by R G Ainslee
I didn't like that until further notice bit but held my tongue.
He held up a yellow teletype tear sheet. "Washington ordered us to remain in country until a sensitive issue has been resolved." He flipped the paper to the table.
I had to ask, "What kind of sensitive—"
He cut me off with a curt tome of finality, "They didn't elaborate."
"You said Washington, who specifically?"
His face reddened. "The National Security Office at the White House."
Hansen — had to be Hansen — the buzzard-butt was at it again. Here I am ready to go sort out my personal problems and he pops up again. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath and started to speak.
Wilson continued, "It will do no good to complain. We're stuck here for a few days at least. I sent a message to Fort Meade and should have the matter resolved before long. In the meantime, we sit tight." My mouth was halfway open when he repeated for my benefit, "I said we sit tight. There will be no discussion. At this moment, you know as much as I do."
I didn't buy that for a minute. "You mean we're gonna sit on our butts and do nothing?"
"Affirmative." He attempted a weak smile. "This will give you the opportunity to enjoy some of the sights."
I had seen the sights, took less than an hour. Oh well at least the beer's good and they got plenty of it. Then something occurred to me, "Say Colonel, do you think you can loan us a few bucks, they took all my cash back in N'Djamena."
"I'll arrange for the embassy to dispense some funds. At least we have a decent place to stay."
Decent place, my sore foot. His room had hot water, towels, soap, and a toilet seat.
He stood and headed for the door. "If there are no other questions, I'll see you at the hotel later in the evening, the first round is on me."
32 ~ Attack
Friday Morning, 24 October 1980, Bangui, CAR
We sat in the hotel restaurant enjoying a late breakfast. High quality bread is one of the advantages of eating in a former French colony. A warm baguette with an omelet and hot strong coffee is a great way to start a day.
"Got an idea," said Joe.
"Now what?" Amadeo responded sardonically.
"Let's go fishin'."
Jack guffawed. "How ya gonna do that?"
"Yesterday I saw some locals fishing out on the river. Maybe we can hire a boat."
"What the hell you gonna do with a bunch of fish?" asked Jack. "Besides, I bet there ain't no bass in that river."
"It's something to do. We can give'em to the guy with the boat."
"You ever fish with a net? That's what it looks like they're using. I thought you redneck bubbas back in Georgia used a cane pole and worm."
"Hey, I used a net before — well not legally — but that's not the point."
"Monsieur." The hotel manager appeared with piece of paper in his hand. "Un message à partir du téléphone."
Jack took the sheet, read the scribbled French, and smiled. "The colonel wants us at the embassy pronto." Wilson left earlier with John.
We finished our breakfast, paid, and strolled out front to find a taxi. Luckily, one was available. As usual, it took a while to get the price down to a reasonable rate. Amadeo seemed to have a special talent for bargaining, a skill refined during multiple tours in Third World countries.
I checked the area for signs of the German travelers. They had shown up separately, twice the day before, and Amadeo turned the tables and followed one of them for an hour. They were staying in a cheap hotel and didn't otherwise seem suspicious.
At the embassy, we nodded to the now familiar receptionist and made our way to the conference room. Wilson and John Smith stood at the sideboard, coffee in hand. The colonel had a strange expression on his face. I couldn't tell if it was anger or frustration, but in any case, it didn't bode well. He motioned for us to take a seat. John walked to the door and set the lock.
Wilson sat, picked up a yellow TTY sheet, and examined it for almost a full minute, his lips pursed, and brow furrowed. He slammed the paper to the table, leaned back, took a deep breath, and spoke in a calm collected tone.
"Gentlemen, this morning I discovered the reason for our extended sojourn in Bangui." He eyed me as he made a long dramatic pause. "Let me read you the gist of a news report received in the overnight traffic." He picked up the sheet and began, "The Washington Post reports on testimony before a Senate intelligence sub-committee, chaired by Senator Palmer Bradbury…"
I forgot the SOB got re-elected.
"…regarding a mission in Africa resulting in the destruction of a terrorist training camp in the Sahara." His expression steeled. "Thankfully, they made no mention of the country involved or the operational personnel involved."
I had to ask, "How did they find out so fast?"
Wilson glared at me with an irritated expression. "If I may continue." He read from the sheet, "The intelligence operation was organized and directed by an unidentified military officer working in the White House National Security Office."
"The rat-bastard SOB," I blurted out, "he's done it again."
"Senator Bradbury has expressed his deepest appreciation for the officer's efforts and stated he expects the Pentagon to reward the officer with appropriate commendations." The colonel balled up the paper and threw it the length of the table. "End of message."
"Looks like they didn't want us back in town until the announcement was made?" said Jack.
"I'm afraid that's correct," said Wilson.
My blood pressure redlined. I pressed my lips together, straining to restrain my natural inclination to let it all hang out.
Wilson continued, calmer, "Unlike the politicians, we must continue to maintain operational security and remain silent. No public statements will be tolerated." He fixed a stare straight at me. "I will take up the matter once we return. Do you understand?" He looked around at the others. "All of you."
We all nodded in assent. John had a steely-eyed determined look. He can be a cold SOB when he's angry. Someone was going to have a bad day when we got back.
My mind ran wild with thoughts: Hansen, just like him, a publicity-hungry suit running off his mouth for the cameras, claiming all the credit. The publicity-seeking double-dealer is scrambling for a star on his shoulder. I hate that SOB.
Then there was Senator Bradbury, with whom I had dealings with before. He was the real reason Marsden had been set free after we returned from our first operation in Kenya. The bastard got re-elected, how the hell did that happen?
Amadeo, taking it all in stride, asked, "Where do we go from here?"
Wilson, appearing much calmer, said, "We will return on the first available flight, most likely tomorrow or the next day." He looked at me. "Except Brannan, who may proceed to Kenya at his convenience. I arranged with the embassy for a loan to cover your expenses for a month's leave." He smiled.
Deep down, I knew the colonel had an ulterior motive. He wanted to keep me away from Hansen. I didn't care. I intended to get out of Bangui and fly, paddle a canoe, walk, or whatever it took to see Lisette and the kid again. At last, a smidgen of hope.
Wilson stood. "Gentlemen, that's all I have. I invite you to be my guests this afternoon at the hotel bar. The drinks are on me. Regardless of who ultimately gets the credit, I say to you — Raven-One, job well done."
On the way out, Jack asked, "What now?"
"I'm going to the airport and check on flights out of here."
Amadeo chimed in, "Hey, we'll go with you."
* * *
Aeroport de Bangui: nothing changed since my last flight, still a facade of modernity offering speedy travel to anywhere, except Nairobi. I had just found out: the closest direct route, via Brazzaville in the Congo, a cross-river trip to Kinshasa, and then a jet flight to Nairobi via Bujumbura, would take four days, at least, barring difficulties. The operative word being difficulties, travel in the third world, the unexpected is to be expected.
I told the clerk, I would get back
to him. I needed some time to think and to check if I had all the necessary visas. Flying to Brazzaville and on to Zaire could be problematic. It might take a day or two to deal with the paperwork, one of the joys of traveling in Africa.
"Now what?" asked Amadeo as we walked away from the UTA desk.
"Beats the hell out of me. I might have to fly to Europe with you guys and backtrack."
"Yeah, I got the feeling that's about par for the course around here," said Jack. "One of the guys at the embassy said they send their film to Paris to be developed for color slides."
"Wonderful." We strolled past the window overlooking the tarmac. "Hey, look down the way, is that a Twin Beech?"
"Yeah. Check out at the markings, just like—"
"Hells bells, it's one of theirs."
"You stay here, I'll go investigate," said Amadeo.
I started to object but understood the obvious: Too many white faces would only attract attention. Amadeo sauntered off casually, slipped out the side door, and headed down the tarmac past the Beechcraft. After speaking to a man standing by a nearby small airplane, he returned and re-entered the terminal.
"What'd you find out?"
"Spoke to a guy, a French mechanic. He said the plane came in this morning. Didn't see who or how many people were aboard. I told him we were expecting some friends."
"It was the—"
"Yeah, the same as Harry's, gold letters for Phoenician Air Services International."
"What do you think?" I said, turning to Jack.
"Think we better keep our eyes open. Could just be a coincidence, but then again, it could mean trouble."
* * *
Friday afternoon happy hour at the hotel was no different from any other day of the week, except it was Friday. No big deal, everyone went there to drink anyway. What's so special about Friday? Nothing — a weekend in Bangui, nothing special either. You've seen the sights, eaten at the two or three decent places, there was nothing to do except go to the bar and drink. At least we got there early.
"Hey, did you get your reservation?" asked Joe, sitting at a table with one of the girls from the embassy: Dana, a well-built brunette with thick glasses.
"You gotta be kidding."
"It's easy to fly north or south, but east is not so easy," she said with a coy smile.
"Yeah, tell me about it. The schedules don't seem to connect at the right time. I figure it'll take several days."
"One of the consul employees was stuck in Entebbe for a couple of days last year. They decided to cancel the flight and he had no options."
"Well I might have to go back to Paris and backtrack."
"Actually, that would be faster and more reliable. Air Zaire is often called Aire Peut-etre." She noticed my puzzlement. "Air Maybe."
"You seen the colonel," I asked Joe.
"He's upstairs. Should be down in a little while. Why don't you guys pull up a chair and have a beer."
"No, we need to talk to Wilson. Check with you later."
In the stairwell, Amadeo said, "Joe's making out alright for himself. She's kind of cute."
"Yeah, but she talks funny, don't ya think?"
Jack chuckled, "She don't talk funny, she's from Boston or someplace like that."
"Oh, that explains it. Yeah, you might be right. She probably thinks the same about Joe's redneck accent. Guess it's true, opposites attract." Joe was what you could describe as a ladies' man. "You're right, she is pretty cute. Maybe Joe will get lucky."
On the top floor, we met Wilson, John Smith, Bobby Le Beau, and Chambers coming out of the colonel's room. "We need to talk." I said, as I motioned for them to go back inside.
Wilson gave me an irritated look and complied. "What now?"
'Two things: First, I may need to fly out with you to Paris. There isn't a good option to Nairobi from here."
"I could have told you that," said Chambers. "He's right, it'll be faster to—"
"I didn't wait for him to finish, "The other thing is, one of Penwell's planes is at the airport."
After a moment of tense silence, Wilson said, "Are you sure?"
"I checked it out," said Amadeo. "One of the French mechanics told me it came in this morning."
Chambers, clearly irritated, blew out a breath, "It's not unusual for one of his aircraft to be here."
"I don't care. We need to check it out. These guys are up to no good."
"You don't know that for sure."
"I do know for sure, the SOB's have tried to kill me and I'm not about to give them another easy shot."
Bobby Le Beau spoke up, "I'll go back to the embassy and check on the aircraft's status. There's a few people I can call." Chambers nodded in agreement.
"I'll go with you," I said, not wanting to wait around for something to happen.
Amadeo said to Jack, "Let's go scout around town and see if we can turn anything up."
Wilson checked his watch. "Alright, I want everybody back here in one hour.
* * *
One hour later, Bobby had spoken to a couple of his contacts at the airport. No one knew anything about the aircraft or its occupants. The third contact, who worked in the control tower, was unavailable.
Leaving the embassy, we spotted Jack and Amadeo walking down the sidewalk in our direction. "How's that for timing," I said. "Hope they had better luck."
Jack gave me a questioning look as they approached. I shrugged and asked, "You guys find out anything?"
They halted and waited for a group of locals to pass. Amadeo said, "We checked the hotel where the German's were staying and found out a couple of new people arrived this morning." He paused as another person passed. "One of them was a woman."
"A redhead?"
"You guessed it."
"She alone?"
"One other guy, probably the pilot. They didn't get rooms and the woman left with the two hippie types and the pilot caught a cab to the airport."
"Good work," said Bobby. "You did better than we did, I came up empty."
"Let's get back to the hotel. If she's who I think she is, it changes everything."
* * *
We kept a stony silence as we rode back to the hotel. The redhead had to be Helga Bremmer, just had to be, too much of a coincidence.
The cab driver pulled up to the hotel, Amadeo paid him off, and we paused on the front steps. It was late, dusk only a half hour away. Out of habit, a result of years of training and living on the edge, Jack and Amadeo surveyed the surroundings. Situational awareness, now more than a routine drill, had become an essential survival mechanism. Bobby and I halted in front of the glassed-in entrance.
Everything appeared okay to me: normal evening traffic, a few parked cars, about a dozen pedestrians, and a gaggle of kids playing down by the river. Jack and Amadeo stood intent, eyes directed across the road.
"You guys notice something?" I asked.
"That taxi over there, the driver looks nervous, and the engine's running," said Jack.
I focused on the man sitting in a tan Peugeot four door sedan. He did appear edgy. Something I didn't detect. These guys are good. I'd've never picked up on that in a thousand years.
"Yeah," said Amadeo. "Don't see no sign of the Germans though. What you think, Bobby?"
"I agree. If he's waiting for a fare, he'd be parked up here. But these guys do things different—"
Before Bobby could finish his response, before I had time to absorb the situation or had time to think. — An explosion rocked the building. — The entryway shook under our feet. The front doors rattled. A pane of plate glass shattered. Piercing cries from the lobby.
A thunderbolt ran down my spine. "What the hell," I screamed as I scrambled back, away from the entrance.
Amadeo followed, down the steps, eyes alert and searching, "Sounds like it came from the river side."
"An explosive charge," barked Jack. A demolition expert, he should know. "Somebody set off a bomb."
"Look," I yelled. Three people hustled around t
he side of the hotel, running in the direction of the waiting taxi: two hippie types followed by a woman, a redhead. "It's them." I took off, brushed past Amadeo, after the fleeing Germans.
Amadeo grabbed Jack by the sleeve. "Come with me. — Le Beau you go with Ross."
A surge of adrenalin took complete control. I charged across the wide road, reacting on instinct, focused on the gang, oblivious to potential danger. I had a five-yard lead on Bobby as the group approached the taxi.
The two hippies slid in to the back seat. The woman spotted me — I was halfway there — she reached in, pulled out a gun, and opened fire on full auto. Her technique: spray and pray. She fired wildly with the weapon held out in front away from her body.
I hit the deck as bullets peppered the ground around me, zinging by too close for comfort. The pop-pop typewriter like rattle continued as I rolled left, crouched, sprang up, and sprinted for cover. I slithered in behind a nearby car followed by a line of sparks as bullets flashed off the front steps.
The firing halted abruptly, a car door slammed, and the roar of an accelerating engine reverberated off the walls of the hotel. I cautiously peered over the rear of the vehicle. The tan Peugeot taxi sped away down the street.
Bobby skidded in beside me. "You okay?"
I checked my arms and legs, no damage, nothing hurt. "Yeah. — How 'bout you?"
"Just a cut on the arm. Not sure if I got nicked or scratched myself when I hit the gravel. — Man, that was close, caught out in the open like that … you see what they were firing?"
"She had a Škorpion VZ-61, must have emptied the mag." It was then I realized I charged right in again, without thinking, without a weapon.
"We were lucky, damn lucky."
A scream pierced the air from inside the hotel. The door burst open and pandemonium reigned as a swarm of people streamed out of the entrance to the street.
One woman lay in a pool of blood on the front veranda. Bobby charged up the steps, kneeled, and examined the woman. "She's dead."
Two other women lay bleeding on the street. They took bullets intended for me. A wave of revulsion and guilt swept over me, I stood unmoving, trying to understand it all. Innocent people had died. For what?
