Poseidon's Arrow

56

THE BULLWHIP CRACKED, AND EVERY MAN WITHIN earshot flinched, fearing the lick of its knotted tip. Occasionally Johansson would show compassion and simply snap it in the air for effect. But most of the time he directed the whip to the bare skin of a forced laborer, eliciting an agonized cry.

There were nearly seventy of them, slaves culled from the hijacked ships carrying rare earth. Now they were the ones carrying the rare earth, hauling the stolen ore to various extraction centers hidden in the jungle. Weakened by a regimen of hard labor and a subsistence diet, the men were quickly reduced to haggard zombies. The arriving captives from the Adelaide were shocked at the sight of them, in their ragged, soiled clothes, staring impassively at the new arrivals.

Pitt and Giordino took one look at the men and knew there would be no benefit in delaying an escape.

“I’m not impressed by the long-term medical coverage offered here,” Giordino muttered as they were divided into work teams to off-load the Adelaide’s cargo.

“I agree,” Pitt said. “I think we should look for employment elsewhere.”

“What’s with the dog collars?”

Pitt had also seen that the laborers all wore tubular steel collars. The men wearing them carefully heeded the edge of the dock, not venturing beyond their immediate work area.

Johansson cracked his whip, and the Adelaide captives were marched into a clearing. A table was set up with a box containing the collars, and one by one the men were fitted with the devices, which were locked with a key. Giordino’s bull-sized neck barely accommodated his collar, which clung tightly to his skin.

“Do we get a cattle brand, too?” he asked of the armed man fitting the device. His reply was a cold sneer.

When all the men had been fitted, Johansson paced in front of them.

“In case you are wondering, the neck bands you are wearing are a protective device. They protect from escape.” He gave a malicious smile. “If you look to the dock, you will see a pair of white lines on the ground.”

Pitt saw two parallel faded lines, painted several feet apart. The lines looped away from the dock and disappeared into the jungle.

“The white lines encircle a five-acre area, encompassing the ore depot, the millhouse, and your living quarters. It is your little island of life. Beneath the lines are electrified cables that will emit a fifty-thousand-volt shock to your steel collars should you attempt to cross them. In other words, you will die. Would you like a demonstration?”

The men stood silent, not wishing to witness another sacrifice.

Johansson laughed. “I’m glad that we understand each other. Now, it is time to get to work.”

Gomez’s crew from the ship deployed the dock conveyor to the Adelaide’s first hold and began off-loading the crushed monazite. The ore was dumped onto a concrete pad inside the white lines, where it quickly grew to a small mountain. Shovels and rubber-tired ore carts were delivered by a weary group of captives and the new slaves went to work. Plugrad and his Coast Guard team were assigned as shovelers while Pitt, Giordino, and the others were given the less arduous task of pushing the loaded carts to the nearby millhouse and unloading them.

The equatorial heat and humidity quickly took a toll on the men, wringing the strength out of them. Pitt and Giordino worked as slowly as they could, trying to conserve energy, while sweat dripped down their faces. But always they heard the sound of the bullwhip, keeping the pace moving.

The loaded carts were difficult to push for Giordino with his injured leg. He moved unsteadily, shoving his cart with short hops. Pitt was following close behind when Johansson stepped out of the jungle. His whip cracked a second later, the leather tip striking Giordino on the forearm. Despite the eruption of a red welt, Giordino reacted as if a gnat had landed on him, turning to Johansson with an ungracious smile.

“Why is your cart only half full?” the Swede shouted as a pair of guards rushed to his side.

Pitt could see the look in Giordino’s eyes and knew his friend was ready to pounce. The two guards would make it a hopeless act. Pitt shoved his cart forward, bumping into Giordino as a signal to stay calm. Giordino turned to Johansson and exposed the bloody bandage on his thigh.

“Playing on an injury?” Johansson said. “Fill the cart full next time or I’ll do the same to your other leg.” He turned to Pitt and let his bullwhip fly. “That goes for you, too.”

The lash snapped against Pitt’s leg. Like Giordino, he ignored the stinging pain and stared at Johansson with malice. Giordino nudged him this time, and the two men moved off with their carts while Johansson turned his attention to the next group of laborers.

“Woe is me and my goldbricking ways,” Giordino said under his breath.

“I’ve got some ideas on what I’d like to do with that bullwhip,” Pitt said.

“You and me both, brother.”

They dumped their carts at the side of the millhouse and made their way back to the dock, trying to survey the camp’s layout. Four long, low-roofed buildings off the back of the millhouse contained the extraction and separation operations. Beyond them, faintly visible through the brush, a two-story building housed the living quarters for the guards and facility workers. The captives’ housing was located on the opposite end of the millhouse. It was an open-walled structure, with a dining area at one end, surrounded by a ten-foot-high wall capped with barbed wire. Hidden farther into the jungle, and well beyond the white lines, a small power-generating station provided electricity for the compound.

The captives worked until dusk, by which time they were ready to collapse. As he returned his empty ore cart, Pitt heard a sharp cry from the dock. One of Plugrad’s men had tripped while storing a shovel and had fallen close to the white line. A surge of high voltage had coursed through his body before he could roll clear. He trembled as his heart pounded wildly, but he survived the shock as a living warning to the others.

Pitt and Giordino shuffled into the camp mess area as it began to rain, the palm-covered roof leaking everywhere. They were given bread and watery soup, which they took to a nearby table. Two emaciated men joined them.

“Name’s Maguire, and my friend’s Brown,” one said in a Kiwi accent. He was a dusty-haired figure with a stringy beard. “Formerly of the Gretchen. You just get off the Labrador?”

“Yes. She was called the Adelaide when we went aboard.” Pitt introduced himself and Giordino.

“First time I’ve seen a hijacked ship here,” Maguire said. “They usually steal the cargo at sea and scuttle the ship. That’s what they did to the Gretchen, right off Tahiti. Zapped us with their microwave device and took control before we knew what hit us.”

“Was it mounted on a big square dish?” Pitt asked.

“Yes. Know what it is?”

“We think it’s an offshoot of an Army crowd-control device called the Active Denial System or ADS.”

“It’s bloody nasty, whatever you call it.”

“How long have you been here?” Giordino asked.

“About two months. You’re the second crew I’ve seen come in. Our numbers have been down as the attrition rate’s a little high,” he said in a low voice. “Just drink plenty of water and you’ll be okay. At least they don’t short us that.” He swabbed up the remains of his soup with a hard crust of bread.

“Pardon the ignorance,” Pitt said, “but where exactly are we?”

Maguire laughed. “Always the first question. You’re in the hot, rainy, wretched jungles of Panama. Exactly where in Panama, I can’t say.”

“Maguire here has befriended one of the guards,” Brown said. “They apparently take periodic leave by boat in Colón, so we must be near the Atlantic side.”

Maguire nodded. “Some of the boys think we’re in the Canal Zone, but it’s hard to know for sure as we never get off our little five-acre island of joy. The boss comes and goes by helicopter, so true civilization must be a bit farther away.”

“Anybody ever make it out of here?” Giordino asked. “Seems like the prisoners heavily outnumber the guards.”

Both men shook their heads. “Seen a few try,” Brown said. “Even if you get past the death stripes, they’ll come after you with the dogs.” He noted the welt on Giordino’s arm. “You get kissed by Johnny the Whip today?”

“Something more than a peck,” Giordino said.

“He’s a sick one, no doubt about it. Best to steer clear of him whenever possible.”

“Who ultimately does run this place?” Pitt asked.

“A guy named Edward Bolcke. Some sort of genius mining engineer. He’s got his own residence just up the way.” Maguire pointed toward the dock. “He built this entire complex to extract and refine rare earth elements. From what we’ve learned, he’s a major player in the world market, and is particularly tight with the Chinese. One of the extraction workers claims a quarter of a billion dollars’ worth of rare earth elements are processed here a year, much of it stolen.”

Giordino whistled. “Makes for a tidy profit.”

“The extraction facilities,” Pitt said, thinking escape. “I’m guessing they must use a large amount of chemicals in the process.”

“Some deadly, I hope,” Giordino said.

“Yes, but it’s out of reach,” Maguire said. “All the serious stuff is performed in the buildings beyond our access. We’re just the grunts. We load and off-load the ships and run the millhouse. You hoping to play with matches?”

“Something on that order.”

“You might as well forget about it. Brown and I considered it for weeks, but we’ve seen too many good men die in the attempt. Somebody will blow the whistle on this place one of these days. We just need to hang on until it happens.”

A string of lights above their heads flashed briefly.

“Lights out in five minutes,” Maguire said. “You boys best find a place to bunk.”

He led them to a large screened room filled with rattan sleeping mats. Pitt and Giordino picked two and lay down as the room filled with men and the lights went out. Pitt ignored the discomfort of the steamy room and the hard mat as he lay in the darkness, contemplating a way out of the death camp. He drifted to sleep without an answer, not knowing his opportunity would come much sooner than he thought.