Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 03

She checked her wrist, forgetting again the slim gold band was a monitor, not a watch. The wall clock told her thirty minutes to go, before her little Filipina minder turned up to spoil her fun. Then she'd have to climb back into that godforsaken black sack, meant to cover her from head to toe, and herded like some highly prized livestock back to her pen. Beck stuck her bottom lip out and blew a wayward tress from her cheek. She looked around. Row or ride?

Half an hour later to the minute, a door opened up and Floraliza let herself in. A gentle young soul in her twenties or thirties, she reminded Beck of an anime character, slim, petite, quietly spoken and polite, always immaculate in her smart blue uniform. Beck had been playing her... in a kind and caring kind of way... for more and more leeway, acting the part of a recalcitrant daughter to a firm but patient mother. "That was never two hours!" she whined, "I haven't finished."

"Come, Miss Rebekah, it's almost time for lunch."

Beck stamped her foot. "But I had lunch yesterday."

"You must keep your strength up." Floraliza said, stifling a smile. "After all this exercise."

Beck padded across the carpet-tiled floor to a water cooler by the window. Helping herself to a small paper cup of room-temperature water, she looked outside as a low dark vessel nosed up to the dock, at the very far end of the long, concave complex. "What's that?" she asked, gesturing with her chin at the boat, watching white-uniformed sailors dart here and there, tying up.

Floraliza appeared at her elbow, unfurling Beck's travel bag. Side-by-side they were almost the same height, the Filipina perhaps a shade smaller. "The prince's gunboat."

"Gunboat? Why does he need a gun on it?"

"Here." Floraliza said, dodging the question, opening the heavy black robe Beck was required to wear outside.

Beck's shoulders slumped. "I don't wanna."

"Please, Miss Rebekah, it's the law."

"But whyyy?"

"So no one can steal your beauty with their eyes."

"They're welcome to it." Beck said crossly, thrusting her arms into the garment and ducking her head. When Floraliza went to pull the black hood up, which would be followed by a black mask, leaving just a narrow slit for the eyes, the little blonde fended her off. "Lizzy, no! Bad enough I have to wear this stupid thing, but you're not putting that ninja hood over my head."

"But Miss Rebekah-"

"Please, Lizzy! I get claustrophobia."

The Filipina huffed and puffed her disapproval but eventually caved in. "Then we must hurry, so you are not seen."

Looking left and right to make sure the coast was clear, Floraliza led Beck by the black-gloved hand out into the hundred-meter hallway. In the dim light, with the hood tossed back, and her dazzling platinum-blonde hair strewn all over her black-robed shoulders, she looked for all the world like a black and white photograph, an ancient, artful daguerreotype, beauty incarnate etched on slivered copper plate, brought to light by mercury vapour. Hand-in-hand with her keeper, she stole down the long, curving corridor, silent as a shadow.

Built right down on the shoreline at the foot of the sea palace, the 'guest' accommodation was known as the Bird House. It was a low, flat semicircle of red granite and marble, two storeys high, 100 apartments or more, with a gold-tinted glass frontage, and a sloping roof of glazed green tiles. Beck had no idea how many apartments were actually occupied. She heard whispers of voices in the hallway from time to time, hushed or simply muted, footsteps hurrying past one way or the other.

Most of the time it was as silent as a tomb, off limits to anyone other than the residents and their handlers. And the royals of course, who went where they liked, always with an entourage, often using the Bird House as a shortcut to the palace, either from the docks or the seaside helipad.

As Floraliza punched the code to Beck's door, a handsome, glaring man in a black dishdasha rounded the bend, a brace of heavily armed soldiers in black fatigues hot on his heels, followed in-turn by a clutch of white-uniformed naval officers. Beck heard Floraliza mutter something like 'shit', as she fumbled with the handle and opened the door.

AR15s at their shoulders, the troops repositioned in front of the black-robed male. A voice yelled, "STOP!"

Beck waved with a big, bright smile. "Gidday!"

As the black-robed male forced his way between them, Floraliza planted a hand in the middle of Beck's back. "Go!" she huffed, propelling Beck through the door. "Quickly!"

The man in the black dishdasha and red-checked keffiyeh raised his hand. "WAIT!"

Stumbling into her room, Beck turned as Floraliza pulled the door shut behind her. "FLORALIZA!" she yelled, thumping the door.

Outside in the hallway, Floraliza stood cowering as the man in black towered over her. "You!" he barked, "That woman, who is she?"

"I'm sorry your Highness," Floraliza pleaded, "I cannot say."

"Cannot say? What do you mean? Of course you can! Tell me!"

"But the protocol, My Lord."

"Protocol be damned. I am a prince. I am your master. That woman? Who is she?"

"I beg you, Your Highness. I have taken an oath."

"Oath? Fuck your stupid oath! Who is that woman? By the Herald's name tell me!"

"Your Highness, forgive me."

The prince pounded the door, then stabbed blindly at the keypad. "Open this door!" he railed. "Whore! Give me the code immediately."

"Your Highness, I beg you-"

The prince drew his arm back, then slapped Floraliza hard on the side of the head, a resounding, flat handed blow that rang down the corridor. Down she went in a sprawling heap, her tightly-bound black hair erupting from its bonds. Little fists pounded at the door inside, to the sound of muffled screaming. As the woman crawled whimpering to the prince's sandalled feet, the troops safed their weapons, and stood back watching the boss in action. The white-uniformed officers traded anxious looks. The prince had never been known for his abilities of self-restraint. If he killed this woman, now they'd be stuck with the paperwork.

"LET ME IN!" the prince bellowed, stabbing at the keypad once more. Turning, he kicked the crying Filipina in the ribs, hard enough to lift her bodily off the floor.

The senior naval officer broke loose to intervene. "Your Highness!" he pleaded, "I beg you, desist. Before you do yourself and injury."

The prince stepped back, heavy breathing, and rearranged his robes. "Have this woman jailed for five years." he growled. "Then throw her out of my country! If her family is here, throw them out too. You men Continue on to the meeting. I wish to pay my respects to His Majesty!"

************************************************************************************************************

Bragg climbed into the back of a black Mercedes, all suited up and ready to go. He was carrying a sheaf of documents- for decoration only- and a crisp white envelope in an inside pocket that would actually do all the talking. It was going on for evening. Kevin had just messaged, announcing the arrival at work of Bragg's target, one Brigadier Talfi Khamim. The driver, in suit and tie, with a peaked cap parked jauntily on his head, looked over his shoulder. "Good evening Sir. Where may I take you?"

"The Naval Prison." Bragg replied, head down securing his seat belt.

"Where?"

"The Naval Prison. Around one hundred kilometers south. Just punch it into the nav."

"But... Sir... that is a prohibited area."

"That's okay, I've got a clearance."

"I'm sorry, Sir, but I'm going to have to check."

"Why? I just told you, I've got a clearance."

The driver sat wringing the wheel.

"Well?" Bragg snapped, "Let's go."

"But, Sir..."

"What's the matter with you?" Bragg glared. "You are paid by the hotel to drive guests around. Are you not? You are not here to debate the destination."

"But..."

Bragg waved a hand. "Go, go."

"Please, Sir. Just give me one moment."

Bragg sat fuming while the driver climbed out, then scurried off to reception. He had no more been granted a clearance than just come back from the moon, but if there was one thing he knew, in this country everything was negotiable.

For the right price.

When the driver returned with the duty manager in tow, Bragg knew there was trouble. The argument on the concourse soon drew several spectators, including 3 or 4 other drivers, who turned up in support of their workmate. Bragg's blustering and bluffing was getting him nowhere, the hotel's tall, elegant manager remaining calm yet intractable. The Naval Prison was a prohibited facility. In the middle of a prohibited area what's more, a live-fire range, frequently bombed, traversed by fully-armed gunships, in the hands of trigger-happy pilots. As much as he was a valued guest, even Bragg could not compel the staff to commit such a crime. If he did have clearance, and there was none he could show, the only vehicle that might take him there was police or military. The driver was dismissed and departed for the underground parking, to give his car another wash and shine. Then the manager left, so did the rubbernecks, leaving Bragg alone and seething outside the lobby.

What next, he wondered. Taxi? Hire a car and drive there himself? He pulled the phone from his pocket and was about to hit up a search, when there was a tap on his shoulder from behind.

Bragg looked around. "Ali?"

The driver from Bragg's midnight jaunt to the FBO stood looking nervously around. Dismissing 1 or 2 loitering workmates, he checked the coast was clear one last time and said, "Mister Bragg. What is it you wish?"

Bragg ran a hand through his hair. "I'm trying to get to the military prison. Out in the desert."

"The naval prison?"

Bragg nodded.

"May I enquire why?"

Bragg heaved a sigh. "My pilot's gone missing. And I promised her father I'd always look after her. So now I've failed."

"She is in prison?"

"According to my information."

"She has committed a crime?"

"It's impossible to know. There's been no word from her, or my other pilot for that matter. They were taken from the airport just after landing."

"I can see you are worried, Mister Bragg."

"No, Ali. I'm desperate."

"The prison is a forbidden place. It is not permitted to go there."

"Thanks Ali, I already got that."

Ali looked around again, as if weighing his options. He was out of uniform, on his way home, after a 12-hour shift driving a limo. "Come," he said, "I will take you there."

Bragg looked him up and down in surprise. "You? But... aren't you off duty?"

"We can take my own car. It is a very humble car, you must forgive me, but I will try to get you to the prison to look for your worker."

They set off, a smartly dressed westerner, and a grey-haired, dignified local, for a sprawling parking lot on the far side of a busy 6-lane road. Bragg's heart was suddenly hammering in his chest- while he'd hoped all along to pull off a visit to the prison, he now found himself in two minds about pushing his luck. What would Tanya say? When he became a resident of the very same facility, banged up on indefinite remand, awaiting a show trial, followed by ten years behind prison bars? "I hope you're not risking your neck, Ali."

"We have a saying, Mister Bragg. Fortune favours the brave."

They pulled up beside a battered old Peugeot, its green paintwork crazed and peeling after years under the merciless sun. Ali opened the rear right door and gestured Bragg in. "Forgive me," he said, "for the quality of my vehicle."

"Mind if I sit up front?" Bragg asked. "Partners in misadventure."

"But, Sir... Mister Bragg... you are my honoured guest."

"This is how we do it where I come from. Come on, Ali. Let's get this show on the road."

The sun had gone down and the crowds were slowly emerging, like so many nocturnal creatures out of their burrows. The city lit up, shops starting to open, while the sidewalks teemed with pedestrians. Old and faded but immaculately clean, the Peugeot wove deftly through the snarling traffic, Bragg in the front right seat watching the world go by. Sidewalk sheesha bars pouring perfumed smoke into the hot night sky, kebab joints and pizza parlours wafting spice. Hardware, elecrtical, convenience stores, a new-age bazaar coming to life.

Hitting the main drag, they raced past embassies and stadia, police HQ and military units, ringed with concrete walls and razor wire. Then into the suburbs, walled villas surrounded by date palms, dusty vacant lots strewn with litter. They sped through an industrial area, past the port, until at last they left the city behind, powering along at a hundred miles an hour down a largely deserted highway. Pristine blacktop, six lanes wide. "Know where you're going?" Bragg asked at length.

"Only too well." Ali replied, then winkled a cigarette from the pack in his top pocket. "Cigarette, Mister Bragg?"

Bragg shook his head. "No thanks Ali, but you go right ahead. Look, why don't you just call me Roger?"

"I am just a lowly driver, Mister Bragg. That would not be proper."

"Mister Roger then. I'll meet you halfway."

Ali smiled a big white smile. "A wise and clever man. Mister Bragg... Sir... I wish to convey my wife's thanks to you."

"Your wife's?"

"For the money. A great help. With all our children at school."

"I thought education was free." Bragg frowned as Ali lit up, then wound his window down a couple of inches. "Doesn't the government pay?"

"It depends on your family." Ali said. "In the past we were many tribes. Not all of them got along."

"So, you only enjoy the benefits according to ancestry?"

"It is not the same in your country?"

Bragg thought about it. "Know what? I guess it is in a way."

"Humans are strange." Ali intoned.

"Verily. You, too, are wise and clever man, Ali."

The highway ended at a military roadblock, on the boundary of the bombing range, protected by large concrete barriers precluding a high-speed, straight in approach. Then a heavy boom gate, flanked on either side by low concrete buildings, the whole area lit up by overhead floodlights. As the Peugeot drew up, slaloming between the blast baffles, 4 heavily armed troops stepped onto the road, dressed in the mottled blue fatigues of the Ab Aldafran navy. One raised his hand, 'Stop', while the others pulled back, assault rifles at the ready.

Cranking his window down, Ali handed over his ID with a hand-to-heart greeting, then sat waiting while the senior soldier studied his bona fides. Looking up, the officer jerked his chin at an underling who promptly skirted the vehicle and pulled up beside the passenger door. Rapping on the window with a knuckle, he stood back, hand on his rifle, waiting while Bragg rolled the window down. He snapped his fingers. "Pass!"

"Pass?" Bragg echoed, "But I..."

"Just give him some ID" Ali muttered, apparently unperturbed by the proximity of so much firepower.

Rolling onto one cheek, Bragg extracted his wallet, pulled out a photo ID- his Australian driver's licence- and handed it over. The trooper looked it over, both sides, then snapped his fingers again.

"Phone."

"What?"

"Phone! Phone!"

Bragg heaved a sigh and passed the soldier his cell phone. The black one, the one Kev the IT guru had heavily modified. No GPS connection, but a deeply hidden program that reported his position wherever he went, updating at three-minute intervals. The trooper studied it, glaring, then shook it in Bragg's face. "Unlock!"

"It's not locked." Bragg said flatly, "just swipe the display."

Leaning over him, Ali passed on the message, then sat back waiting while his vehicle underwent inspection, rear doors and trunk opened, mirrors under the belly.

The trooper shook the phone in Bragg's face once more. "Where camera?"

"No camera." Bragg replied, imitating the act of breaking a stick. "Mafi camera. Broken"

A quick survey of Bragg's message bank yielded similarly slim pickings, a few texts, sadly no juicy photographs of depraved western women displaying their wares. Finally bored, the trooper tossed the phone through the window and slouched away.

Ali lit up a smoke, then opened his door and casually stepped out as the gate guards pulled back and unlimbered their weapons. Ali gestured at his phone, and once it had been returned, swiped up a photo album. The troops gathered in a huddle around him as Ali stood, cigarette hanging from his lip, smoke rising in curls around his face. He called up some image or other and the energy quickly escalated, to the point Bragg wondered if the shooting was about to begin. Then it was all hands-on-hearts, handshakes and kissing and Ali returned.

Bragg looked at him, plainly impressed, as Ali climbed back into the Peugeot. The boom gate magically rose, and the troops took up position either side of the road. As they drove past, all 4 troops threw off a brisk salute.

Bragg looked over his shoulder, watching the brightly lit road block retreat in the distance. He looked at Ali. "What on Earth did you just do?"

Ali stared ahead into the headlight beam. Beyond the checkpoint, the night was inky black, no towering street lights, no roadside reflectors. Instead, they were barrelling down an undulating ribbon of asphalt, 4 lanes wide, as fast as the geriatric Peugeot would go. "I was a brother in arms." Ali explained.

"You were in the Navy?"

Ali shook his head. "Marines. I could see from his uniform. The older brother and I were at the battle of Jebel Sur. Where we threw the invaders back over the border. A wonderful victory, but very costly."

"So you're a vet?" Bragg said and Ali looked at him frowning. "A veteran?"

"I had the honour of serving. Yes."

"And they still treat you like a second-class citizen?"

"I fought for my country, Mister Roger, not for myself."

"Still sucks if you ask me."

As they drove in silence, Ali chain smoking, Bragg suddenly sensed the car was making a noise. A sort of throbbing hum, with an intermittent rattle. While he knew as much about cars as boat motors, something wasn't right. His heart sank. If they broke down here, miles from nowhere, in the middle of a bombing range, on an illegal tilt at a military prison... "Umm... Ali," he hedged, "do you think it might be better if we slowed down?"

Ali looked at him. "Why, Mister Roger?"

"Can't you hear? Your car is making a noise."

Ali cocked his ear. "No," he said, then wound down his window, "car is not making noise."

The sound of pounding rotors filled the vehicle, underscored by the high-pitched wail of screeching turboshaft engines. Rolling down his own window, Bragg stuck his head into the slipstream, searching the darkness for the source of the racket.

"Apaches." Ali yelled over the din, and Bragg caught the bright white sparkle of sand grains striking rotor blades. One to the right, one to the left, 2 matt black ships were skimming the desert 20 meters away, invisible against the gritty night sky.

"What are they doing?" Bragg yelled.

Ali wound his window up. "Training." he said as the din reduced, "The pilots are probably bored. They just come to look."

"Let's just hope that's all they do."

"Do not worry. My brothers have warned them not to shoot us."

"Let's just hope the message got through." Bragg said, suddenly sweating. Away in the distance, he saw lights loom on the horizon. He pointed. "Another vehicle?"

"Not vehicle," Ali said, "that is the Naval Prison. Is on a small hill. Very bright lights all around, hoping the jets and helicopters can miss them."

The desert complex looked like something out of a Bond movie, tall, concrete walls, surrounding a minefield moat, then another huge wall and, beyond it, the four 3-storey arms of the cell blocks, radiating outwards from the admin hub. A gate opened and as they entered, half a dozen troops gathered around them. Winding down his window, Bragg got ready with his ID and phone.