Spoilsport!But you're hanging with your feet off the ground, which probably equalizes the difference. Convenient, isn't it?
-
Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.
Assignment: Zilawe
- Thread starter windar
- Start date
windar
Teller of Tales
35.
Kalawa, Silanga December 30, 2017.
My comrades and I had dreamed for many years of the day when we would see that dirty old bastard, Parambe, gone in disgrace. But having him replaced by that snake Tuma was not what we had fought so long for. He was, if anything, worse, younger and more ambitious. We suspected that much of the worsening of Parambe’s behavior in recent times was due to his influence.
Jerry was beside himself. “Peter, they’re going to hang them tomorrow!” he said most agitatedly as we sat among our supporters in the village digesting this momentous news. “We need to do something.”
“I agree with you, Jerry,” I told him. “This is the crisis that we have been waiting for, and our Chinese friends say that in crisis lies opportunity. Our sources inside the Security Services tell us that Tuma is not beloved. The rank and file feel that the old man at least is owed some loyalty for his past service to the nation, but that is not the case with Tuma. Some will follow him, but some will not. And we may be able to exploit that division.”
We hooked up with the group who had attacked the prisoner transport that had brought the two American women to Camp #4. They had a mortar with a small allotment of high explosive shells remaining after the earlier attack.
As John and I were finishing lunch, sitting under a tree with Jerry, one of the village women approached us. “I have spoken with one of the guards, Barto, who is someone looked up to by many of the others,” she told me. “He is angry that Tuma is hanging his girlfriend, one of the American women.” She spoke in the local language so I translated for Jerry.
He looked intrigued. “Ask her if she knows which one?” he said.
“The one with red hair,” the woman told me.
“Meghan,” he muttered, looking a bit relieved. Perhaps he was pleased that his colleague, Barb, had not been claimed by this guard. I wondered whether their relationship had been purely professional.
I went on, translating for Jerry. “If we can help him be generous with some of his fellow guards, they will cut a hole in the fence around the north side of the camp. They can hide us in the camp in a spot away from Tuma and his goons until the time is right for an attack.”
“Generous?” Jerry asked. “How much of the $ 50,000 that I gave you is left?”
“About $20,000,” I told him. “That should be sufficient. We will give her half now to pass to Barto and will give him the other half when he meets us and lets us into the camp. ”
Jerry pulled me aside. “Can we trust her?” he asked.
“Do we have a choice?” I replied.
He looked a bit ill, then recovered. “Do it,” he said.
Later that afternoon, she returned. We were to meet Barto at 3 AM at a spot on the north side of the camp where there was a copse of trees we could hide in until he arrived.
The word among the guards was that Tuma had arranged to make a spectacle of the hanging to reinforce to the entire country that he was the new head man. There would be an audience of local officials and perhaps some who might be able to make it from Molabayo.
Even more importantly, he was going to broadcast it live on the ZBC so that no one could doubt his power. That meant that if we could disrupt the proceedings, that would show that we were a force to be reckoned with. It might even provoke a mass popular uprising. Also, it meant that Tuma and his pals would be busy preening for the cameras and might not be prepared for the surprise we had planned for them.
I caught a few hours of sleep after dinner. All too soon, I felt one of the sentries shaking me awake. I glanced at my watch-midnight. I woke John and we proceeded to rouse the rest of our crew. I counted approximately 50 men and a few women. About half were experienced rebel fighters, armed with Uzis, along with the mortar and the two RPG launchers. We had only a few rocket propelled grenades and a few mortar rounds, which would have to be sufficient. The rest of our force consisted of local villagers armed with hunting rifles, shotguns, pistols and even a few with just machetes.
It was a ragtag army, but as is said, “One goes to war with the army one has.” We had no real idea as to how many armed men and what weapons the other side had, but we had to count on the element of surprise and the hope that many of them would be torn between supporting Tuma and Parambe and many might hate both of them.
I wanted to leave Jerry behind, but he said I’d have to shoot him to keep him from covering this story and I did not have the heart to do that. One of the men had a pistol in addition to his Uzi and I asked him to lend it to Jerry. “Have you ever shot anyone, Mr. Goldman?” John asked him.
“I’m a journalist, not a soldier,” he replied. “But for these bastards, I’ll make an exception.”
Our ragtag army set out through the savanna, making a wide circuit of the camp to the designated spot to rendez-vous with Barto. Everything in the camp appeared quiet. We hid ourselves in the trees to wait.
“I wonder which building they have them in,” Jerry whispered.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I think they will be well guarded, so we had better not go looking for them. Let’s stick with the plan.”
“I’m not suggesting that,” he said. “The women don’t know about us, so they must believe this is their last night, and I wonder how they are passing it.” Jerry had a dreamy look on his face as he spoke.
‘Was it possible he was fantasizing some kind of last lesbian encounter between his two attractive countrywomen?’ I thought. The human mind is truly something.
Eventually, we saw some motion down below. Four men in guards’ uniforms were approaching the fence. We waited a few minutes to see if they had been followed, but there was no sign of anyone behind them.
Moving slowly, I left the trees and descended to the fence. Despite my motioning for him to stay, Jerry followed me. The rest of the men had their guns trained on the guards, in case there was an ambush.
We approached the fence until we stood a few feet away. Jerry shone the flashlight in his phone on the party on the other side of the wire. One of them was possibly the biggest man I had ever seen in the flesh. Another carried a pair of heavy wire cutters.
The big man spoke. “I am Barto,” he said.
“Peter,” I replied.
“Jerry Goldman, editor, from New York,” my companion added.
“You have something for me?” Barto asked. I handed him an envelope stuffed with green bills. He opened it and looked inside, then nodded. “I like that redhaired girl,” he said. “She is a good fuck.” I saw Jerry nod. ‘Had Jerry enjoyed her favors, too?’ I wondered. ‘When? Where?’ This was all quite strange.
Barto continued, “If you get her out of here, maybe I will marry her and move to America and get rich,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Anyway, it’s all bullshit,” he continued. “The girls are innocent and Tuma has no right to hang them or the old man. Parambe is twice the man that he is. He actually risked his life for our independence back in the day. Tuma is a big hero when his enemies are strapped to a table in his interrogation room, but he has never risked his sorry ass in fighting.”
“We will give him a surprise then, in the morning,” I replied.
“Very few of the guards will risk their necks to save his. Even some of his own Security men may not.” Then he turned to his crew. “George, let these good men in.” The fellow with the wire cutters went to work on the fence and, soon, he pulled back a section of the wire, leaving a hole big enough for a person to slip through.
I whistled, twice high and once low, and our fighters poured down from the treed area. It had been decided that the group with the mortar would stay behind in the trees. When the official party was assembled for the hanging and we were ready to attack, John would signal them with a text message. They would launch a few rounds in the general direction of the camp parade ground, then disappear into the surrounding countryside. Our hope was that Tuma would send enough of the Security Forces chasing after them that we would stand a fighting chance against the rest.
Barto led the rest of us through the camp, keeping close to the sides of the various buildings. He ushered us into what appeared to be a kitchen storeroom, from the various bags and cans of flour and other staples that lined the shelves. He drew us a map of the various buildings showing us where the gallows had been erected, waiting for the sun to rise and the nation to awake to the live telecast of the historic proceedings.
And thus began the hardest part-waiting. Waiting as the sun came up and it began to grow hot in the storage shed, packed with our fighters. We sent a scout out to peek around the edge of the adjoining barracks where he could get a clear view of the parade ground. He reported that a platform had been erected with a gallows from which hung three nooses.
A second scout, sent a while later, reported that workers were placing rows of folding wooden chairs in front of the gallows, presumably for the friends and supporters of our new President. Soon, we heard, through the thin walls of the storage shed, the buzz of expectant conversation coming from the parade ground. It seemed we wouldn’t have much longer to wait.
I called up ZBC on my phone. They were running the same video they had run the day before just prior to Tuma’s speech announcing his seizure of power. Before long, the picture cut to a live shot from the parade ground just 100 meters or so from where we sat.
The camera focused on the gallows with the three nooses, then panned to show the spectators. After a few minutes, the spectators took their seats, before rising again to the sound of the national anthem being played by a small brass band.
Then, the camera showed the condemned being brought out-first the redhaired American woman, naked, her hands cuffed behind her. “Meghan,” Jerry said, as loud as he dared without giving away our hiding place.
Then came something I never in my life had expected ever to see-our deposed President, Parambe, naked as well, followed by the American reporter, likewise completely nude. Jerry’s face was white. “Barb,” he whispered.
The three prisoners were led up onto the platform and made to climb onto a bench. Their heads were inserted in the nooses. It was a chilling spectacle, designed to show the country that Tuma was now the supreme leader, whose authority could be challenged only at the cost of one’s life
We watched on our screens as Tuma mounted the platform, all gotten up in a presidential uniform, such as we had grown accustomed to seeing Parambe in. Tuma had even less right to wear those ribbons and medals than Parambe did. Ever the showman, he took a microphone and started speaking-utter lies about treason and collusion in treason.
He and the crowd seemed absorbed in the moment-this seemed like the time to launch our attack. I nodded at John. He nodded at me and sent his text to the mortar crew. The rest of us massed at the door, safeties off our guns, ready to charge out as soon as we heard the mortar blast.
But there was nothing. Tuma droned on. John texted again. Nothing. “I wonder if their location is out of cell range. We never tested it,” he said, looking a bit sheepish. Finally, Tuma seemed to finish.
The ZBC picture on my phone swung around to show the condemned. The reporter, Barb was saying something to Tuma that the microphones didn’t pick up. One of the guards produced two strips of black cloth, which he tied around the heads of Barb and Meghan to make a blindfold. Parambe was denied this final mercy. There now seemed nothing left to do, but kick the bench away and let the three of them hang.
This was too much for Jerry. He pushed past two of our men and out the door of the storage shed. He ran towards the parade ground, his pistol pointed at the gallows, blazing away in the general direction of Tuma. “Jerry! No!” I yelled, but he was like a man possessed. Several of the Security men turned and gaped at him open-mouthed, stunned into inactivity for the moment. Quickly, they collected themselves and opened fire, cutting him down on the spot.
The mortar crew must have seen or heard the commotion and realized that although they hadn’t gotten the signal, this was the time to act. I heard the sound of an incoming round and a large boom close by. General panic broke out.
It was now or never. “Let’s go!” I yelled. Our entire crew charged the parade ground, guns blazing as the Security men returned fire.
Tuma-I have to give him credit for being determined to see his hanging carried out-hearing the shots ringing out, yelled “Hang them! Now!” before running for cover. One of his minions kicked the bench away before scurrying after his boss.
The three condemned dropped a short distance, their feet dangling just above the ground, the bulky black body of the President swinging between the svelte bodies of the two American women, as the bullets flew back and forth between our fighters and Tuma’s goons.
One of our men who carried one of our RPG launchers stopped, took cover behind a ZBC trailer and launched a grenade into the assembled spectators, who had ducked to the ground when the shooting began. It was probably wrong to fire into a crowd of civilians, but they had come to witness Tuma’s show and thus it was reasonable to think they were supporters of his coup.
The grenade exploded with a loud “Boom!” sending bodies flying into the air. Those spectators who were not killed or seriously wounded by the blast ran screaming towards the camp gate, some with blood streaming down their faces. It was total chaos.
Bullets were flying in all directions. However, I noticed that many of the Security men had dropped their guns and were heading for the camp gate as well. They didn’t want to die for Tuma, it seemed. It looked like the battle was going our way.
Then, I heard it-chopper blades in the distance, getting louder as it approached. ‘Oh shit,” I thought as I saw it coming in low from the north, one of the two helicopter gunships Parambe had purchased rather than feed the starving children of Zilawe. Their powerful guns fired from on high could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat for Tuma.
“Chopper!” I yelled. The other of our men who carried an RPG launcher hoisted the long tube onto his shoulder. He took aim on the copter and fired. The rocket streaked across the sky. The helicopter seemed to pause in mid-air, trying to take evasive action, but too late. It exploded in flames, falling to the ground just outside the camp fence.
I ran towards the gallows. As I passed a ZBC trailer, a bullet whistled past my head. I turned in the direction that shot had come from. It was Tuma with a pistol. I turned and fired off some rounds of my Uzi, hitting him three times in the chest. If he wasn’t dead, he was close enough that it would have to do.
The death of Tuma and the loss of the helicopter that might have turned the tide of battle more or less sapped the will of the remaining members of the Security Service. They made for their vehicles and as soon as the engines roared to life, sped out the main gate of the camp and turned onto the road leading back to the capital.
When I reached the gallows, I saw that all three of the condemned were still alive, though they were making horrible gurgling sounds, their faces contorted by the effort to draw air into their lungs, their feet kicking madly in a vain struggle to reach the ground and relieve the awful pressure on their necks.
One of our men came running over with a machete. I quickly cut down Barb, then Meghan, catching their naked bodies as they fell and laying them on the ground, where their sputtering and coughing told me that we had arrived just in time to save them.
I considered what to do with Parambe. He hung there limply, his struggles ebbing, the life breath slowly leaving his body. If I did not act immediately, he would die. Could I turn my back on a fellow human whose life it was within my power to save? You, dear reader, may condemn the choice I made, but I decided that, unlike the women, who were innocent, he deserved to die for what he had done to our country.
I motioned one of our fighters, who had trained as a paramedic, over to tend to the two American women. He listened to their chests, his ear pressed against their naked breasts, then looked at me, “I think they will be OK.”
“God is smiling on us today,” I said, glancing heavenward. Satisfied that the two women would survive, I went to see to our fallen fighters. Surprisingly, there were only four who had been taken from us. I said a silent prayer for the souls of our late comrades.
I continued to the other end of the parade ground, where I saw Jerry’s body lying in a pool of blood. There was no doubt that he was dead, cut down before he could know if his attempt to free his countrywomen had been successful. It was an exceptional thing he did, coming halfway around the world to try to save them.
Later, I learned that he had not behaved well with them when they were in the prison in Molabayo, giving in to his own baser instincts. Nevertheless, I believed in redemption and he had risked his life to rescue them. In the end, it is not for me to judge him.
The dead and wounded tended to, I found John and we went to look for our comrades among the prisoners. I was most pleased, to come upon, Roderick Komba, who had been one of the leaders of our opposition movement before his arrest by the Security Services. We knew he had been sent to a camp, but did not know which one. He embraced John and me warmly as did our other imprisoned comrades.
We didn’t know whether troops would be coming to counterattack, and it seemed most prudent not to remain here long. We assembled the non-political prisoners and told them that we would leave the camp gate open and they were free to stay or go as they wished.
The political prisoners joined with us, smiling and laughing at their sudden, unexpected freedom and we made ready to move out to safety in the countryside and then on across the border into Silanga to wait and see how the situation developed in Zilawe. The two Americans were conscious now, but too weak to walk. Our men dressed them in the uniforms of dead Security men and made two makeshift stretchers to carry them with us.
As we were leaving the camp, we passed the ZBC trailers. They were showing pictures from Molabayo. It seemed the entire population was in the street, excited by the victory we had won. The gates of the Presidential Palace were open, the gun emplacements abandoned and the people were pouring inside. The day we had dreamed of for so many years was upon us.
Kalawa, Silanga December 30, 2017.
My comrades and I had dreamed for many years of the day when we would see that dirty old bastard, Parambe, gone in disgrace. But having him replaced by that snake Tuma was not what we had fought so long for. He was, if anything, worse, younger and more ambitious. We suspected that much of the worsening of Parambe’s behavior in recent times was due to his influence.
Jerry was beside himself. “Peter, they’re going to hang them tomorrow!” he said most agitatedly as we sat among our supporters in the village digesting this momentous news. “We need to do something.”
“I agree with you, Jerry,” I told him. “This is the crisis that we have been waiting for, and our Chinese friends say that in crisis lies opportunity. Our sources inside the Security Services tell us that Tuma is not beloved. The rank and file feel that the old man at least is owed some loyalty for his past service to the nation, but that is not the case with Tuma. Some will follow him, but some will not. And we may be able to exploit that division.”
We hooked up with the group who had attacked the prisoner transport that had brought the two American women to Camp #4. They had a mortar with a small allotment of high explosive shells remaining after the earlier attack.
As John and I were finishing lunch, sitting under a tree with Jerry, one of the village women approached us. “I have spoken with one of the guards, Barto, who is someone looked up to by many of the others,” she told me. “He is angry that Tuma is hanging his girlfriend, one of the American women.” She spoke in the local language so I translated for Jerry.
He looked intrigued. “Ask her if she knows which one?” he said.
“The one with red hair,” the woman told me.
“Meghan,” he muttered, looking a bit relieved. Perhaps he was pleased that his colleague, Barb, had not been claimed by this guard. I wondered whether their relationship had been purely professional.
I went on, translating for Jerry. “If we can help him be generous with some of his fellow guards, they will cut a hole in the fence around the north side of the camp. They can hide us in the camp in a spot away from Tuma and his goons until the time is right for an attack.”
“Generous?” Jerry asked. “How much of the $ 50,000 that I gave you is left?”
“About $20,000,” I told him. “That should be sufficient. We will give her half now to pass to Barto and will give him the other half when he meets us and lets us into the camp. ”
Jerry pulled me aside. “Can we trust her?” he asked.
“Do we have a choice?” I replied.
He looked a bit ill, then recovered. “Do it,” he said.
Later that afternoon, she returned. We were to meet Barto at 3 AM at a spot on the north side of the camp where there was a copse of trees we could hide in until he arrived.
The word among the guards was that Tuma had arranged to make a spectacle of the hanging to reinforce to the entire country that he was the new head man. There would be an audience of local officials and perhaps some who might be able to make it from Molabayo.
Even more importantly, he was going to broadcast it live on the ZBC so that no one could doubt his power. That meant that if we could disrupt the proceedings, that would show that we were a force to be reckoned with. It might even provoke a mass popular uprising. Also, it meant that Tuma and his pals would be busy preening for the cameras and might not be prepared for the surprise we had planned for them.
I caught a few hours of sleep after dinner. All too soon, I felt one of the sentries shaking me awake. I glanced at my watch-midnight. I woke John and we proceeded to rouse the rest of our crew. I counted approximately 50 men and a few women. About half were experienced rebel fighters, armed with Uzis, along with the mortar and the two RPG launchers. We had only a few rocket propelled grenades and a few mortar rounds, which would have to be sufficient. The rest of our force consisted of local villagers armed with hunting rifles, shotguns, pistols and even a few with just machetes.
It was a ragtag army, but as is said, “One goes to war with the army one has.” We had no real idea as to how many armed men and what weapons the other side had, but we had to count on the element of surprise and the hope that many of them would be torn between supporting Tuma and Parambe and many might hate both of them.
I wanted to leave Jerry behind, but he said I’d have to shoot him to keep him from covering this story and I did not have the heart to do that. One of the men had a pistol in addition to his Uzi and I asked him to lend it to Jerry. “Have you ever shot anyone, Mr. Goldman?” John asked him.
“I’m a journalist, not a soldier,” he replied. “But for these bastards, I’ll make an exception.”
Our ragtag army set out through the savanna, making a wide circuit of the camp to the designated spot to rendez-vous with Barto. Everything in the camp appeared quiet. We hid ourselves in the trees to wait.
“I wonder which building they have them in,” Jerry whispered.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I think they will be well guarded, so we had better not go looking for them. Let’s stick with the plan.”
“I’m not suggesting that,” he said. “The women don’t know about us, so they must believe this is their last night, and I wonder how they are passing it.” Jerry had a dreamy look on his face as he spoke.
‘Was it possible he was fantasizing some kind of last lesbian encounter between his two attractive countrywomen?’ I thought. The human mind is truly something.
Eventually, we saw some motion down below. Four men in guards’ uniforms were approaching the fence. We waited a few minutes to see if they had been followed, but there was no sign of anyone behind them.
Moving slowly, I left the trees and descended to the fence. Despite my motioning for him to stay, Jerry followed me. The rest of the men had their guns trained on the guards, in case there was an ambush.
We approached the fence until we stood a few feet away. Jerry shone the flashlight in his phone on the party on the other side of the wire. One of them was possibly the biggest man I had ever seen in the flesh. Another carried a pair of heavy wire cutters.
The big man spoke. “I am Barto,” he said.
“Peter,” I replied.
“Jerry Goldman, editor, from New York,” my companion added.
“You have something for me?” Barto asked. I handed him an envelope stuffed with green bills. He opened it and looked inside, then nodded. “I like that redhaired girl,” he said. “She is a good fuck.” I saw Jerry nod. ‘Had Jerry enjoyed her favors, too?’ I wondered. ‘When? Where?’ This was all quite strange.
Barto continued, “If you get her out of here, maybe I will marry her and move to America and get rich,” he said, smiling broadly.
“Anyway, it’s all bullshit,” he continued. “The girls are innocent and Tuma has no right to hang them or the old man. Parambe is twice the man that he is. He actually risked his life for our independence back in the day. Tuma is a big hero when his enemies are strapped to a table in his interrogation room, but he has never risked his sorry ass in fighting.”
“We will give him a surprise then, in the morning,” I replied.
“Very few of the guards will risk their necks to save his. Even some of his own Security men may not.” Then he turned to his crew. “George, let these good men in.” The fellow with the wire cutters went to work on the fence and, soon, he pulled back a section of the wire, leaving a hole big enough for a person to slip through.
I whistled, twice high and once low, and our fighters poured down from the treed area. It had been decided that the group with the mortar would stay behind in the trees. When the official party was assembled for the hanging and we were ready to attack, John would signal them with a text message. They would launch a few rounds in the general direction of the camp parade ground, then disappear into the surrounding countryside. Our hope was that Tuma would send enough of the Security Forces chasing after them that we would stand a fighting chance against the rest.
Barto led the rest of us through the camp, keeping close to the sides of the various buildings. He ushered us into what appeared to be a kitchen storeroom, from the various bags and cans of flour and other staples that lined the shelves. He drew us a map of the various buildings showing us where the gallows had been erected, waiting for the sun to rise and the nation to awake to the live telecast of the historic proceedings.
And thus began the hardest part-waiting. Waiting as the sun came up and it began to grow hot in the storage shed, packed with our fighters. We sent a scout out to peek around the edge of the adjoining barracks where he could get a clear view of the parade ground. He reported that a platform had been erected with a gallows from which hung three nooses.
A second scout, sent a while later, reported that workers were placing rows of folding wooden chairs in front of the gallows, presumably for the friends and supporters of our new President. Soon, we heard, through the thin walls of the storage shed, the buzz of expectant conversation coming from the parade ground. It seemed we wouldn’t have much longer to wait.
I called up ZBC on my phone. They were running the same video they had run the day before just prior to Tuma’s speech announcing his seizure of power. Before long, the picture cut to a live shot from the parade ground just 100 meters or so from where we sat.
The camera focused on the gallows with the three nooses, then panned to show the spectators. After a few minutes, the spectators took their seats, before rising again to the sound of the national anthem being played by a small brass band.
Then, the camera showed the condemned being brought out-first the redhaired American woman, naked, her hands cuffed behind her. “Meghan,” Jerry said, as loud as he dared without giving away our hiding place.
Then came something I never in my life had expected ever to see-our deposed President, Parambe, naked as well, followed by the American reporter, likewise completely nude. Jerry’s face was white. “Barb,” he whispered.
The three prisoners were led up onto the platform and made to climb onto a bench. Their heads were inserted in the nooses. It was a chilling spectacle, designed to show the country that Tuma was now the supreme leader, whose authority could be challenged only at the cost of one’s life
We watched on our screens as Tuma mounted the platform, all gotten up in a presidential uniform, such as we had grown accustomed to seeing Parambe in. Tuma had even less right to wear those ribbons and medals than Parambe did. Ever the showman, he took a microphone and started speaking-utter lies about treason and collusion in treason.
He and the crowd seemed absorbed in the moment-this seemed like the time to launch our attack. I nodded at John. He nodded at me and sent his text to the mortar crew. The rest of us massed at the door, safeties off our guns, ready to charge out as soon as we heard the mortar blast.
But there was nothing. Tuma droned on. John texted again. Nothing. “I wonder if their location is out of cell range. We never tested it,” he said, looking a bit sheepish. Finally, Tuma seemed to finish.
The ZBC picture on my phone swung around to show the condemned. The reporter, Barb was saying something to Tuma that the microphones didn’t pick up. One of the guards produced two strips of black cloth, which he tied around the heads of Barb and Meghan to make a blindfold. Parambe was denied this final mercy. There now seemed nothing left to do, but kick the bench away and let the three of them hang.
This was too much for Jerry. He pushed past two of our men and out the door of the storage shed. He ran towards the parade ground, his pistol pointed at the gallows, blazing away in the general direction of Tuma. “Jerry! No!” I yelled, but he was like a man possessed. Several of the Security men turned and gaped at him open-mouthed, stunned into inactivity for the moment. Quickly, they collected themselves and opened fire, cutting him down on the spot.
The mortar crew must have seen or heard the commotion and realized that although they hadn’t gotten the signal, this was the time to act. I heard the sound of an incoming round and a large boom close by. General panic broke out.
It was now or never. “Let’s go!” I yelled. Our entire crew charged the parade ground, guns blazing as the Security men returned fire.
Tuma-I have to give him credit for being determined to see his hanging carried out-hearing the shots ringing out, yelled “Hang them! Now!” before running for cover. One of his minions kicked the bench away before scurrying after his boss.
The three condemned dropped a short distance, their feet dangling just above the ground, the bulky black body of the President swinging between the svelte bodies of the two American women, as the bullets flew back and forth between our fighters and Tuma’s goons.
One of our men who carried one of our RPG launchers stopped, took cover behind a ZBC trailer and launched a grenade into the assembled spectators, who had ducked to the ground when the shooting began. It was probably wrong to fire into a crowd of civilians, but they had come to witness Tuma’s show and thus it was reasonable to think they were supporters of his coup.
The grenade exploded with a loud “Boom!” sending bodies flying into the air. Those spectators who were not killed or seriously wounded by the blast ran screaming towards the camp gate, some with blood streaming down their faces. It was total chaos.
Bullets were flying in all directions. However, I noticed that many of the Security men had dropped their guns and were heading for the camp gate as well. They didn’t want to die for Tuma, it seemed. It looked like the battle was going our way.
Then, I heard it-chopper blades in the distance, getting louder as it approached. ‘Oh shit,” I thought as I saw it coming in low from the north, one of the two helicopter gunships Parambe had purchased rather than feed the starving children of Zilawe. Their powerful guns fired from on high could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat for Tuma.
“Chopper!” I yelled. The other of our men who carried an RPG launcher hoisted the long tube onto his shoulder. He took aim on the copter and fired. The rocket streaked across the sky. The helicopter seemed to pause in mid-air, trying to take evasive action, but too late. It exploded in flames, falling to the ground just outside the camp fence.
I ran towards the gallows. As I passed a ZBC trailer, a bullet whistled past my head. I turned in the direction that shot had come from. It was Tuma with a pistol. I turned and fired off some rounds of my Uzi, hitting him three times in the chest. If he wasn’t dead, he was close enough that it would have to do.
The death of Tuma and the loss of the helicopter that might have turned the tide of battle more or less sapped the will of the remaining members of the Security Service. They made for their vehicles and as soon as the engines roared to life, sped out the main gate of the camp and turned onto the road leading back to the capital.
When I reached the gallows, I saw that all three of the condemned were still alive, though they were making horrible gurgling sounds, their faces contorted by the effort to draw air into their lungs, their feet kicking madly in a vain struggle to reach the ground and relieve the awful pressure on their necks.
One of our men came running over with a machete. I quickly cut down Barb, then Meghan, catching their naked bodies as they fell and laying them on the ground, where their sputtering and coughing told me that we had arrived just in time to save them.
I considered what to do with Parambe. He hung there limply, his struggles ebbing, the life breath slowly leaving his body. If I did not act immediately, he would die. Could I turn my back on a fellow human whose life it was within my power to save? You, dear reader, may condemn the choice I made, but I decided that, unlike the women, who were innocent, he deserved to die for what he had done to our country.
I motioned one of our fighters, who had trained as a paramedic, over to tend to the two American women. He listened to their chests, his ear pressed against their naked breasts, then looked at me, “I think they will be OK.”
“God is smiling on us today,” I said, glancing heavenward. Satisfied that the two women would survive, I went to see to our fallen fighters. Surprisingly, there were only four who had been taken from us. I said a silent prayer for the souls of our late comrades.
I continued to the other end of the parade ground, where I saw Jerry’s body lying in a pool of blood. There was no doubt that he was dead, cut down before he could know if his attempt to free his countrywomen had been successful. It was an exceptional thing he did, coming halfway around the world to try to save them.
Later, I learned that he had not behaved well with them when they were in the prison in Molabayo, giving in to his own baser instincts. Nevertheless, I believed in redemption and he had risked his life to rescue them. In the end, it is not for me to judge him.
The dead and wounded tended to, I found John and we went to look for our comrades among the prisoners. I was most pleased, to come upon, Roderick Komba, who had been one of the leaders of our opposition movement before his arrest by the Security Services. We knew he had been sent to a camp, but did not know which one. He embraced John and me warmly as did our other imprisoned comrades.
We didn’t know whether troops would be coming to counterattack, and it seemed most prudent not to remain here long. We assembled the non-political prisoners and told them that we would leave the camp gate open and they were free to stay or go as they wished.
The political prisoners joined with us, smiling and laughing at their sudden, unexpected freedom and we made ready to move out to safety in the countryside and then on across the border into Silanga to wait and see how the situation developed in Zilawe. The two Americans were conscious now, but too weak to walk. Our men dressed them in the uniforms of dead Security men and made two makeshift stretchers to carry them with us.
As we were leaving the camp, we passed the ZBC trailers. They were showing pictures from Molabayo. It seemed the entire population was in the street, excited by the victory we had won. The gates of the Presidential Palace were open, the gun emplacements abandoned and the people were pouring inside. The day we had dreamed of for so many years was upon us.
***
And that, dear reader, is almost the end of this tale. But not quite. Because a professional journalist like our Barbara Moore would hardly cover and then live, in the flesh (and very delectable flesh it is), the story of a lifetime without putting the most recent developments in Zilawean affairs in proper context, exclusively for the readers of this great newspaper. You know, the kind of sober analysis you won't get in a rag like others I will not stoop to name. So watch for one final dispatch from our intrepid reporter.
Last edited:
Don't rush me .... I'm busy
windar
Teller of Tales
Glad you enjoyed it OS. It was fun to write.
Which evil man are you referring to-Parambe or Jerry? I didn't have any qualms killing Tuma off.
If you wear that to the awards ceremony, you will create quite a stir (in some trousers anyway)
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
An armed putsch, in prime time
, live on TV! Only on ZBC!
Eat that, CNN!
I look out for an extra edition!
Dramatic great ending!
, live on TV! Only on ZBC!Eat that, CNN!
I look out for an extra edition!
Dramatic great ending!
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
Oh come on!! I'd never call Jerry evil. It will be interesting to read whether BM puts the soiree for the foursome in her article, and whether she places more emphasis on the food than the fooling around.
I think Jerry redeemed himself. The rebels needed the push and the odd 50K to storm the camp.
Meghan was a more complex character than at first imagined; I hope BM's piece will tell us a bit more about her desires.
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
I wonder if she can get the tapes....??
geolier
Tribune
Hmmm , a succesful revolution going on? Do we see Jerry and the other bastard finally condemned to death?
But why aren't we informed whether the male prisoners during transport and in the camp are naked as well or not?
Wow!!!!
FanTASTic!!!
You both deserve one!
And, if there was a Pulitzer for photomanips, Madi too!
I need to chill out and wait for Barb's last word....
SO YOU FORGOT YOUR NYPD TRAINING THERE, DID YOU? HAPPENS TO THE BEST OF US. ALLOW ME TO SHOW YOU AROUND. ALL I ASK IS THAT YOU NOT BREAK ANYTHING TOO EXPENSIVE WHEN TUMA SHOWS UP, WHICH WILL BE ANY TIME NOW. ODDLY ENOUGH, BARB WON'T BE JOINING US THIS TIME.
Nice to see a brighter future for Zilawe. What is a country led by former NY cabbies going to be like?
I suppose Barb's report won't mention whether she's mourning the loss of Jerry, eh, after his
DEATH IS ALWAYS HARDEST ON THE ONES LEFT BEHIND, ESPECIALLY IF YOU'RE STUCK GIVING THE EULOGY.
Using mirrors now?
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
A hellhole for Uber!What is a country led by former NY cabbies going to be like?
windar
Teller of Tales
You're confusing me with my brother. You'll have to wait a bit for him. He did almost get shot rescuing Barb though. What is it with her anyway?
Never speak ill of the dead...
These days Uber is making it hell for cabbies, I'm afraid.A hellhole for Uber!
A hellhole for Uber!
