Holiday in Hot Zone 16

by Clifford W. Dunbar

“Look! There they are!” one of the passengers shouted.

Gus Walters slowed the bus to a stationary hover fifty feet up and turned around to check out the excitement on the tourist’s face. He smiled at the first-timer. The young man squeezed his new wife’s hand hard enough to turn her fingers purple, but she didn’t even notice. That kind of enthusiasm spelled repeat business, or at least some positive word-of-mouth back in the civilized world.

The two honeymooners gawked out the wide side window at the rocky desert landscape below. Two Khaffi sentries lay dead at the foot of a jagged ridge, their throats slit by stealthy Donite warriors in traditional white battle dress who were just now creeping away from their kills.

The wife thumbed her seat mike to speak with Gus directly. “Can’t we get any closer?”

“Nothing to worry about,” Mr. Oates said from the seat behind the two lovebirds. “The Khaffis and Donites hate each other. You’ll see lots more action real soon.” Mr. Oates, a lawyer from Nantucket, was one of the more experienced passengers, having made this trip five or six times over the past few years. Sometimes he came with one of his girlfriends but today he was traveling with Mrs. Oates and their two teenage brats. “Gus, how long do you think it will be before they attack in full force?”

Gus took a sip of his coffee and set the thermos down. He flipped the Public Address back on so that all fifty passengers could hear him and tapped his throat mike to check the volume.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you’re all enjoying our tour of the local war here in Lower Hazmatistan, otherwise known as UN Sanctioned Hot Zone 16.” He got the bus moving forward again as he spoke. “This looks like a likely spot for some action. Let’s follow these two Donite warriors and see what they’re up to.”

“We want to see them fire their machine guns!” one of the children behind Gus shouted.

“We want to see them shoot their rockets!” yelled another.

“We want to see them shoot their stunguns!” yelled another.

“They don’t use stunguns here,” Mr. Oates explained. He was such a know-it-all. “Only old model weapons are allowed in the Hot Zones. It’s how the big companies get rid of their surplus.”

Gus adjusted his overhead mirror so he saw less of his own wagging jowls and more of the children. “Now you young fellas just be patient. They’ll start shooting at each other soon enough.”

Gus’s one and only employee, an ex porn star from Miami who still went by her stage name Holly Hialeah, greeted the passengers with a lipstick-laden smile as she served refreshments from the aisle. Gus adjusted his mirror again to get an eyeful of that wonderful bouncing bosom dominating the space above the sandwich cart.

“When?” one of the children asked. “When will they start shooting?”

Gus shook his head at the distraction and squinted down at the inhospitable landscape outside. “Soon, kid. Look down there.” A military encampment made up of horses, tents, camels, and a goat came into view as they rounded a ridge. It was a typical Khaffi forward base, plopped down in the middle of the tribal no-man’s-land with typical Khaffi arrogance.

“Look!” a pony-tailed little girl said. “Down there! The Donites are sneaking up on the Khaffis!” She clutched her toy rocket grenade in suspense, her fingers digging into the stuffing of the overpriced souvenir.

“The young miss is absolutely right,” Gus said into his microphone. “See that swarm of dirty beige robes swarming over those rocks down there?” Gus swooped down a little closer so the passengers could get a better look. One of the warriors stopped and waved at the brightly-colored tourist bus. Fool. That kind of action could get him killed and then some bleeding heart liberal would put the blame on Gus, an honest man making an honest living. But there was always some dumb warrior who couldn’t resist showing off for the tourists.

Cameras snapped as Gus took the bus back up into the air. Things were about to heat up down below. The bus’s magnetic fields would protect them from the primitive weaponry the locals used but United Nations rules mandated at least fifty feet between the tourists and the action. Not that anybody was keeping track. But Gus was a law-abiding citizen after all.

A group of Khaffis crouched around a campfire, warming themselves against the bitter morning cold. Their dark brown robes were stained from days of riding and fighting. One of them caught sight of the invading Donites. He yelled and went for his rifle, a war-worn AK-47 of the type last manufactured over fifty years ago.

He was cut down in a burst of gunfire before he could raise it. The bullets slammed him backwards into the campfire, where his blood sizzled and his clothes and hair burst into flames. He was dead before he could scream.

“Oh, how delightful!” a woman exclaimed. Gus glanced up at his mirror again with another satisfied smile. The lady was peering out the window with a tiny pair of opera glasses, the kind with the shiny finish and the little collapsible pole for a handle. She looked as happy as a baby with its first piece of candy.

The Donite attack party split up, with a squad of three advancing on the remaining Khaffis around the campfire. Their weapons set to full automatic, they blew through all the ammo in the curved magazines of their AK-47s in a matter of seconds. They scored only one fatality, a gray-bearded old man too slow to duck out of the way.

The remaining Khaffis, seeing their enemies stop to reload, dropped their own rifles and reached for their scabbards, drawing short curved blades that gleamed in the bright sunlight.

“Georgie! Put down that GameToy and pay attention! This is educational!” That was Mr. Oates again, scolding his son. Gus was sure glad he didn’t have any children. That he knew of.

The two sides closed in bloody hand-to-hand combat, slashing wildly at each other. Gus aimed the external mikes at the warring parties and flooded the interior of the tour bus with the clash of weapons, the harsh gutturals and grunts of the local lingo, and the screams of the dying.

“Can’t you turn on the realtime translator?” someone yelled. “We can’t understand a thing they’re saying!”

“Sorry, no can do with the kiddies aboard,” Gus said over his mike. “It is the policy of Global War Tourism, Inc. not to subject minors to profanity.” And people said he had no sense of propriety.

“Gus, what’s happening down there at our 10:00?”

That was Mr. Oates again. He was getting pretty good with the clock designations.

Gus broadcast his answer over the PA system. “Folks, while we’ve been watching that skirmish down around that campfire to our right, the rest of the Donite attack party has gone off on their own separate attacks. On our left and just forward, you’ll see a two-man bazooka team preparing to fire a round into the chief warlord’s tent. It’s the large white one with the big flags over it; you can’t miss it. It’s heavily guarded so the Donites have wisely decided to attack from a distance.”

The two Donites fired their rocket and the tent went up in flames. The blast tripped the bus’s volume threshold and shut off the external audio feed to protect the passengers’ eardrums. In the sudden silence, the buzz saw sounds of an old man snoring became audible from the middle of the bus. Gus looked up and saw the lady with the opera glasses prodding the elegantly dressed man next to her.

“Wake up, honey!” she said. “You’re missing the war!”

Gus spotted something over to the left that would make the overcoat regulars in the back happy. He always packed plenty of lubricant just for them, even though most of those guys brought their own. Lucky the bus was self-cleaning. He positioned them so they would get the best view.

“And a little to our rear, ladies and gentlemen, you’ll see why it’s not a good idea for a warlord to bring his harem onto the battlefield.”

A bunch of Donites had trapped one of the Khaffi women. Her male companion lay broken and bleeding on the ground, staring up at her helplessly as he gasped his last breaths. Two of the Donites grabbed the Khaffi woman by each arm while the others ripped her flowing gowns off her and threw them onto the sand. Golden sunlight highlighted every curve of her exposed body. Tears streaked down her face as she begged for mercy.

The newlywed husband couldn’t take his eyes off the sight. He pressed his forehead against the window, his hot exhalations spreading fog across the interior of the glass.

“Honey, you stop watching that,” his bride scolded.

The Donite men then ripped off their own clothes to reveal the extent of their excitement. The new bride blushed and touched herself.

“Honey, you stop watching that!” the groom said.

Gus took another spin over the burning encampment but most of the Donites were either dancing over the dead bodies of their enemies or taking their last turns with their women. The show here was pretty much over, which meant it was time to offer the tourists a little something extra to bring back to that sterile blandness they called civilization.

“Who wants to get their picture taken with a warlord?” Gus called out over the PA system.

“I do, I do!” came the chorus of cries from the passengers.

Gus set the bus down in the shade of a rocky outcrop, just upwind of one of the burning tents so the smoke wouldn’t bother his passengers. He got out first and squinted at the wrecked Khaffi base and the dancing Donite warriors. Gus hated being down on the ground with the tribes but he was a dedicated professional in a customer service business. He knew what his duty was and he was no shirker.

He scratched his belly as he crunched across the loose sand toward the Khaffis. They broke off their singing and dancing to meet him half way.

“Good morning, Gus the driver!” shouted a man at the center of the group. “Did you enjoy our glorious victory?”

Gus couldn’t be bothered to learn the jibber-jabber the locals spoke. They carried on their conversation with the help of the translator he wore around his neck.

“Yeah, wonderful victory,” Gus said to the grizzled old warlord. “You ready for pictures now?”

“I am too old for pretty pictures,” the warlord said. “But my nephews are eager to take my place.”

“Can I be the warlord today?” asked a skinny youth who barely had a beard.

“Not you,” Gus said. “You.” He pointed to a large muscular man with blood on his robes.

The man stepped forward proudly, a bright broken-toothed smile on his face. “I will be warlord.”

“Do it over there.” Gus pointed at a pile of Donite bodies. The big man put his foot on a particularly bloody corpse and posed with a fist on his hip.

“Perfect,” Gus said. He waved at the bus. “The warlord is ready for you now!”

The passengers made an obedient single file line and Holly took their individual pictures with the warlord’s nephew. The tourists would have the option of paying for the pictures and getting their copies at the end of the tour.

Gus stood back next to the warlord with his arms crossed.

“So,” the warlord said. “Usual fee?”

“No worries,” Gus said. “It’ll be in your Swiss bank account by the end of the day. How are you doing on weapons?”

“Running a little low on handheld mortars. Think you can arrange a shipment?”

“I can take it out of your fees and arrange an overnight drop. I can give you a great price on some fragmentation grenades too, if you’re interested.”

The warlord smiled and they shook hands on the deal. Gus wiped his hand on his pants when they were done.

Most of the passengers were milling about restlessly now. Their pictures already taken, it was time to herd them back onto the bus and back to their boring lives.

“My daughter! My little girl! She’s disappeared!”

Gus froze. A child missing? In a Hot Zone? The UN would shut down all the war tourism operators and close down all the local wars all over the world. Even worse, the other operators would blame him! The Khaffi-Donite conflict would be a flea-market haggle compared to being on the receiving end of their anger.

Gus called the mother over. “Get back onto the bus. I don’t want to lose you too. Don’t worry, I’ll find your daughter.”

The distraught mother stumbled back toward the bus on the arm of her white-faced husband. Holly saw what was happening and tempted the rest of the passengers back inside with a toothy smile and free refreshments. That girl was definitely almost worth the minimum wage he was forced to pay her.

Panting with the effort, Gus made a sweep through the burnt-out Khaffi camp looking for the child. He checked under the charred remains of tents and behind every rocky outcrop. He even kicked the dead goat aside. Sweat ran from his forehead and armpits and stained his plaid shirt.

He leaned against a lone tent pole to catch his breath. As he gasped for air and his heart pounded in his chest, he became aware of the lively tinkle of a little girl’s laughter, wafted over to him on the cool desert wind.

Gus felt a heavy load lift from his shoulders. He set off in the direction of the laughter, but a few steps later he stopped in his tracks. His eyes widened. Then they narrowed.

Not one, but two little girls sat together in the dirt, playing with the shiny spent cartridges of an AK-47. One of the little girls was the tourist. The other wore the ragged brown robes of the defeated Khaffi tribe.

Gus looked up to see the old warlord watching him. He waved the man over and pointed to the Khaffi girl.

“Bonus?” the old man asked.

“No worries,” Gus said.

The warlord made a big show of checking the ammunition in his rifle.

Gus stood a safe distance away and called out to his passenger. “Hey sweetie, look at that. You found some special souvenirs! Come over and let me take a look.”

The girl looked at him brightly, her face full of warmth and trust as she approached him. She stretched out her hand to show Gus the cartridges.

“Very nice!” Gus said. “Let’s go show them to your mommy.” He nodded to the warlord. The warlord nodded back, pulled the trigger, and blew the Khaffi girl’s head off.

The little tourist girl burst into tears. Some kids acted like that, before they were too old to know better.

Gus slapped her on the back and laughed. He pointed at the dead girl, still convulsing on the ground. “Pretty funny, don’t you think? Come on, Mommy and Daddy are waiting.”

Gus put his arm on the girl’s shoulder and guided her back to the bus. Breathless and wide-eyed, she told her story to her parents and showed them the cartridges. They congratulated her on her big adventure and her special souvenirs. The father even arranged a big tip for Gus.

Holly gave the girl a free T-shirt that read: “My best friend witnessed a massacre and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.”

“Make sure you give this to a friend,” Holly said.

Gus grinned. That T-shirt was coming out of Holly’s pay, unless she wanted to make it up to him some other way. Gus started up the bus and headed back up into the sky where he could once again look down on all the little people below.