Down Time
by Gary Clifton
“You hurt bad, Four Bits?”
“Don’t think so. Got dirt and crap in my mouth. Lost my weapon. You hurt, Johnny?”
Johnny Duncan and Four Bits were part of a CIA black ops unit attached to the United Nations Joint Task Force in Senegal’s war against extremism. In the middle of the night, they’d been ordered to deliver a microchip, described by their superiors as vital, to the crew of a CIA aircraft at Blaise Daigne International Airport.
Duncan, slender and swarthy, chambered a round in his AR-15. “Headache. Sumpthin’ hit me in the back of my head. My rifle’s okay. Night scope’s workin’. Still too dark for these boys to do much good. Come dawn, they’ll attack soon enough. If you ain’t hurtin’, stay under there. You’re too damned big for even the Sons of Liberty out there to miss.”
When their Humvee tire had detonated an IED, the rig landed on the passenger side, bottom facing the enemy. Four Bits had been ejected out a window into a small depression in the road’s edge, beneath the smoking Humvee.
“I’m sorta stuck.” Four Bits’ voice echoed from the little cave. He was a huge man, muscular, with a gleaming ebony head and beautiful skin the color of a new football.
Duncan crawled to the front of the wreck and peered around the corner. He fired his night scoped rifle at two turbans visible in the dim light. They shot back wildly at his muzzle flashes. Daylight would soon improve their aim.
“Hit anything, deadeye?” Four Bits voice drifted up.
“Yeah. You’re the one can’t shoot... or drive. I knew I should never let no dummy from Mississippi drive no Humvee.”
“Is that a racist comment, Johnny? I didn’t hit no bomb intentionally.”
“Yeah, prolly racist as hell. What ain’t?”
An RPG banged against the undercarriage but failed to detonate.
“Johnny, any idea who’s shootin’ at us?.”
“Some kinda rogue Taliban wannabes with an RPG round. Betcha they don’t got another, and there’s no more than a handful of them. The IED didn’t disable the beeper. Hear it?”
“Yeh.”
Duncan crawled to the rear and chanced a look. In the dark, the glow of the failed RPG sizzled in the center of the road. He carefully rested his rifle against the bumper and fired at another Soldier of God.
“Four Bits, we got an hour or so. Come daylight, they’ll flank us, but I’ll deal with it. Summit Alpha oughta pick up our distress signal and vector us some help. We’re close enough they mighta even heard the blast. You want a smoke while we wait?”
“Naw, not enough space under here. Damn, I could do with a couple hits of that cognac that ol’ gal in Singapore peddled. Remember her?”
“Remember? Boy, she was an acrobat. I recollect all them ol’ gals had the same name. I’m thinkin’ they brewed that booze in the commode stool out back.”
“Peterson lost an eye in that brawl. God, that’s gotta be three years. What ever happened to him?”
“I think they put him to workin’ on some fishin’ boat outta Algiers.”
“Johnny, you think there’s any chance I don’t make it, CIA might send me back to Mississippi like they promised? Langley said, ‘Hermetically sealed coffin guaranteed’.”
“Sure, buddy.”
“Mama’s still alive in one o’ them homes. She never got over my ass goin’ to death row, then takin’ a pardon so the CIA could send us all over hell. When we signed on, a lifetime contract for us not getting’ the needle in return for never bein’ able to go back to the States seemed like a good trade. Not so sure, now.”
“Send you home? Of course, they would. But you ain’t gonna be needin’ no coffin. Come daylight I’ll pull your big ass outta there and maybe they’ll put you on a fishin’ boat. We’ve handled worse than this bunch. If you wanna talk more about Jesus and that redemption stuff, I got time to listen.”
“You think there’s any chance we might be forgiven for what we’ve done? They hired us to kill militants and we sure as hell done it.”
“Sure, Four Bits, I think you have a shot. Not sure about me. I didn’t mean to kill that woman and her baby. It’s gotta be straight Hell for me in the end.”
“You scared, Johnny?”
“Naw, not me. Never helps. I’m ready.”
Four Bits exclaimed, “Mother Gin Gin! That’s what Peterson called that chick. Pissed off that big ol’ bouncer.”
“Well, Peterson is now a one-eyed shrimp boat guy. Prolly better off than us.”
“He get any pension?”
“Hope so.”
“Whose idea was it for us to try to move that chip at night. You’d think the mopes at Langley woulda used an aircraft. We was drivin’ straight from the base to an airport.”
“No clue, partner.”
“Johnny, I forget where you come from?”
“Idaho.”
“That pretty?”
“Yeah, I guess. You remember Mississippi?”
“I just remember Mama. Can you go back to Idaho?”
“No... long story, death row, same as you.”
From the dawn mist, two figures appeared like distant ghosts trying to approach along the roadside. Duncan fired and both disappeared.
“Whatcha shootin’ at, Johnny?” Four Bits voice wafted out.
“Unfinished business. Just stay low.”
* * *
The chopper roared in like a screaming demon from hell, massive firepower exploding. In two seconds, everyone and everything within a hundred yards beyond the Humvee was blown to smoldering bits.
“What was that, Johnny?”
“The cavalry. We’ll have you outta there now.”
Four Bits’ response was unintelligible.
“Hey, dude, say again.”
No answer.
“Damn, partner. Ya’ gotta hold on another couple minutes.” Duncan, leaning against the roof of the Humvee, had slumped to a sitting position on the ground, upright against the vehicle.
The approaching man wore a camo uniform with no insignia. “Who the hell are you talking to? Duncan, isn’t it? And where is the chip?” he demanded.
“I swallowed it, sir, when we lost the Humvee. Suppose I could get some help for my partner here? He’s hit pretty bad.”
“Help? We’re ass deep in a critical situation.”
“Sir, what about the metal coffin thing in case...?”
“Well, by God, if you find any metal coffins around this place...” The officer reached under the Humvee and shook Four Bit’s beefy leg. “This man’s dead. Been dead for some time. Were you trying to talk with him, for Christ’s sake?”
“Uh...sir, you suppose maybe the chopper crew might lend me a shovel so I could...?”
“Shovel! Chunk of frag stickin’ outta the back of your head. You shoulda been dead an hour ago. Get the hell on that chopper. We gotta have that chip.”
Duncan slid sideways, settling partly face up on the ground, his eyes fixated on the gray dawn sky. His rifle clattered into the roadside ditch.
The officer spat, “Coffins, shovels? Like their contract says, these damned lifers are expendable.” He laughed at Duncan. “So far gone he was talkin’ to a dead man.”
A group of men, also in camo fatigues and carrying rifles, approached at a run. The officer barked, “Get this man on the chopper! He’s swallowed the chip. If he dies from that head wound, we’ll have to cut it outta his gut.”
The group began dragging Duncan toward the chopper. The officer shouted at them to hurry.
A burly, bearded man turned back. “Sorry, sir, this man has been dead so long he’s hard to move.”
“Dead?”
The man said, “Yessir, somehow cold or early rigor has stiffened him up. Been dead a while. Damn, I thought I saw you talkin’ to him.”
The officer stammered, “Uh, no, man, not me. Both guys were dead when I got here.” He leaned down and touched Four Bits’ cold calf again. “Yep, deader ’n hell.”
He picked up Duncan’s rifle and hurried after the men. The weapon’s receiver was smashed; the gun was inoperable. He dropped it at roadside.
Suddenly, he wondered what he would say if his superiors asked how he knew the chip was in Duncan’s stomach.
Copyright © 2021 by Gary Clifton
