Fortress Bedrock – Containment Protocol-Part 30

Ninja stuff. Fiction. 2300 words, 12-minute read.

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Stealth is the order of the day.

The rest of the Containment Protocol saga can be found here: https://raytabler.substack.com/s/containment-protocol-serial

Part 1 (the beginning), ... Part 29 (last episode), Part 31 (coming soon)

Fortress Bedrock – Containment Protocol-Part 30

By Ray Tabler

Booker, Muñoz, and Zunta peered through the foliage at the outer walls of Bedrock, careful not to expose themselves to the sentries. There were half a dozen armed tribesmen clustered around the cave mouth above the river ford where the crocodiles had attacked day before yesterday.

Was it only a day and a half? Booker had lost track of the passage of time since then. He briefly attempted to replay the duration in his head, then gave up. It didn’t matter. The only important thing was getting back into Bedrock, and getting his men back home. And rescuing Nohfa too. Zunta would insist on that. Booker realized it was a priority for him as well. For reasons best left unexamined at the moment.

Zunta whispered, pointing at the visible sentries, then up and down the river.

“Zunta says every one of those warriors down there is a member of the witch doctor’s faction.”

“His faction?” Booker raised an eyebrow. “Sounds a lot more formal than I would’ve expected.”

“My word. Zunta went into a lot of extraneous detail about family connections, and past sleights individuals perceive Vinzi did them. But it boils down to factions, however superficial and temporary.”

“Perceived slights or real?”

“Doesn’t matter. Analytical reasoning isn’t a widespread habit among these people. Especially when it’s not convenient.”

“Not that different from back home after all. So, not fanatics, but still enemies to us.”

“Exactly. The upshot is that this route in is closed to us.”

“If we rush them, you and I could shoot a few of them. The rest will probably run off.” Booker suggested.

“The ones that get away will warn everybody inside. We lose the element of surprise.”

“Good point.”

Zunta spoke up, and slid back into the covering bushes.

“Where’s he going?”

Muñoz followed. “He says there’s another way in.”

Booker, feeling a bit miffed at not being consulted, slithered after them. He wasn’t able to ask any more questions until they’d reached where they’d left the swahldets in a thicket a hundred yards back.

“Where’s this other entrance?”

Zunta spoke over his shoulder as he set off on his swahldet. Muñoz translated.

“About two miles around the curve of the mesa. Not many know about it. Old, closely-held family secret. We have to leave the swahldets behind when we get there.”

“Family secret? As long as these people have lived here, how likely is it it’s still a secret?”

“Couldn’t say.” Muñoz crossed his fingers. “I just hope there’s no Goddamned lava involved. I have had a shit ton more of that lately than I ever want to deal with again!”

Booker laughed despite the situation. Zunta glanced back, laughing along without understanding the exchange, and described his plans for torturing Bunzo to death. Muñoz had more experience interacting with other cultures, and managed to smile at Zunta’s detailed plan for retribution. He didn’t bother translating for Booker, judging it a moral burden the lieutenant didn’t need to bear.

Muñoz got his wish. There was no roasting lava to brave along Zunta’s secret entrance to Bedrock. There was water instead.

“What about crocodiles?” Booker whispered as they waded into the river.

“I already asked Zunta about that. He just laughed.”

“Laughed? That is not a confidence builder.”

“No shit.”

The three of them swam across the river, heads barely above the surface. Hearts racing, Booker and Muñoz constantly swiveled their heads, looking for any ripple which might betray a giant crock hungry for a snack. Zunta didn’t seem to pay the slightest attention to anything but the far bank. And presently, they’d crossed the water without incident. Booker knew it was silly, but mentally attributed his worry at having fended off any reptiles. Mental crock repellent or pure dumb luck, either way, they made it across.

Instead of climbing out of the water, Zunta waded along the bank, only his shoulders above the water. He waded up a small tributary creek, which emerged as a small waterfall from the slope of Bedrock’s wall a hundred soggy paces upstream. Zunta disappeared into the cascading water. Booker and Muñoz looked at each other in surprise, then followed.

On the back side of the waterfall was a cave, half full of water. It was dim, lit only by sunlight diffusing through the curtain of falling water. Zunta stood in the middle of the pool, tense, stone knife out and held in front of him. On a ledge to one side was a predatory dino, the size of Volkswagen. She hissed, ready to pounce, but crouched over a clutch of a dozen eggs the diameter of basketballs.

Zunta whispered loudly over the din of the waterfall. He gestured at an opening in the cave wall to one side. Booker needed no translation. The opening led further into the rocky bowels of Bedrock, a way out of this standoff. He reasoned that the dino was only concerned for her eggs, and wouldn’t pursue them if they just moved on. That was fine with Booker. He didn’t have a frying pan big enough to fit even one of those eggs anyway.

Moving slowly, so as not to startle momma dino, the three edged over to the far end of the pool and the exit. First Booker, then Muñoz, and finally Zunta eased out of the water, and down the natural tunnel. A minute along the path, Zunta exhaled in relief. Booker took that as a good sign.

“He says were lucky it’s nesting season for that type of dino. Normally she would’ve attacked without hesitation.”

Booker laughed shakily. “Let’s hope our luck holds.”

The soldiers lost track of the numerous twists, turns, climbs, and descents Zunta led them through over the next hour or so. By some miracle, Muñoz’s flashlight still worked, even after repeated immersions, and heat treatments by close exposure to flowing lava. But its light was starting to falter by the time a spot of daylight appeared up ahead. Booker wondered if not having to traverse the path in utter darkness was one more measure of their capricious luck expended. That was the trouble with luck. You never knew when it was going to run out.

They crept up to the source of the daylight, staying low to avoid detection by anyone who might’ve been set to guard the opening. The tunnel let out onto a small ledge halfway up the interior wall of Bedrock. A narrow, brush lined path led downward along the wall to the right. At least they should be able to reach the caldera floor without being spotted.

Zunta wriggled on his belly to the lip of the ledge, peering cautiously down on the scene below. Booker and Muñoz did the same. Downtown Bedrock spread out before them, looking almost like a map. Booker studied the caldera floor, his tactically-trained mind automatically cataloging distances, approaches, and distributions of forces.

At first glance, nothing seemed to have changed. A longer look revealed an interesting story, which the lieutenant pieced together like a puzzle. The platoon of tanks was still in lager, circled up with weapons facing outward against threats. Those weapons were manned. Men stood in open hatches of their vehicles, hands on machine guns. Main guns bore on the huts of the village. The open space in the middle of the lager was full of indigs and some swahldets. They appeared to be mostly women and children. Although it was tough to tell at this distance. Even the small, low-power scope on his carbine didn’t help much. Booker longed for his long-lost binoculars, appropriated by Bunzo. Most telling of all, a pile of bodies wrapped around the lager like a reef surrounding a tropical isle.

“Shit!” Muñoz breathed. “Looks like Fort Apache down there!”

“That it does.” Booker assessed the situation. “I’m guessing that’s what’s left of Vinzi’s faction sheltering in the lager. Bunzo’s revolution must’ve gotten off to a rocky start, allowing them time to seek refuge with the platoon. The rebels tried to storm the lager, and got mowed down by machine gun fire. That probably threw a monkey wrench into the witch doctor’s plans.”

“And now it’s a siege.”

“Yep.”

Zunta growled and pointed. There was movement around the huts of the village. Unnoticed before, Booker realized that groups of tribesmen lurked there, staying out of sight of the machine guns atop the vehicles. They’d learned that lesson the hard way. With one of the groups was the unmistakable form of Bunzo, in his shaman regalia.

Booker placed the reticle of his carbine scope on the center of Bunzo’s mass.

“That’s an awful long shot.” Muñoz commented neutrally.

“Yeah.” Booker sighed, lowering his weapon. “Probably miss. Only thing that would do is let the son of a bitch know we’re here. Which is the only ace up our sleeve right now.”

Muñoz relaxed, realizing Booker wasn’t going to do anything stupid. “How long you think the platoon can hold out? Food and water might be a problem in a day or so.”

“Judging from the pile of bodies, they’ll run out of ammo first. Once Bunzo figures that out, it won’t be pretty.”

Muñoz nodded, not wanting to speculate about a human wave charge of tribesmen.

“What I don’t see is a head of long, blond hair inside the lager.” Booker said. “Why don’t you ask Zunta about that?”

Muñoz and Zunta spoke. There was some understandable cursing on Zunta’s part.

“It’s a good bet she’s being held in the Bunzo’s hut.”

“And where’s that?”

It’s the one on the far side of the village.” Muñoz pointed. “The one with the totem pole-looking post out front.”

Booker eyed the bulk of the village between them and their objective. “It just would be over there.”

Muñoz gazed at the village laid out below. “On the plus side, everyone’s attention is on the lager. Maybe we could slip by.”

Zunta looked at the two soldiers, said something earnestly, and skulked down the path.

“Looks like we’re committed.” Muñoz shrugged.

“What’s that saying? A bad plan’s better than no plan.”

Fervently hoping there was still some luck in his back pocket, Booker followed Zunta. Muñoz brought up the rear.

They reached the caldera floor and crept through the brush surrounding the village to crouch behind a hut at the outskirts. Zunta squatted, peeking around the curve of the hut for so long Booker thought he’d frozen in place. Just as he was about to tap the tribesman on the shoulder, Zunta rose and flitted to the next hut. The soldiers followed in his wake, a bit more clumsily than the caveman. Booker, for one, was used to rolling over problems with Fred’s tracks than this ninja stuff. Muñoz was adept at bushcraft and sneaking about. But he hadn’t been born and raised to it like Zunta. Still, they managed.

Fortunately, all of the belligerents seemed to be busy on the side of the village facing the lager. They saw no one for most of the furtive trip. Then, a short distance from Bunzo’s place, Booker heard a rustling from the hut by which they lurked. The leather covering of the hut’s entrance moved aside a few inches. A pair of female eyes stared out at them, wide with fright.

No one moved for a long moment. The woman was clearly terrified. Zunta, Booker, and Muñoz gazed back, hands on weapons.

Taking an enormous chance, Booker raised his hand, and put a finger to his lips, in what he hoped was a universal gesture for silence. Perhaps it was. For, the woman mirrored him, gulping. After a second or two, she pulled the leather cover back across the hut’s door.

Booker tensed, expecting the woman to raise an alarm. But the silence held. It appeared that the woman was willing to pretend she hadn’t seen anything. Booker prayed she didn’t change her mind.

A couple more dashes brought them to the back side of Bunzo’s hut. The quiet conversation of guards was audible floating from the front of the hut. Zunta pulled his flint knife, and gently poked a hole in the leather wall, down low. He laid on his stomach and peeked through the peephole. After a long gander, he rose to a squatting position, and sliced a vertical opening in the hut about four feet long.

Zunta pointed at Muñoz, and then the ground. Then he beckoned to Booker, and slipped through the impromptu opening, into the hut. Booker glanced at Muñoz, and slithered in as well. Muñoz faced away from the hut; revolver ready.

Inside, Booker found Zunta cutting Nohfa free. She’d been tied to the hut’s central support pole. Her face was bruised from a beating, but her eyes blazed with fury. As soon as she was cut lose, Nohfa slipped from Zunta’s grasp, and fell to her knees above a still figure staked out to the earthen floor of the hut. It was Vinzi, obviously, and messily, dead.

Nohfa rested her forehead on her tortured father’s face. His open eyes stared upward, free from Bunzo’s wrath at last. She sobbed silently, and bid goodbye with a quick, dry kiss. Then, she straightened, eyes cold and jaw set. The woman was vengeance incarnate.

Booker didn’t blame her one little bit. He’d only known Vinzi for less than a day, but had liked him right away. He was just a nice old dude, who only tried to keep the peace. He didn’t deserve to go like that. Bunzo owed them all some payback.

But first, they must escape the village. One by one, Zunta, Nohfa, and Booker wriggled through the rent in the hut wall. After a moment to listen for detection, they scurried away between huts, as silently as they’d come.

Perhaps a minute later, a female voice screamed the alarm behind them.

END.

Tune in next Tuesday for Part 31, The Battle of Bedrock

The rest of the Containment Protocol saga can be found here: https://raytabler.substack.com/s/containment-protocol-serial

Part 1 (the beginning), ... Part 29 (last episode), Part 31 (coming soon)

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