakjak, who had watched the entire scene. He caught my eye but spoke not a word.

We walked side by side to the beach, where the other members of my “crew” were assembled. In addition to Jakjak, Emmanuel, Jean-Pierre, and Keyes, there were now two men who owned their boats and ten men of all sizes and shapes.

Jakjak stood tall in front of the men. His expression had changed since my encounter with the pathetic group in the VW. He showed a level of confidence I hadn’t seen in him before. He held his shoulders high and removed his shirt, exposing not only his bullet wounds and skin staples but also his broad chest, six-pack abdomen, and weightlifter arms.

He looked at me. “I will lead these men.”

I nodded. He showed no ill effects of his injury. I was impressed by the new man I saw before me.

Emmanuel took Jean-Pierre’s arm and walked to me. “I must stay here with Sanfia, but this man can lead the second boat.”

Our weapon count was six Chinese AK-47s, one Thompson submachine gun, ten antique World War II hand grenades, and four pistols, from .22 to .45 calibers. Each pistol came with a handful of bullets. Every man had a machete hanging from his waist. Not bad armament for my twelve “warriors.”

I took pistols for Keyes and me. Jean-Pierre took an AK-47. Jakjak smiled as he took the Thompson. There was no mistaking that he was a leader. I put aside all thoughts of him staying ashore, despite his serious chest injuries. I wanted him by my side. At least now I had one man I could trust.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Beach

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

8:31 p.m.

WE RAISED SAIL AND
began to make way to the
Ana Brigette
. The full moon had not risen yet. It was pitch dark out. I whispered to Jakjak to stand in front of the sail and act like he was uncoiling fishing line. He stood at the front of the boat and acted out the part of a fisherman going to sea for his nightly run. The guard in the pilothouse of the
Ana Brigette
came to the window and watched the two boats approaching. I directed the man at the tiller to steer as though we were going to pass behind the ship. Jakjak continued unraveling the line and then waved a folksy wave that seemed to reassure the terrorist, who walked back and sat down.

Anticipating our arrival, Captain Paulissen lowered the boarding ladders near the back of the ship.

I was happy to see Lars again. He looked well and grinned as I approached him.

He whispered, “The men guarding the missiles are asleep. Let’s do this and then get the hell off this ship.”

We followed him through the door that led us directly to the launchers. The young guard who’d taken the drink was fast asleep in a chair.

I asked Lars if he knew what the terrorists had planned for his ship.

He shook his head. “No one has said. But I’ve heard the crew talking a lot about the Pope. Apparently, he’s on a foreign tour now, but times and places weren’t mentioned. I hate to think of the kind of greeting they’d like to give the Pope.”

I pushed him for more information, but all he knew was that his ship had been converted into an attack vessel. He showed us the changes that had been made to his hospital ship after the hijacking. The entire surgical area had been gutted. In that space, two rockets measuring fifteen feet tall and two feet in diameter lay on cradles with hydraulic jacks to elevate them to an upright position for firing. The noses of the missiles were open and empty, indicating the warheads had not yet been installed.

There was no question about the planned use of the
Ana Brigette
. And the time was certain: this Saturday. But the big question was, what was the target?

Keyes examined the rockets. “These are Chinese Hong Niaos, also known as “Red Bird,” cruise missiles. They’re relatively new, first built in 1992, and still in active use by China.”

Lars quietly asked, “Are they accurate?”

“The guidance system is good,” she said. “Puts the bomb within thirty feet of the target.”

“Are they big enough to carry nukes?”

“Afraid so.”

“Can you figure out how to deactivate them?”

“It’ll take me a couple of minutes to get into the circuitry.”

I left five men to guard Keyes and motioned the rest to come with me.

“Let’s check the refrigerator to see if the bodies from the jail were brought here. That’ll prove to the police that the hijackers are working with whoever ripped off the Haitian Relief Aid Fund.”

Lars led us to the three refrigerator compartments where his father had stored fish. The first two units, where the fish were placed after being caught, contained only food items. Lars opened the door of the third one, the freezer where fish were stored after they had been cleaned and processed for the market. As the blast of cold air hit him in the face, he stepped back and wrinkled his nose. “Phew! Definitely something rotten in here.”

I held my handkerchief over my nose as we looked at a dozen naked bodies stacked like firewood in the far corner of the freezer.

Jakjak walked over and bowed his head in prayer over the frost-covered face of Gabriel, placing his hand on the wound on the dead man’s forehead. He then turned to another body, Cheval’s, and touched the man’s cheek. Then, he walked slowly away.

I closed the door of the freezer, walked over to Jakjak, and put my arm around his shoulder. “It’s hard, I know. But their being here will help get the Durans out of jail. This ties the hijackers to whatever problem the Durans have.”

All was quiet as we approached Keyes. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an abrupt movement and turned to see Jean-Pierre walk up to the inebriated man in the chair and kick him.

The drunken guard looked up and saw us. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” He reached for the holstered gun at his side.

A sleeping guard sat up.

I jumped up to face Jean-Pierre. He had kicked the man to wake him up!

Suddenly they were all waking up, and we heard footsteps running all over the ship.

“Mission aborted!” Lars said. “Let’s get the hell out of here! Now!”

I looked for Jean-Pierre, wanting to take care of him myself, but he’d disappeared. I shouted to Lars and Jakjak, “Watch out for Jean-Pierre! He’s with the terrorists!” But with all the activity, no one heard me.

Keyes had the motor panel off one of the rockets. I took her arm and pulled her away. She resisted until there was gunfire.

We raced down the hallway inside the ship. Jakjak was out front. Two men jumped into the hallway and Jakjak let loose with the Thompson machine gun, killing both of them.

As we reached the stern, some of our “army” started jumping overboard. I worked my way down the boarding ladder as Jakjak unleashed another big burst of his .45 caliber.

I got on the boat, then Jakjak got aboard, and we shoved off. Lars was in the other boat, as was Jean-Pierre. We got away clean and were sailing well in the dark, but the boat Lars was in wasn’t so lucky. A squad of terrorists leaned over the railing and started firing at him.

Others joined them at the railing and started firing at us. The helmsman at the back of our boat let out a yelp and then slumped over.

“Does anyone know how to steer the boat?” I asked.

“I can,” Keyes said, and then helped me move the wounded helmsman.

“Let’s turn and help Lars,” I shouted to Jakjak.

“
Non, Dokté.
They’s dozens of gunners now riddling that other sailboat. I won’t allow it. Sail on!”

I stood and used my hands as a visor to screen the brilliant searchlights on the deck of the
Ana Brigette
. The other sailboat was disabled and sinking. I didn’t see Lars or Jean-Pierre. The terrorists were lowering an inflatable dinghy with ten men aboard. Another ten were firing from the deck. My heart sank. Lars was probably dead.

I took Jakjak’s Tommy gun and aimed it at the inflatable boat the ten terrorists were in. I fired a dozen shots. I saw their boat tilt and the men on it scramble. We’d hit it. It was sinking.

A gust of wind pushed us out of firing range of the men on the
Ana Brigette
’s
deck. The ten men in the deflating boat were all swimming in the water along with my men from the other sailboat.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and dropped to my knees beside the injured helmsman to see if I could save him. Blood oozed from his abdomen. The best I could do was to stuff my shirt under his belt to apply pressure directly over the wound. That seemed to work. I cut his trousers to see the damage to his leg. There was a gaping hole just low enough to apply a tourniquet. Jakjak’s belt served that purpose.

The wind carried us toward shore, and the terrorists did not follow. I was surprised their boats didn’t chase us.

Why did they let us go?