That helicopter story that kept me awake – Episode 36

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

The next stretch of road was from Aba to Nagero, the gateway to the Garamba National Park. This was a road where we would have to be more careful because it was possible, now we were off the main road, even though it was designated a highway, or perhaps that was a little too optimistic since it had a number N26, which ran into the R240 at a place nominally named Faradje, but did have a place to stay called the Residence Robert Ball.

I guess I missed that.

Beyond Faradje the road was a little more intense, but something else that worried me, there was more scope for us to be ambushed. To be honest, I had expected trouble for the last 100 kilometers, but trucks and people were plentiful enough to keep any surprises away. Now, that element of safety had gone and for quite some distance now we’d been moving slowly, and everyone was on alert.

My fears were not misplaced.

We’d hit a rather rough patch and had to slow down, and coming into a creek crossing the road narrowed, and the trees came down to the side of the road, providing any would-be attacker plenty of cover. I had been considering how I would arrange an ambush when, suddenly the car in front stopped suddenly, and we, caught unawares, slid almost into the back of them.

My other radio crackled, Monroe was reporting in. “Houston, we’ve got a problem.”

A flooded creek that was impassable, or a rockfall. There had been one of each so far, but both had been relatively easy to negotiate.

Then she added, “A gentleman in army gear with a gun. He’s brought a few friends to the party.”

“Real army, or…”

“The or, I think. Some of his ‘men’ are, well, not men.”

A local militia. Ahead I could see several more of the ‘soldiers’ filtering down to cover each of the vehicles until a real soldier stopped near ours, gun aimed and ready to fire.

“Send in our guide and get him to sort the matter out.”

No one was asking us to leave the vehicles yet, so this might but just a ‘request’ for a passing fee. Jacobi had said this might happen once we left the mainstream roads. I had hoped, the Garamba National Park is internationally known, all roads in and out would be ‘protected’. Perhaps that was only for convoys protected by Government troops, a service we had to forego due to the nature of our business.

Five minutes passed, then the next update.

“Jacobi is going now. We’ve finally got past any possible misunderstandings. Good thing he knows the language.”

Mindful of where the soldier covering us was standing and his line of sight into the car, I said into the other radio, “Mobley?”

“Sir?”

“Where are you?”

“About a k behind you.”

“Stop. Park, and approach on foot. We have a small problem, about 10 militiamen have stopped us at a choke point.”

“Done. I will be there shortly. Take them out?”

“Get a position and standby.”

Forward of us little was happening. I could now see Jacobi and the group commander standing to one side of the lead vehicle, talking. Jacobi was gesturing, and the soldier was looking defensive.

Seconds dragged by like they were minutes.

Davies came back to life. “Why have we stopped?”

“Checkpoint.”

“There isn’t meant to be a checkpoint here, is there?”

“No.”

Before we started out Davies had hidden a sidearm under her seat, in a place where I had hoped would not be checked by the border officials. They had made a cursory scan in the front of the car but hadn’t seen it. Now she had reached down and had it in her hand, at the same time making sure she had eye contact with the militiaman on her side of our car.

Our personal detail had doubled in the last minute or so. I had just watched Jacobi return to the lead vehicle, get in, but leave the door open.

The radio crackled again. “They want five thousand US dollars, and we can proceed.”

“We got five thousand.”

“Jacobi says two should do it.”

“Give it a go.”

I watched and waited as it took a few more minutes before Jacobi, with a bulky envelope, got out of the car and walked towards the soldier.

Showing we had money and were willing to hand it over might lead to further demands, particularly if the soldier though he was being disrespected. It all depended on Jacobi’s negotiating skills.

Mobley reported in. He had a position where he could see the men at the head of the convoy.

I spoke into the radio to the others, “Has everyone got a clear shot on their covering guards, just in case this goes sideways.”

“They’re not exactly soldiers,” I heard Barnes say.

“But they’ll shoot to kill you all the same. Unfortunately, we’re on a mission-critical timeline here, and whilst I don’t like it, it’s going to be one of those at all costs decisions.”

A series of ‘ready’ came over the radio.

Several more minutes passed, and more animated conversation between Jacobi and the commander, then Jacobi returned to the car, minus the envelope.

Was it successful?

Monroe. “Seems he wants ten thousand now. Orders?”

“Negotiations are over.”

Several shots rang our, taking down the three men at the front of the convoy in quick succession, the signal for the others to take out their guards almost simultaneously. It was a miracle none of the guards got a shot off, but, then, they were standing a little too close for their own good.

Five minutes later we were back on the road, the militiamen having their arms removed, and removed from sight, just in case anyone came looking for them. It might be a forward group from the kidnappers, looking for some extra cash, or, if the negotiations had dragged on, looking to take the ransom and then demand another when we turned up empty-handed.

Whatever had happened, it was over.

Ten minutes later Mobley had re-joined the convoy behind me.

Writing about writing a book – Day 20

It is a day of rest although writers are ready and able to work on any given day at any hour of the day or night when an idea or thought comes to them.

I’m trying not to think, but that’s not working.

I’ve been going over the reasons for writing the first draft of the book 30 odd years ago and it had something to do with the fact I was working with personal computers and local area networking when both were in their infancy, and I wanted to blend this knowledge into a story.

Of course, I’d always wanted to write thrillers, and this presented the opportunity to use computers as a basis for a worldwide conspiracy. How easy it is these days to do just that, but back in those days, it was a lot of hard work.

I remember sitting in a meeting when the company I was working for at the time had just implemented a network and personal computer to replace the mainframe and dumb terminals, also looking to leverage the new technologies of spreadsheets and word-processing, effectively making accounts staff more productive, and removing typists and moving into the world of centralized word processing. It was not a new idea with Wangwriter, but using PC’s was.

One of the departmental managers got up to give his take on the new technology, this about six months after implementation, and after a lot of teething troubles caused mainly by people who were vehemently resisting change, and his message was, it should not be called ‘networking’, but ‘not working’, in reference to the number of times the network went down.

But this is a digression. Computers are only a part of the story.

The story also goes back to a time when there was a clear demarcation between the management levels. Management offices were oasis’s whereas the staff worked in a stark desert-like environment. When one came to work for such an organization, it was with the belief that you start at the bottom, and over time, you work your way up the ladder. There was, very definitely, class distinction, and the various management levels never mixed, at work or socially, except within their own level.

There were Managers, Assistant Managers, and Manager’s Assistants, a typing pool, a secretary, that young, or old, lady who did so many jobs for their boss, that these days it would be considered demeaning. They were dedicated to their jobs and irreplaceable. There was no such person as a Personal Assistant.

Nor was such a thing as sexual harassment. One company I worked in where one of the Assistant Managers was sexually abusing an office girl, her complaints didn’t get a prosecution as it would now, it just had him transferred to another branch. Reprehensible, yes, and thankfully no longer a problem, except of course, in Fifty Shades of Grey which apparently condones such behavior.

There were department heads, General Managers, and Board Members. The upper management level and participants were in a world of their own, one few could ever aspire to. This is the world in which Transworld, my fictitious (but based on a very real) company lives.

I have to work on my company structure to make sure it is right.

Now I have two charts. A timeline, for both Bill, and the story, and a hierarchy for the office management and staff.

This is beginning to be more complicated than I thought.

In a word: Might

We might have to use some might to beat the mite. Confused?

Might is force, so expending might is much the same as what Thor does with his hammer.

We might expend some force, we this might is a maybe. You’re never quite sure when someone uses the word might, whether or not they will actually do it.

I might do a lot of things, but somehow I never seem to get around to actually doing them,

Of and just for the record, it’s the past tense of the word may. You know, you may do something, or you might not.

You might also use the word might when being polite, which seems to be a rarity these days because everyone is terse, tense, and it a hurry.

So might I go to the movie will aways get a resounding no if it means you get home late at night. And you’re only 10 years old.

I might be interested, but I don’t think so. Let me think about it. Which also means no.

Of course, if you’re slack in doing homework, you might want to try a little harder next time.

What might have been if only you tried harder?

Then there’s that little pest called a mite, though it goes by a lot of other names, one of which is everywhere, a termite.

Or a dust mite.

It also could be used slangily for a child in distress, that is, look at that poor little mite, he looks so tired.

Or another word for slightly, for example, the girl seemed a mite embarrassed.

Writing about writing a book – Day 19

I’m still working on the sequence of flashbacks for the story, filling out the back story to how Bill became associated with a man called Colonel Davenport.

It is important to remember that while Davenport may have begun with good intentions, it was not difficult to go slowly mad given the conditions. This character, Davenport, runs a multitude of operations within the war zone, turning a huge profit and setting up a business for when the war ended.

Bill meets his Davenport’s cronies and then the man himself. Life is not what it seems, and working for him is not a guarantee of safety, so Bill not only has to watch out for the enemy but also those with whom he also works.

Part 3 – In the Service of Davenport

Davenport and punishment

Busted mission, the first threat to Davenport

Manilow’s death – and how he got there

More on Manilow, the night before his death

Taken to rendezvous with Davenport’s boss

Identify Davenport by ‘sniveling morons’

Sniper – killing Ellen’s father – set up

Sniper – Killing Ellen’s father, execution

Planes and death

Bill gets to meet an interesting cast of characters, not the least of which is Davenport’s right-hand men, and a very unlucky lad who was supposed to see through his tour in the command station far from the war zone, and who is connected to a person close to him.

He was also unwittingly involved in a murder, one set up by Davenport, and one designed to keep his silence.

Part 4 – The Lead up to Capture, and in a POW camp

The object that Davenport is seeking

After R & R revoked, retrieved by Davenport for the last mission

Capture by Cho’s forces, delivered by Davenport’s men

In the POW Camp, and the arrival of Cho

Day of Rescue from Cho

Ellen and Jacobson after rescue in the hospital

Bill’s safety may have been assured had he simply toed the line, but, while on a secret mission with Davenport’s men, he sees an opportunity to take some evidence of Davenport’s activities, as an act of self-preservation.

Of course, he doesn’t reckon with the ruthlessness of Davenport and ends up in a camp where Bill is handed over to the chief interrogator, a friend of Davenport’s. There is no doubt what Cho’s mission is.

But, like all seemingly simple plans, it doesn’t go the way Davenport wants, Bill does not talk, and is eventually rescued.

Part 5 – Post Rescue and Transworld

Employment at Transworld, then first interrogation via Collins

In hospital immediately after being shot

Davenport in my hospital room, post being shot

Recognize Jorgenson

Davenport discovers Bill was rescued, and that is has lost his memory of all the time in his service, so just in case Bill does, one day, remember, he will be there to get the answers, and the missing information.

It is almost a story within a story, and maybe one day will be published as such.

At least now I have some idea of how to work the much larger story into the flashbacks, as a prelude to what happens to Bill once he realizes who is behind everything that is happening at Transworld.