Page 78 of The Session

Burton stood in front of a video projected onto a white wall. “Have a seat, everyone,” he instructed.

Mark sat down in a metal chair in back. Some of the other personnel took seats on rough-looking couches and easy chairs.

“Some of you may have already met Mr. Mark Greenley here, a.k.a. Ambulance Man. He’s here to help us out in the field, given our shortage of medical personnel. Hopefully, he’s just an observer and not an active participant,” Burton said.

Mark returned a number of nods and waves from the crowd. He suspected a few of them had no idea who the hell he was.

“Probably our most pressing matter right now is to give Mark a call sign. Any suggestions?” Burton asked.

Kade pointed to the book bristling with Post-it notes in Mark’s hand. It was a paperback from the early 1980s by Max Lightman on creative problem-solving, The Mental Lightning Rod.

“How about Bookmark?” Kade suggested.

There were a few nods of agreement. Norm, a stocky man with a red beard and arms tattooed so heavily the artwork was indescribable, looked over at Mark and observed, “Good book.”

“Bookmark it is,” Burton said.

He pressed a clicker and a PowerPoint presentation appeared on the screen.

“I’m going to go into a little more detail than usual for the benefit of Bookmark, so I apologize if this seems redundant,” he told the others.

A map appeared.

“We’ll escort a fuel convoy from Varreux to the power station serving the hospital grid in Delmas. There are presently three gang checkpoints along the way. The intersection at Rue Saint-Martin is the problem—same crew as last week. We will be escorting the fuel trucks, and we’ll have two vehicles in the lead to clear out the checkpoints. Police Captain Renard will be riding in the lead vehicle with me. This should provide enough deterrent and hopefully encourage the gang leaders to dismantle the checkpoints before we arrive.” Burton looked over to Mark. “Nineteen times out of twenty, they dismantle the checkpoint and get out of the way when we arrive.”

“And the twentieth time?” Mark asked.

“A dumb kid, or somebody high on the shit they use here, decides to stand their ground and insist on a bribe or that we turn around.”

“What do you do then?” Mark asked.

“That is entirely up to Captain Renard’s discretion. Generally, if it’s a small-enough bribe, it’s worth paying them to go away. If it’s too high, then we provide support while his officers clear the way,” Burton explained.

Mark nodded, taking it all in.

“It’s important to remember these are hungry people in desperate situations. Most of the gang members wouldn’t be there if this wasn’t a fucked-up situation. They’re generally more scared than anything else.”

Gronick had explained to Mark that the point of bringing in a foreign security detail was that the police were poorly trained and didn’t intimidate the gangs as much as battle-hardened veterans.

“Everyone will be in their usual position. Bookmark, we’re going to put you in the second-to-last vehicle. If anything, bring plenty of bottles of water. Captain Renard likes to use the tear gas regardless of which way the wind is blowing,” Burton informed him.

The sun was beginning to set as they exited the briefing room into the compound, where five armored Toyota Land Cruisers were waiting.

Mark understood this was a show of force and, to some degree, security theater, but he still felt a rush of adrenaline as he walked across the concrete toward the armored vehicle he was assigned to.

They were dressed to disappear rather than impress—neutral pants and long-sleeve shirts in grays and muted greens, boots broken in rather than polished, ballistic vests worn low-profile or hidden under outer layers. No flags, no matching uniforms. Their rifles hung slung and muzzles down, sidearms holstered and retained. Everything was positioned as if it were insurance rather than intent.

Even Mark’s medical gear was subdued, with small patches he could cover or remove.

Gronick had explained to Mark that the key was to fade into the background and be visible only when you chose to. The gangs understood who they were and what they represented, and that was all that mattered. Anything else would attract unwanted attention.

Even though he had been assured the likelihood of any violent encounters was low, as Mark watched the soldiers check their weapons and ammo, he began to wonder if he would have been better off trying to sell a bunch of eight-track tapes of Max Lightman’s lectures out of the back of a Pinto instead of being here.

Convoy

As the convoy rolled out, Port-au-Prince revealed itself in fragments. Power came and went block by block—one street washed in harsh white generator light, the next swallowed by darkness. Open storefronts glowed behind metal grates, music radiating from inside, while entire apartment buildings sat blacked out except for flickering candlelight. Fires burned in oil drums at intersections, not for warmth but as markers, the smoke drifting low across the road. Motorbikes slipped past without headlights, riders balancing sacks or passengers. Above it all, the sound never stopped: distant shouting, dogs, music bleeding from somewhere unseen, the uneven thrum of generators competing with the hum of the convoy’s engines.

Children stopped to stare at the convoy, some kicking soccer balls around, others chasing each other through the streets, occasionally making improvised guns with their hands and pointing them at the passing vehicles.