Sans Frontières, experiencing the earthy life of Asia and Africa.
While drying themselves off, James asked casually, “Did you work with Shelly Walsh during her acclimatization?”
“Yes, lovely girl. Why?”
“I met her yesterday; she was very abrupt and snooty.”
“I’m not surprised, with an animal like you making passes.” He laughed loudly at his dig. “She does seem to have a lot on her mind; never opened up to me or Alison, but there is definitely something not quite right. Alison noticed it as well.”
Alison was Clive’s fiancée and they were to be married when they returned to Europe in eight weeks. She also came from the UK, from a little farming town called Witney, west of Oxford. They met at Orion where she worked as a senior nursing sister.
“It’s a shame, she’s so attractive,” James observed thoughtfully.
“I have never seen you take this much interest in a girl. Thinking of leaving the closet?”
James got a firm grip on Clive’s arm and shoved him into the pool, towel and all; Clive roared with laughter.
Alison arrived and placed her towel on a chair. “What’s so funny?” She looked closely at Clive.
James leered suggestively at Alison, “He’s convinced I’m gay and says the only way to change his mind is if you tell him otherwise.”
“Come to my apartment tonight and prove it.” Her mischievous wink was hidden from Clive.
“Over my dead body, you old son of a gun!” Clive bellowed then changed tack. “James has a thing for Shelly Walsh but he also noticed she’s wound a little too tight.”
“Yes, such an attractive girl, but there’s obviously something in her past that is upsetting her.” Alison dived into the pool, cleaving the water effortlessly then breaking into a powerful butterfly stroke.
James changed the subject. “What did you think of John Gilmore’s speech on Sunday?” So far he’d not disclosed to anyone the contents of the communiqués.
“Alarmist possibly, but it’s hard to tell with so little information,” Clive answered casually. “One of the lab technicians has a short-wave radio and listens to radio Kinshasa but his French is so bad and there is so much propaganda that he says it is virtually useless anyway.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we were attacked one of these days,” James said gloomily. “We’re a prime target for looters and other opportunists.”
“I think you should come for a check-up,” Clive laughed. “You’ve been working too hard.” His face was not as relaxed as his tone, aware of the potential danger but reluctant to dwell on it. “We should meet for a meal sometime this week; Alison can do the cooking.” He winked at her pretty face as she launched herself out of the water.
“Chauvinist!” She adopted a classic fencing pose, her towel taut between outstretched arms, and then flicked him repeatedly. James admired her fine, well-endowed figure; for the first time in a while, he really felt he was returning to normal.
“Thursday will be great for me,” he said, conscious of Alison’s full bust as she leaned over the pool lounger.
“OK. See you at seven.” She smiled to herself, secretly pleased at his admiring looks.
He changed the subject. “Are either of you going to the emergency-action training sessions?”
“No. We’re committed to the Hippocratic Oath,” Clive pompously spoke on behalf of Alison. “They should start extensive first-aid training while they’re at it, especially if the ‘end is nigh’ as you and your mate Gilmore seem to think.”
“Good idea, I’ll talk to him. Unfortunately, if it isn’t his idea, he’ll probably reject it. Better think of a subtle introduction to the plan.” James retrieved his towel. “I’m off to drive a bulldozer, building the back-wall for the rifle range. Imagine my résumé, ‘programmer, security consultant, and bulldozer operator.’”
John Gilmore was too important to see James personally; instead a lackey kept him waiting, pretending to search for the requisition form.
“Probably the only new item on his desk this month,” James thought.
“Commander Gilmore says you should notify him when you have finished,” the lackey chirped.
“He’s been promoted?” James asked, reluctant to let the apparently self-appointed title pass without comment.
“That has always been his rank, although he doesn’t normally use it,” squeaked the lackey, a corporal, and second-in-command to Gilmore.
“OK.” James knew that one rank above corporal was sergeant. “See you later, Colonel.” He left before the man could respond.
It was a fast, twenty-minute walk down the main road to the jetty gate. The pair of armed volunteers on duty was an unusual sight.
“State your business, please?” one of them requested.
“Sightseer,” James joked, holding out the requisition form.
The other guard fingered his rifle officiously. “State your business immediately,” he demanded, raising his voice.
“As it says on the form," James replied levelly, handing the requisition form to the loud one, "I am going to the warehouses to request the use of a bulldozer to construct the back-wall of the rifle range.”
The guard barely looked at the document. “These papers are not in order,” he shouted, waving his rifle menacingly. “Go back to Commander Gilmore and get the correct permit to enter the wharf area.”
The other guard, obviously concerned by the escalation of hostility, held his rifle dejectedly, unsure what to do next.
“Why don’t you phone him?” James spoke sharply, losing his patience.
“Don’t shout at me!” screamed the now very agitated guard. “I’m in charge here!”
James, unimpressed by silly posturing, laughed. “In charge of a gate. Responsible position indeed.”
The guard stepped back, struggling to cock his rifle, apparently intending using it to subdue the 'impertinent civilian.’
James leaped forward, knocked the weapon to the ground, and grabbed the man by the neck, lifting him clean off the ground and pressing him firmly against the wall of the guard-hut.
He spoke in a deadly, flat voice. “If you ever point a weapon at me again, I will force it up your ass till it sticks out of your mouth. Do I make myself very clear?” Icy-grey eyes bore into the guard, who knew he was way out of his depth, and perilously close to the end.
James had not reacted this way since his time in the military; he’d hoped the killer instinct, acquired through intensive training and long exposure to violence had passed. He had attained the rank of Major through combat performance and field leadership, and had been decorated for ‘displaying extreme bravery and aggression in the face of often overwhelming enemy strength.’ The officious guard sensed the very real danger.
“Yes, Sir,” he jabbered, white with fear, “I am sorry for the inconvenience.” James dropped him and, snatching the requisition paper from the other guard, strode away without looking back.
He wondered what John Gilmore's reaction would be if he found out. He resolved to try and control his temper and co-operate with the security guards.
He’d cooled down by the time he reached the jetty office. A light breeze ruffled the surface of the river, which sparkled an iridescent blue in the bright sunlight. The jetty, a two-hundred-foot structure, ten feet wide and made of treated timber, stood high above the river. It was designed for offloading supplies from the ferries. “Ideal fishing spot,” he