Thomas Prescott Superpack (80 page)

Stopping in the walkway just off Frank’s shoulder, Tupac lifted the water bottle and said, “Who throw dis?”

I half expected Lacy to raise her hand. She didn’t.

Tupac glared at me. Maybe unconsciously he’d noticed I’d been missing when he’d made his way to the bathroom. And now I was back. But if I wasn’t in the bathroom, then where had I been?

He cocked his head to the side and said, “Where go?”

“Me?” I pointed to myself, then shook my head. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

He barked at Frank and Susie to stand, then took three steps into the row. He stood, straddling Susie’s body as if it were a crack in the sidewalk and said, “New shit.”

New shit.

He poked me in the chest with the barrel of the machine gun and repeated, “New shit.”

New shirt.

“Same shirt,” I lied. The black shirt I was now wearing was baggier than its predecessor, allowing room for the bulge of the fanny pack. And unlike the plain black tee I’d been wearing, this one had NMSU written on the front. New Mexico State University.

“No. New shit.”

“Same shirt.”

He poked me in the chest, then the sternum. He was checking to see if I was hiding anything. Which I was. I held my breath. He poked me in the stomach. There was a rustling.

“What is?” he barked.

I took a deep breath and pulled out the bag of trail mix. I’d taken it out of the fanny pack before I’d stashed it under the first chair in the row.

I handed the bag to him.

“Where get?”

“I had it in my pocket the whole time.”

Little Wayne had been the one to pat me down initially, so he was a bit confused at how I’d come to smuggle a big bag of Trail Mix. But I’d figured he was smarter than he looked and he needed to find something to satisfy his curiosity, otherwise, he would always be hovering around.

He took the bag, smelled it,
then poured some in his mouth. Then after patting me down extensively, lifting my shirt, even cupping my boys, he made his way back up to the entrance.

Oh and he might have poured the rest of the water out on my head.

“Nice of you to share,” said Trinity, wiping water splatter off her face. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the water or the Trail Mix.

“No, really, I mean, what else have you been hiding? You got a satellite phone, too?”

Nope, I couldn’t find one.

“Be quiet,” I said.

“Don’t you fucking tell her to be quiet,” Gilroy huffed, leaning over his seat. “She’s got a point. Where do you get off hoarding all that trail mix for yourself, you selfish prick.”

Said the guy that took six bags of chips.

I almost head-butted him. But I probably would have knocked myself unconscious in the process, so I reeled in my anger. I took a cleansing breath, leaned forward, and said, “Listen you stupid ape, here’s what you’re gonna do.” The words came out like lava. “You and your ding bat are going to turn around and have a staring contest for the next five minutes. Because if you don’t, then one of those pirates is going to come back over here and Susie is probably going to die. So turn around and shut the fuck up.”

Gilroy breathed in and out through his nose. Then he jerked Trinity and himself around.

I whispered to J.J. and he went to the bathroom. When he came back, he tied his shoe near the first chair. Moments later, he slid the fanny pack between us. Without looking, I unzipped it, and found the preloaded syringe.

I glanced at Frank. He was staring blindly ahead of him and I doubt he knew I’d ever left. It was as if his dear wife was already dead. Maybe in his head, she was.

As I leaned forward and pulled up Susie’s shirt, I noticed Frank staring at me. I winked at him. I jabbed the syringe into her stomach, pushed in the plunger, then sat back down. Even when his wife sat up, stared at me, and said, “Hey, that’s my shirt,” Frank never took his eyes off me.

THE ROAD TO PTUTSI

6:05
p.m.

Every once in a while a car would pass them, usually a truck, and usually full of men and women who had seen better days. Skinny to the point of emaciation, their eyes glazed over, skin yellow with jaundice. Gina knew every one of them was infected with AIDS. And not the early stages. Even if these people where given the best medical attention money could buy, they wouldn’t last more than a year. Their immune systems all but decimated by the HIV virus.

The road before them had become uneven, strewn with large rocks, and the Jeep was bumbling along at a crawl. According to Timon, the village was less than 50 kilometers away, but at the rate they were going, it would be half a day until they reached Ptutsi. Over the course of the last couple hours they’d passed flocks of people making their pilgrimage to the village. These people might not have been as far along as the people in the back of the trucks, but there could be no doubt these people had AIDS.

Gina couldn’t believe these people had the energy, or the fortitude, to walk fifty, even a hundred miles. And for what? According to Paul, no medical treatment would be available to these people for the foreseeable future. But it couldn’t just be coincidence. Could it? And speaking of Paul, how much more difficult had the task he’d ask her to do just become? It would have been hard enough to find three children in the small settlement, now it would be nearly impossible. Who knew how many sick had already flocked to the village? Hundreds? Thousands? By this time tomorrow, the number could be in the tens of thousands. A modern day Woodstock unfolding before her eyes.

She looked at Timon. She wanted to tell him everything. She’d gone back and forth a hundred times. What could it hurt? What did Timon care if there was a cruise ship filled with hostages and she needed to rescue three children to try to save their lives? This impacted him none whatsoever. He was being paid handsomely regardless. But something was keeping her from telling him. A promise to Paul that she would tell no one. Not her guide. Not her priest. No one.

There were two large rocks strewn in the thin road ahead of them. Timon brought the car to nearly a complete stop, then maneuvered around the first with ease. Gina watched his face, contorted in concentration. His eyes widened and Gina followed his gaze to the road where a small army of young men had materialized from the brush. There were seven of them. Three had cigarettes dangling from their lips. Two had their shirts off. Another two were wearing black bandannas. All were holding some large firearm.

Timon put the car in park and said, “Do not speak.”

Gina couldn’t understand why Timon didn’t just drive over them. The boys—that’s all they were—would scatter. But she’d forgotten about the second large rock. The rock was somewhere behind the band of misfits, and if they ran over it, they would run aground.

The seven boys collectively strode towards the stopped Jeep. The sun was hovering in the tall limbs behind the road and the machine guns held tightly in the black fingers of the small children glistened. Even with the guns, Gina was yet to find herself frightened.
Kids with toys
is all she kept thinking. Kids with toys. Timon stared at the charm dangling before him. His lips moved silently. Sweat had formed on his heavy brow and his fingers would grasp then release the steering wheel. Grasp. Release.

As the children neared, he said, “They will just want some money. A tax for using their road. I will give them money. Do not speak.”

Six of the children stood in front of the Jeep, twelve eyes locked on Gina’s chest. The seventh child, the tallest, made his way to the driver’s side door. His black head was shaved. He had yellow teeth, like he’d smoked a pack a day for fifty years, hidden beneath large swollen gums. He was one of the two wearing black bandannas. He shouted at Timon in African.

Timon nodded. He took out his wallet and handed the boy a stack of bills. The boy took the
money briskly, then nodded at Gina. He spoke in African, then smiled.

Timon shook his head.

The boy barked in African once more and again Timon shook his head.

The boy smashed the butt of his gun against the side of Timon’s face, emitting a loud crunch. Gina knew instantly Timon’s cheekbone had just been shattered. She reached over him and yelled, “No!”

Roars, shouting, and thunderous gunshots rang from the six who had slowly surrounded the Jeep. African was being screamed at her from every angle.

Timon tried to cover her mouth. She pulled his hands away and screamed, “He gave you money. What do you want? We’ll give you anything you want.” She looked at Timon and begged, “Tell them. Tell them we will give them anything they want.”

Timon, blood gushing from his face, said, “They want you.”

PRESS BRIEFING ROOM

11:22
a.m.

Paul Garret stood behind the podium in the newly renovated James S. Brady Press Briefing room. The story had leaked two hours ago. Well, the fact a cruise ship off the coast of South Africa had been taken over by a band of pirates had leaked. It could have leaked in any number of ways. The cruise line, the South African Navy… there were hundreds of possibilities. But the identities of the pirates and their demands had so far been kept quiet.

Garret took a sip of water and said, “I can’t get into any particulars, but I can tell you that within the U.S., the Pentagon, the Navy, the Coast Guard, the Department of Homeland Security, the Department of Transportation, and the State Department, all have a stake in the day-to-day activities of maritime security. Obviously, because of the nature of the threat on the
Afrikaans
, the United States Navy is the lead agency.”

A reporter for the
Washington Post
and one of the few information vultures Garret didn’t mind, stood and asked, “What is the U.S. Navy doing to combat the terrorists?”

“I can’t give you any tactical information,” answered Garret. “But rest assured, if any rescue mission is attempted it will be headed up by the best America has to offer.”

He smiled inwardly. He knew the quote would be plastered on every front page in the country and repeated
ad naseum
on every news station.

Paul peered out on the group of fifty or so reporters. For the most part the press conferences were civil, and the reporters waited to be called on by Joe—a man in a black suit off the wing—
who ran the show.

A man in jeans and a white T-shirt stood. Tyler something or other from MSNBC. Garret couldn’t stand the pretentious asshole. He asked, “Have the families of the passengers on board the
Afrikaans
been notified?”

“Oceanic Cruise Line, the company that owns the
Afrikaans,
has contacted each passenger and crew’s emergency contact and notified them of the situation.”

“How many Americans are on board?”

He swallowed hard. “154 Americans.”

There was a soft murmur.

“Has anyone been killed?”

“Not that we know of,” he lied.

Another murmur.

“What are the pirates demanding?”

“No comment.”

Seeing that it was a futile effort, the man finally took his seat. The questions went on for another fifteen minutes.
Do we know the identity of the pirates? Do we know the nationality of the pirates? How were they able to board the ship? What security measures did the ship take? How much money do they want? Will this impact oil prices? How has the South African government reacted? Is Al Qaeda in any way connected? What are the coordinates of the ship?

If he didn’t answer “No comment,” Garret answered vaguely
.
The only information he’d been
permitted
to reveal was; yes, there was a cruise ship that had been taken over by pirates. And, yes, the United States was doing everything in its power to insure all 400 people on board the ship survived. He’d probably overstepped his boundaries with his U.S. Navy quip and he no doubt would receive a tongue-lashing for it.

The press conference was nearing its finality when Joe said, “Final question.”

Joe pointed at a man in the front row. He was a relatively new appointee, but Garret was pretty sure his name was Karl.

Karl asked, “How will the crash of the London Stock Exchange impact the United States?”

Garret looked at Joe, who shrugged as if to say, “News to me.” A number of reporters had pulled out their phones and were scrolling wildly.

Garret leaned forward and said, “I wasn’t aware the London Stock Exchange had crashed.”

The London Stock Exchange was the fourth biggest stock exchange behind New York, Nasdaq, and Tokyo. Closing auction was at 4:30 p.m. their time, roughly seven minutes earlier.

Karl smiled. It appeared he was the only one in the room privy to the information. He said, “It happened ten minutes ago, right before closing auction. The largest single shareholder in the London Stock Exchange sold a hefty number of shares, it created a panic, and the entire market
collapsed.”