Chapter 2

Bloody Bay Resort.

Tobago, north side, central.

I was drivin' my pickup around League City, just up the road from Texas City, looking for spares and whatever for the ship. I'd finally gotten down to naming her the Blue Bell. I had a bed full of crated up heavy spares, such as a spare genset, a heat exchanger and a couple tanks of freon to charge it up. I'd headed back down the road to Texas city for dinner I was sniffin' out the streets I hadn't been on in ages tryin' to locate an old smoke house BBQ that I hoped was still around. I wasn't havin' much luck. I was stopped at a light downtown in the high rent district. It looked like a bunch of embassies had moved in over the years. They'd sure prettied the area up, I had to admit.

A bunch of guys in white robes were crossing with the light when a big goddamned Lincoln Navigator tried to take 'em all out like bowling pins. That got me pissed. I hammered the gas and hit that fucker in the driver' side front tire, knocking him off into a row of parked cars. When everything came to rest him and his buddy were climbing out of their SUV with what looked a hell of a lot like AK-47s. They were taking aim at the guys in robes that were then laying down at the curb, trying to take advantage of any bit of cover that they could. There wasn't a hell of a lot there. I slammed the pickup into reverse, drew a bead and slammed into the SUV again, trapping the guys with the machine guns at the hips. The kinda lost interest in fighting. I grabbed my .30- .30 off the rear window and jacked a round into the chamber. I jumped out of my fucked-up pickup and pulled open the rear door to the SUV. Another guy in jeans and a tee-shirt was drawing a bead on me with a pistol. I let him have three rounds from his belly to his head. Everything got real quiet. I wandered over to the guys layin' down in the street and helped 'em up. They were all kind of shell-shocked. I got 'em all sat down on a few planters next to the sidewalk, then called 911. I figured that they had somethin' to do with the embassies all around us, so I mentioned that they might be diplomats.

I should have just taken a taxi to the ship and cut my losses.

I had relays of cops, then guys in some sort of uniforms with no insigia and no name badges, ask me for the same thing over and over. I finally lost it. I had one by the back of the neck hammering his face into the table while the other one was on the floor trying to remember how to breathe after I kicked him in the bread basket. Four guys rushed the door. It got a little anxious there for a bit, but I managed to put 'em down fast enough to keep from gettin' hurt. The last one had his leg stuck in the door which gave me a way out as the heavy doors locked as they closed. I picked up the smallest one to use as a shield in case some asshole decided to use a taser or shoot me. The guy I was carrying had no phone, no wallet, nothing. I had to mug the front door security guard for his firearm, some cash and a cell phone as they'd taken everything from my pockets. That was another thing I was pissed about. I found a gas station two blocks down and one over. I bought six gallons in plastic cans, a newspaper, a box of garbage bags and a handful of butane cigarette lighters.

The building was still looking like a kicked-over wasp's nest. carried everything that I'd bought into the building, then kicked open a door and stashed it. I mugged eight cops and security guys for the cash they carried in their wallets. One guy had one hell of a ring of keys. I took 'em. I picked up the gasoline and stuff, then made my way up to the next floor. It was pretty quiet. That would change. I poured gas all over the carpets, then stuffed rolled up newspaper in two of the plastic gas cans. Once they'd soaked up the fuel I lit them, and headed down the stairs and out the door. I figured that once the plastic lips of the gas cans melted and started a flow of ignited gasoline down the side, it would catch the rest of the fuel that had by that time soaked into the carpeting. It would act like a pottery kiln and should burn hot enough to break the concrete.

I got out of town. A taxi got me to the airport, where I picked up a limo that didn't mind a trip down to Galveston. I had him drop me off at the bus station. I took a city bus to the docks and walked on down to the Blue Bell. I had a good meal out of the freezer and took a shower. I sat down with a drink in front of the tube to watch the news. The "Gang War" was on all the channels. Shit. What a way to spin it. Disgusted, I turned it off and went to bed. Before going to sleep I turned on the burglar alarm and dug out a glock to keep under the pillow.

In the morning I got rid of all the stuff I'd stolen except for the cash. I had a compressor on board for air tools that developed 1600 PSI. I bought four sechedule 80 five inch gas pipes forty feet long and a couple high pressure fast-release valves. I put together a Halloran gas projector, otherwise known as a steam cannon. It doesn't sound like much, but when pushing 1600 pounds of compressed air from three reservoir cylinders you can push the hell out of a 120 mm mortar shell. It was aimed by moving the ship's crane. It was controlled by using a weatherproof cable tether terminated in a keypad. A mason's steel pipe scaffold served to load the thing, but securing it for sea and using it in anything heavier than a light chop was damned dangerous.

I got a lead on some 120 mm shells. They were a little old and the firing detonators were bad, but the fuzes and bursting charges were fine, as the charges were poured and the fuzes were only a couple years old and separately packed in vacuum cases. I bought three more compressors and plumbed them into place to decrease the charging time. Nobody else wanted 'em, so I got forty cases of the shells for four thousand bucks. It cost three times that for the fuzes. A little plastic ring made the shells fit the steam cannon's barrel. I had about a shot every three minutes. Three agonizingly long minutes.

Now, this was ranch engineering at its finest. It could have gone off in my face at any time, but as long as it didn't I had more firepower than an Abrams tank, just not the front-side armor piercing capability. I kept a pair of gyroscopically stabilized binoculars and a laser range finder around my neck when using it.

I got an invitation to a dinner in the mail, from the Saudi embassy. I guessed that they were the folks that I'd saved from the assholes in the Lincoln Navigator. I sent a letter back accepting their invitation. I had a little preparing to do so I was glad that the dinner was a month away.

I bought a fancy tuxedo from a Japanese tailor. When I told him that it was for a dinner at the Saudi enclave he got a little nervous, then buckled right down. Good man. I got measured all over again, and this time it was one HELL of a lot more personal! I had to admit, it was the most comfortable set of clothes that I'd ever worn, and the leather slippers that went with it felt like my feet were being licked. When I asked what the loops were for under my right hand I was presented with a ceremonial short sword, a wakizashi. It was useless, as it had all the edge of a fudge-sicle. Now, this pissed me off. It meant to me that I wasn't to be trusted with a real blade.

I sent off a quick order to Cold Steel for an 18 inch bladed top quality fighting wakizashi with a black enamel sheath and dressage. I ordered it delivered by next day air cargo. When I wore it with the tuxedo and looked in the mirror It looked--right. I was happy with it.

I presented my invitation to the doorman. He spent a long minute looking at my side-sword then bowed and let me in. I gave him a jerky half-bow back and proudly walked inside, head high and shoulders back. Near the end of a short hallway I was stopped by three guys in black uniforms, each one with a sub-machine gun. I laid one hand on the sword's hilt. I calmly said, "Push this, and one of us is going home short a hand tonight. I doubt that it'll be me." He looked aside for a moment and let me through. Damn. That could have been nasty.

I was invited to dinner at the Radisson. It was a fancy dress affair but the food was first quality rubber chicken. There was a guy in white with a gold rope around his head, with some fifteen or eighteen other guys along with him, obviously his advisers and aids. I slowed down after the first bite or so, and noticed that the older guy did too. "You'd think that they could do better than crappy food for the money, wouldn't you?"

He grinned, then laughed a bit. "Exactly my thoughts."

"I've been through town a time or two. Anybody got a yellow pages? Let's see who's still in business that makes food worth eatin'. I looked through the hotel's copy. I found what I wanted. "I heard tell you folks got dietary restrictions like no pig, shellfish and all that. How long has it been since you've had good barbecued goat?"

He grinned like a little kid in a candy factory.

"Great. I expect y'all have a bus or somethin' on call. Where we're goin' is about thirty miles away and run by a bunch of Lebanese. They do a bunch of pit-roasted goats every weekend. They should just be gettin' into the swing of things about now. You up for it?"

It wasn't but a shake or two before we were on the road. Up by Sugarland, south-west of Houston, was Three Brothers Lebanese. I 'd been there before, and damned if they didn't get better every time I went back. By the time we'd eaten ourselves stupid the old guy was slappin' my back and laughin' every time we had a shot of wine. I had to admit that I had one hell of a good time.

I got a phone call the next day. Somebody wanted me down at the Saudi embassy. Now, I was of two minds on this one. The last time I'd gone to an embassy I damned near had to firebomb my way out, but the party I had with the older guy the night before left me with a pretty good feeling about everything.

The old guy was there, and shook my hands in a two-handed grip. I grinned and shook back. We first did a strange thing with a pitcher of water, a loaf of bread we tore open and some sprinkled-on salt. Then we had real strong sweet coffee and cinnamon rolls. They'd done one hell of a lot more research on me than I'd wanted anyone to do, as I was called by my birth name and all the other identities that I'd taken on until then.

I was feeling ready to tear out of there leaving no witnesses when the old guy said that it was of no matter, and wanted to reward me for my gift of his life. He asked me what would please me. I don't know where I dug down for it, but I realized that I wasn't welcome in the land of my birth anymore. I needed a new place to call home. I told him all this, as hard as it was for me to admit.

He patted my shoulder and said that he would have his factors work on the problem for me. I was also declared welcome anywhere in his lands and welcome armed in his presence. We shook hands two-handed once again and parted, I hoped, as friends. Once outside I was given the keys to a big-assed Ford F-350 pickup. My firearms were in the rear window and all my crated spares were in the bed. Now that was attention to detail! A brand new satellite phone sat on the passenger seat waiting for me.

Two days later that sat-phone rang. One of the Sheik's factors had a proposition for me. "On the island of Tobago a large property was purchased as an investment several years ago but it has proven to be an embarassment. The drug trade has moved in and has proved most difficult to dislodge. Should you prove able to clean the area of those unwanted on the island the deed to the property shall be yours. A Trinidad passport shall be given to you for merely attempting to rid the island of their shame." Of course, I accepted.

There wasn't a damned thing keeping me where I was. Juanita and Carlos were back on the ranch while I delt with the federales.

It was a real temptation to just go down there and play Rambo in the jungle. (Sorry, old-growth rain forest) However, saner thoughts prevailed. I contracted with a ship's chandler to stock the Blue Bell for an extended excursion. I had the tanks filled and motored south along the Mexican coast for Trinidad, where I contracted for a long-term slip.

I did the paperwork remotely to sell the ranch to a film maker that wanted to retire to a John Ford movie-type existence and found it in the ranch. I had Juanita and Carlos take a flight down to the island and closed out all my other financial dealings in the states. I had all my funds transferred out of the country. I exchanged passports at the Trinidad immigration office. My conversational familiarity with Spanish slicked the process immensely. The Blue Bell had her port of registration changed.

I found it relatively simple to get in touch with a company of military contractors that were well-equipped, professional, had good references. They were one hell of a lot more wired than I was too. They agreed to clean up the drug trade on the island for two point two million dollars U.S., in cash, half up front. I showed up to the meeting in shorts, a tee shirt and canvas shoes, toting an O.D. canvas duffle bag. The company's finance officer looked kind of curious when I zipped open the bag, then first pulled out a rolled-up mechanic's tool bag. I then proceeded to stack uncirculated bundles of hundred dollar bills on the table. When I reached one million, one hundred thousand dollars I zipped up the duffle and dropped it on the floor. I filled the tool bag with cash and slid it across the table for his inspection.

"I must say, I like your approach. Now, are there any more little lingering issues we need to discuss? I am authorized to consider contract extensions."

"Yes. A few. One, impact. The country has reserved much of its eastern half as a nature preserve. I'm sure that you realize that it's rain forest. I'm also sure that there will be some damage, but that type of ecology has literally the fastest recovery rate on the planet. Just try not to make big holes that an aerial observer would get shitty about. Hardware has to be buried or otherwise disposed of."

"Agreed. Low impact."

"Two, performance and completion. I'm offering a twenty percent bonus if you can complete the job in two years. The completion metric will be judged by a third party so that there are no biases. Two to two and a half years completion, you get the agreed-upon fee. Anything after three years you will be out ten percent."

"I'll have to talk to Cap, our planning officer before I can commit to the timeline, but it doesn't sound egregious."

"Third, withdrawl. I understand that military contractors at times have difficulty separating from a site. I don't see a problem in this case. As long as authority is signed back over to the island government after the contract is terminated I don't care where your troops go, or if they stay. The economy is a frugal one and one's cash seems to go a long ways."

He smiled and pushed back from the table. "That is good news."

"One more thing. I've got a toy for you aboard ship. It looks like a crane under contstruction, but it isn't. It's a Hallman steam projector, a.k.a. a compressed air cannon. I've got several cases of 120 mm mortar rounds with no lifting charges and a forty foot cannon that can get them, oh, about a mile and a quarter away, my guess. We'd have to experiment to work up a range card."

He raised an eyebrow at me. "Tsk, tsk, Mr. Fetzer. One one hand you demand low imact and offer a toy capable of taking out a city a quarter block at a time with the other."

I shrugged and looked impassive. "Consider it as a free stealth bunker buster if you find a buried compound somewhere in range of the shore."

Tobago's only one hundred and sixteen square miles of land. The biggest problem we both saw would be the institutionalized profiteering at the governement level. Rather than assassination, which whipped up a frenzy in certain quarters, a measured plan of kidnapping, interrogation under drugs and then, if warranted, execution was planned for all levels of government, starting at the local police and working up the chain of command.