Tears of Abraham

CHAPTER TWENTY Sometimes…

The airplane bucked and jumped through turbulence and Henry ignored it, along with the other members of his team. They were no strangers to storms.

His team consisted of Scott Wallace, the burly, bearded lumberjack who’d saved him, Mark McCoy, and, as it turned out, Carlos. Wallace had gone back to save Carlos.

“This,” Carlos said with a grin and thumb pointed toward Wallace, “is a bad motherfucker. Now I fully believe I’m the baddest man on the planet. But this sombitch is right behind me. No disrespect, Henry. You know I love you.”

“I’m with you,” Henry said.

“You should’ve seen him,” Carlos said. “Quick and steady. Like one of us.”

“I saw,” Henry said. “He’s good. Saved my ass.”

“You know I’m sitting right in front of you,” Wallace said.

“Did you say ‘one of us’?” McCoy snorted. He was stripping his sidearm for the third time. “One of us? I beg to differ.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Carlos said.

“First off,” McCoy said with an English lilt which made him sound smart, “the SAS has been around longer than any of your special forces outfits. You learned from us. Can we at least agree to that?”

“My mate’s got a little package,” Wallace said. “You’ll ’ave to forgive him.” He threw a bullet at McCoy’s head and it plinked off the man’s vest. Wallace guffawed.

“Think it’s funny, do ya,” McCoy said, “the yanks bashing around and fucking up the world and us with three dead mates back there? I don’t think it’s funny at all.”

“Nobody thinks it’s funny, McCoy,” Carlos said. “Our entire unit was killed.”

“I know. I’m just messing with you,” McCoy said. “Mostly, at least. I’m a bit of a wanker and I can’t help it. I had to say it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ’cause he’s got a compensation issue,” Wallace interjected, snorting. “Really. Brilliant soldier. Just a bit of a package and insertion problem.”

Henry listened to the insults that followed and smiled. There was a banter that had to occur, a busting of balls and posturing, among members of a team. It was inevitable. He abstained from this particular exchange while the plane tore through the clouds, preferring to listen and observe his new teammates. He knew it would not be long before they turned on him, testing.

They were professionals, and each of them knew it. Not professional in the way of the man in the business suit and Brooks Brothers tie and supple leather briefcase. It was a different kind of profession, with a code all its own. There is a thing that takes place which makes no sense to any human with a sane mind. It is a defining of the hierarchy, a sense of order that comes from physical combat, and wolves understand this and do not flee from it. It is their nature.

“So how’s Jody treating your wife?” McCoy said, grinning through teeth which might have been seen to in the States.

Henry lunged across the plane, hurling his body at McCoy, shoulder dipped, head to the side, hands seeking a hold. They locked together, Henry and McCoy, tumbling onto the flight deck and rolling around while Carlos and Wallace looked on.

The fight was not the protracted hand-to-hand battle of Hollywood.

Henry caught McCoy in the groin with his knee, as his opponent tried to snake away. It was enough. The blow slowed McCoy down. Henry was behind him then, arms around his neck and head, legs wrapped around his waist. Henry choked him out in less than a minute.

“Well,” Carlos said, “I guess that’s that.”

“Right,” Wallace said.

“I’d kick your ass, too,” Carlos said.

“Cheers,” Wallace replied.

“Good show,” McCoy said when he regained consciousness, grinning. He thumped Henry on the head.

Like that, they were brothers. Maybe they were before, but now they knew it in a way they could all understand. The plane bumped and groaned and kept going south.

Wallace hailed from Edinburgh, Scotland. He possessed a bottomless well of ribald jokes, and Henry laughed until he could not breathe, as Wallace hit him with one punch line after another with Scottish burr and merry blue eyes. He was a curious man, Henry thought. He could have been anything. Why was he a Special Air Service soldier? Henry did not ask. Wallace might have kicked his ass and then made a joke about it.

McCoy and Wallace were old friends, and could not have been more different.

“You know what you are?” Carlos said to McCoy. “You’re an English New Yorker, that’s what you are. Right outta Brooklyn, except you’ve got that accent that makes you sound like a genius. But you’ve got the attitude.” McCoy had grown up scrappy and poor in London. He despised the Royals, loved the Gunners, his favorite football team, and hated both American beer and politics. He was less than five foot ten, lean and wiry, with dark hair and cheeks that seemed to have been burned by the wind.

They talked about women and war and slept less than they should have. It was late afternoon when they arrived in Homestead.

The old air force base, smashed by Hurricane Andrew decades ago, was a shadow of what it had been. There were a few fighter jets on runways, some cargo planes and helicopters.

They wasted time trying to find the Coast Guard liaison, who never showed up. There was a slack, abandoned atmosphere at the base, and the officers and soldiers they spoke to were not eager to help; everyone seemed tired and vaguely resentful. Henry’s orders came from a full-bird colonel, signed and authenticated, yet the airmen seemed to delight in giving him the runaround. It was the way of the military—too often, it seemed.

The armistice, at least, was holding. Waiting outside the first-floor office of a surly major, they watched a news feed.

A blizzard dumped snow in the Northeast, and people were freezing to death and starving. Riots continued, emergency responders were overwhelmed. Rolling blackouts plagued much of the country.

Henry saw clips of planes dropping supplies into cities, hundreds of crates descending by parachute. It reminded him of the black-and-white film he’d seen of the Berlin airlift after World War II, when the Allies flew food and supplies into West Berlin. It felt wrong, seeing this in America.

Mexico was on the brink of civil war. Refugees fled to America, where tens of thousands were rounded up and placed in camps. Why they thought they were better off in America at the moment, Henry did not understand.

China threatened to cut off the flow of money, demanding payment for interest on the loans it had made to the United States as the US defaulted on those loans. Wall Street had opened, and then shut down again, as stocks plummeted.

Russia was poised to invade Eastern Europe, with more than a hundred thousand troops massed along its borders. Armor streamed toward the front. Henry looked at the diagrams, the arrows in bright red, in dismay.

NATO scrambled to meet the threat, mostly with airpower and missile defenses systems, and the reporters and talking heads offered up opinions and dire predictions should a land war in Europe ensue.

“NATO does not have the capability to repel this attack,” a retired, iron-haired general droned on. “There are not enough tanks, air assets, or infantry, should Russia proceed.” There was talk of nuclear war, retaliatory strikes, the yield of missiles, and where to take shelter in the event that warheads were inbound. Megatons versus kilotons, fallout patterns and projected casualties.

From Damascus to the West Bank, there were burning American flags and crowds chanting in the streets, firing Kalashnikovs into the air with glee and burning hate.

“This is what I mean,” McCoy said. He was quiet. Not angry, merely sad. “Do you see? You wanted to be a superpower. And now what? Your bloody war is killing the world.”

“Easy, lad,” Wallace said.

“Easy? Well ya, that sounds good, now doesn’t it? I’ll try ’an do that. Over-reaching, greedy bastards.”

“You’re right,” Carlos said. “But it wasn’t me or Henry or anyone I know that did this. We didn’t cause it.”

“Oh, I know that. With your McDonald’s and Walmart and Wall Street. Wasn’t you. It was them.” McCoy was legitimately angry now, face darkened and nostrils fl

“It wasn’t me,” Carlos said. “It wasn’t Henry. It wasn’t most Americans that did this. It was a few people, and a lot of them probably aren’t even Americans. So before you get to blaming us, think about that. You’ve got your share of rich assholes back over in the UK.”

“It wasn’t our bloody war that started this shit,” McCoy said. “It was yours.”

Henry fully expected Carlos to launch into a dissertation about the global economy, the evils of the information age, and the impact of the disparity in the distribution of wealth around the world.

“Copy that,” was all Carlos said.

McCoy seemed to retreat into himself for a time, and Henry was glad of the reprieve.

Henry was close to home, and he wanted to be there. Wherever Suzanne and Taylor were, that was home.

Sweaty minutes ticked by in the office, and Henry felt his calm evaporating. He had heart-clenching fear and anticipation in him, and he was ready to strike out for a marina on his own when the major deigned to speak to them again.

“All right,” the major said. “We’ve got you squared away with a boat.”

“Outstanding,” Henry said. He clenched his jaw and smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

“I tried to get a bird for you, but I’m strapped here. My hands are tied. Not enough fuel.”

“I understand sir,” Henry said. The helicopter had been a fifty-fifty proposition at best. This officer seemed to have aligned himself with the separatists of his own accord, and resented the interference and intrusion Henry and his men presented.

“Best I can do is to put you in at Bayfront Park,” he said, amusement flickering across his face.

“Sir, is this a Coast Guard vessel?” Henry asked, already knowing the answer.

“No. You will be in a civilian craft.”

“Sir, all due respect, but this is a time-sensitive operation. It was my understanding that we would insert—”

“It is my understanding you are asking for my help,” the major said. “Take it or leave it, because I don’t feel like screwing around with you. My orders were to provide you with assistance. I don’t give a damn what your CO wants.”

“When can we leave?” Henry said.

This was the kind of guy that made him want to leave the military. You can build a perfect, well-oiled machine, and then throw this wrench in there, and he single-handedly wrecks everything. This is the guy that gets heroes killed on the ground because he’s worried about his next promotion. Never been out from behind his desk, petty and arrogant, and screwing around while people die between sips of coffee.

“There’s a car pulling up now, Sergeant,” the major said.

“Go load our gear,” Henry said.

Wallace held Henry’s glance for a moment and nodded.

“Yes, sir,” he said in his convincing New York accent, turning for the door.

“Is there something else, soldier?” the major said.

Henry stepped closer to the desk. “Yeah,” Henry said. “I’m just curious. How’d you know my rank?”

“Are you fucking retarded?” the major shouted, standing. “It’s on your orders, you moron. And you will address me as ‘sir’!”

Henry struck the major in the throat, a lightning jab using his fingers.

The previously screaming officer crumpled to his knees, grabbing at his throat and opening his mouth in a silent howl.

Henry stepped around the desk, wrapped the major’s head up in his arms, and choked him out.

“No, I won’t call you ‘sir,’” Henry whispered in the major’s ear while he flopped and kicked and went still.

“Damn it, Wilkins,” Carlos said from the door.

“Sorry,” Henry said. “Got any zip ties?”

“Just when I think there’s no hope for the world,” McCoy said, striding back into the office with Wallace trailing behind him, “there’s this.” He was smiling and pulling duct tape from one of the pockets in his pants. “Brass fucking balls,” he said, tearing the tape into strips. He bound the major’s mouth, hands, and feet. “What?” he said. “Well we can’t leave him here, can we? Find something to put him in, for fuck’s sake.”

“Here we go,” Wallace said. He’d found a suit bag, a black nylon zippered case the pompous major likely once used for weekend excursions. Wallace bent the major’s legs and forced him into the bag. He didn’t fit.

“I’ll see if I can get rid of the driver,” McCoy said. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Not like that,” he added.

“What the hell?” Carlos said. Rain pelted the roof and windows.

The black bag began to writhe. Wallace kicked in the general vicinity of the thrashing head, and the movement ceased. He chuckled.

“Well now,” Wallace said, “sometimes you ’ave no choice but ta punch a bastard in the throat.”