THE FIFTH BATTALION

Excerpt from my sci-fi action thriller

Chapter 17 

Now that the battle was over, the silence of the tenebrous, wet forest reasserted itself. Darkness, my old confidante, embraced me comfortably, pulling me into its sanctuary. The night forest seething with unseen dangers was menacing, but with all the dangers shot up and blown away from the immediate vicinity, it felt positively pampering. 

Shadowy figures of the four Russians emerged from the comforting darkness in a diamond formation, guns on the ready. Not all that friendly. 

The burner phone rang. “Hello! Heavenly Massage. How can I help you?” I spoke into the receiver with mock breeziness. 

“Hey, Norman, my favorite masseuse! Good to hear your voice. How you doing there?” 

“Hi, Eugene! I’m done here. Please tell your hooligans not to shoot me. And don’t forget to bring in the sniper, too.” 

“What sniper?” 

“The one out front.” 

“Oh, that sniper. Sure, I’ll bring him in, too.” 

Not even the slightest attempt to deny or justify planting a sniper in front of the house to take me out if need be. If you can’t even trust Russian Mafia, who can you trust? 

“Much appreciated. Listen, how’s my Linda doing in your clutches?” 

“Clutches? She's like a family to me, a guest. I even have several of my dearest friends keeping her company. So, relax, she is fine! Says hi and everything and so on and so forth and all that. You got the money?” 

“Got some of it for now.” 

“Good. Listen, my boys tell me you took out eight Special Ops all by yourself? Is that true?" 

“Well, your hoodlums helped with one.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Listen, who are you, man? You can tell me. You know me. We're like family.” 

“Sure, thing, Eugene. I’m actually an extra-terrestrial Baltizor Confederacy of United Stars gunnery sergeant, a part of the failed mission here, reincarnating among you humans for over five thousand frigging years.” 

“Right! Seems too rich for a clerk, don’t you think?” 

“I’m not a clerk, I’m a lab technician.” 

“Anyway, very professional work, man, I’m impressed. I want you to know, today you're not just any regular clerk, you're the best clerk!” 

“I'm not a clerk... Hey, thanks, we aim to please, as always.” 

“You aim, hey? To please? Ha-ha, that’s funny! Well, all right, give the money to Andrey. I’ll talk to you in a minute.” 

The line went dead. The Russians approached, dressed in all black, guns ready. The oldest one, a tough guy by the looks of him— and bushy eyebrows over piercing eyes and deep character lines around his mouth did not soften his appearance—asked with a heavy Russian accent, “Where is money?” 

“Hey, Andrey, why are you pointing your gun at me?” 

“Norman, is your name? Norman, you killed eight Marines in gunfight. How I know what’s in your head now? Maybe you wanna shoot us and keep money or something.” 

“Relax, Andrey, we're in it together. Have your guys collect the bodies and check these two cars for money. And don’t kill the wounded.”

The Russians laid out the dead Marines in a neat row. The two wounded were separated. Andrey calmly observed them working, grunting approvingly, puffing on an unfiltered Camel. 

He turned to me, “Hey, listen, Norman, you wanna work with us? We can use bright kid like you. I can talk to boss. Pay’s good, health insurance, dental.”

“No way! Dental too?”

“Sure! Eye doctor, childcare. You know, children are future. Right education is where it’s all at. You, for example. You got education, right? You some kind of clerk?”

“Not a clerk, no. I work at the lab,” I interjected meekly, but Andrey was not listening.

“Education is everything. Before you got educated, could you take out eight Marines? ‘Course not! See? I keep telling my oldest, that bum…”

“Andrey, we got a job to do.” 

“No rush. Stand back and admire, man. Enjoy this moment. You did good job today, We respect you. We will talk about you for long time. Today you’re king of clerks!"

I saw other Russians grinning. 

“I’m not a clerk… Hey, listen, I respect you too and all that, but I need to make a phone call, will you excuse me?” 

Digging through the contents of the Marines' pockets spread out on the wet grass, I found a cell phone among the machine gun clips, grenades and loose ammo. I called the last number, the only number, the one Lieutenant Adams was supposed to erase.