Covert Action

by Dick Couch

  Early that morning, Cheetah was rolled out of the small hangar provided by courtesy of the Kenyan government and given her preflight checks and avionics inspections. (One of the technicians was a Northwestern graduate and had put a wildcat decal on the bulbous nose of the drone, hence the name.) On this particular morning, two cylindrical packages were fitted to the bird, one under each wing. Each had an infrared sensor in the nose and looked benign enough, yet a few of the techs gave one another knowing looks. They could only assume it was some black government program that GSI had taken on to defray some of the cost of this venture. Fine. They were being paid, and paid well, to track critters, and track critters they would. It wasn’t as exciting as killing tanks, but many, especially the younger ones, felt it was a better use of the technology. Right after Antelope landed, Cheetah began her takeoff roll and gently lifted into the air. The launch/recovery team watched as it climbed out of sight.

  The UAV took a leisurely thirty minutes to reach 50,000 feet, well above any commercial traffic. Cheetah headed east to the edge of the Masai Mara before turning south and crossing the Serengeti Plain. From there it continued south toward the Selous Game Reservation in southern Tanzania and set up in a lazy orbit just 150 miles from the Indian Ocean. The data began to stream in as Cheetah got her bearings and began to look for game movement on the ground. Up to that point, it had all been routine. Suddenly, the data link from the UAV was broken, and most of Cheetah’s electronic suite went silent. The tech on duty immediately called the GSI project manager.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked as he climbed into the semitrailer that served as their mission control headquarters.

  “I don’t know,” the senior controller on duty said. “The secondary indicators say that all avionics and flight control systems are fine, but I’ve lost the sensor datalink and navigational presentation. Looks like it’s still flying a racetrack over the Selous Reservation, but I can’t be sure. It’s almost like Cheetah has taken it into her head to do what she wants to do and not tell us about it.” The other techs in the van listened but said nothing.

  The project manager put his hand on the controller’s shoulder. These were very smart people; you could withhold information from them, but it was unwise to lie to them or to try to fool them.

  “That’s an interesting way to look at it,” the project manager said in a conversational tone. “Let’s, for now, just work on the assumption that she, in fact, has some other business to tend to. Perhaps when she finishes, she’ll check back in with us. Just keep monitoring the systems and let me know if anything changes.”

  “Should we alert the air traffic control system that we’re having a problem with the UAV?” a tech asked.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary. Let’s just keep an eye on things. Perhaps Cheetah will come home when she’s finished.”

  After the project manager left, the watch team cast knowing glances about and returned to their scopes. Two of them, sensing that it would be a long wait, began to play pinochle.

  Cheetah was not a particularly small cat, with a wingspan of 116 feet and a length of 44 feet, but she was amazingly quiet—electronically speaking. Her outer skin was made of a composite absorption compound that might not elude a military search radar, or even a Western air traffic control radar, but this was Africa. A man in another van some eleven hundred miles southwest gave a new set of instructions to Cheetah, and she was only too happy to comply. The UAV climbed to her maximum altitude of 65,000 feet, crossed Lake Malawi into Zambia, and flew down the Muchinga Mountain Range, neatly bisecting the distance between Lubumbashi, Zaire, and the Malawi capital of Lilongwe. The controllers at those local airports saw nothing that caused them alarm. Staying well west of Lusaka and north of Harare, she descended to 40,000 feet and took station, unnoticed, over the Mavuradonha Mountains.

  While the others rested, the Ndorobo scout made his way down the escarpment that led into the valley of the Makondo Hotel. He did not approach the structure, but observed from a rise above the hotel complex for a long while. His name, or the one he answered to, was Robert. His task was to find an easy, quiet route by which to bring the others down. Like most who had learned tracking from their fathers and uncles, Robert did not seem to need sleep, and when he did, fifteen minutes was as good as several hours. Most trackers knew the land but had difficulty in relating the ground they saw to the features on a map. Robert could do both. When he made his way back into the security perimeter of the little force, he went straight to Tomba, who greeted him in Masai; the Ndorobo language is almost extinct. AKR joined them.

  “Our best line of march is to follow this stream drainage down from here,” Robert said in English as he ran his finger along a sharp break in the contour lines of the computer-generated map. “At this bend, the bed of the stream cuts to the right of the shallow plateau where the hotel is located. If we leave the streambed here and break into our attack groups, we can easily move close behind and to the side of the complex.”

  “And you saw no security precautions along this line of approach?” AKR asked.

  “No, Nkosi, but then per my instructions, I did not get too close. I was able to see the sentries along the road and observe some of them as they came and went into the small, flat building that seems to be their headquarters. From what I saw, it is my belief that they are guarding against a threat along the road—against a force that would approach along the road that serves this hotel.”

  “We have learned of two additional gun emplacements, here and here,” Tomba said. “Could you see anything of them?”

  Robert studied the map, mentally overlaying what he had seen from his perch above the hotel on the map laid out before them. “I saw only one. It was an RPD emplacement with a good field of fire to cover the helicopter pad. They have not taken the time to properly conceal it. I was not able to see the other one. Of the other three that are on the map, I saw only two. The one here is also an RPD, and the one near the guard post by the road is a fifty-caliber machine gun. And again, they are manned, but from what I could see, they are sloppy and inattentive to their duties. It seems,” he added without emotion, “that many of them are our old comrades. But as I have said, they are lax and not attending properly to their duties.”

  “Thank you, Robert,” AKR said. “We are indeed fortunate to have a scout with such keen eyes and good judgment.”

  Tomba thanked him in Masai and squeezed his arm. Robert withdrew to where his pack and weapon were resting; he had taken neither on his scouting mission. Tomba and AKR leaned over the map.

  “It would seem that they are not on high alert, nor are they expecting us to approach from this direction,” Tomba said. “Unless there is a change, we may achieve total surprise.”

  AKR nodded, studying the map. It appeared that the long march across the mountains had served them well. When he looked up at Tomba, he saw in his eyes a warrior’s fierceness that had not been there a few moments ago. He was a man who expected a fight, even welcomed it.

  “Robert spoke of old comrades,” he said gently. “Will that be a problem?”

  Tomba smiled. “We Africans, as you collectively call us, have always fought among ourselves—tribe against tribe, the people of one river valley against another. Since the colonial wars, it has often been brother against brother. Which is better—or worse? To choose the side on which you will fight, or to fight on the side on which you were born? We have made our choice. Those who guard the hotel have made theirs. That we may have at one time fought on the same side or shared a fire together is of no concern. The issue now will be how well you fight for the side you have chosen. Perhaps this is as close as we Africans get to democracy, at least in this lifetime.” He smiled, raising his M-4 rifle from between his knees. “We vote with this.”

  “Then we prepare for battle,” AKR said, surprising himself at the emotion in his voice. He had always prided himself on being an Englishman and a professional military soldier. But here, with these men, he felt
a strange sense of savagery, and in spite of himself, he found it pleasingly intoxicating. Akheem Kelly-Rogers was no stranger to combat, but he knew this was to be different. Still, amid this new, infectious near-lust for combat, he knew that technology and unit discipline would be key in overcoming the odds against them. How easy it would be, he admitted to himself, to simply give himself over to the fight—to allow himself to be carried forward on a rush of adrenaline. But that was not his role. He took a deep breath and mentally projected their small force around the hotel complex, positioned for the assault. Then he asked Tomba to assemble the men around the map.

  “We are here,” he began, “and this is our objective. Robert has found a way to the target from our current location, a route that will take us there while masking our approach. Now, for the last time, we will go over our movement to the target and review our actions once we have broken into the assault groups.”

  AKR spoke softly and clearly for close to twenty minutes. Then he asked a man from each of the assault teams, not necessarily the team leader, to outline his duties when the attack began. Looking around the circle of warriors, he knew that they were ready; they would carry out the mission, or they would die trying—or both. After a radio check with their personal transceivers, the men shrugged into their packs and checked their weapons. Then Tomba called them in close.

  “My brothers, we have worked and trained together, and Nkosi Akheem has given us the tools to succeed. Remember what we have learned and use these things well. But do not forget that when the battle is upon us, the victory will belong to those warriors with the greatest hearts. When that time comes, remember your training and fight hard. Then it will be victory or death, my brothers.”

  “Victory or death,” they echoed as one, with quiet determination. And as one, they turned and looked to AKR.

  “Victory or death,” he repeated, his voice charged with emotion. “It is a privilege to go into battle with warriors such as you. Together, we will win the day. Thank you for counting me as one of your own. I am deeply honored.”

  Tomba nodded to Robert, and he led them down from the escarpment toward the Makondo Hotel.

  Late that afternoon, François Meno found Helmut Klan in the bar, a small box in a plain brown paper wrapping under his arm. It seemed, Meno noted, that his colleagues on the clinical staff began drinking a little earlier each day. Klan was having a schnapps at a quiet table in the corner with Hans Lauda. These Krauts stick together, Meno thought. He didn’t entirely trust them. That Lauda was put in charge of the medical team had at first angered him, but given the administrative duties of the team leader, Meno had been content to assume the role of primary researcher. Klan was a bureaucrat and Lauda, at best, a medical cheerleader. He, Meno, was responsible for the development of the pathogen, and they all knew it. And after all, there would be no credit given for this effort in the medical journals. The money was important, but Meno still felt cheated by the lack of recognition. No matter, the Frenchman reasoned. After the pandemic he developed had ravaged North America—perhaps the world—then he, the brilliant François Meno, would come to the rescue. Meanwhile he would have to deal with these German cretins, Klan and Lauda.

  “Ah, François,” Klan said as he approached. “Please join us. Hans here was just telling me that we will soon be ready to ship our product.”

  Our product, indeed, Meno thought. “More than ready, Helmut.” He tossed an eight-by-ten-by-six-inch package on the table. “Here it is. There are fifteen hypodermic syringes filled with toxin and ready for injection—a few extras in case some of them are mishandled. They are standard dosages of two milliliters for ease of administration. Not nearly that much is required, since the pathogen is, by design, quite contagious. Only a few microbes is enough to create an infection.” The two men sat staring at it. Meno chuckled at them. “There you have it, meine Herren, all in a shock-resistant container.”

  He took up the package and tossed it to Klan, who juggled it, almost spilling his drink, before wrestling it to his lap. The surprised and rattled project director took the package and gently returned it to the table.

  “That’s—that’s wonderful, François. So it’s finished; it’s all here?”

  Meno permitted himself a condescending smile. “That’s right, gentlemen. The civilized world’s worst nightmare, all in that single small container.”

  “Marvelous,” Lauda said, “simply marvelous. You are to be congratulated. Without your effort and skill, this would not have been possible. Shall we call it the Meno Pox?” Lauda knew Meno needed to be stroked, and he was not without a sense of humor.

  “Charming thought, Hans, but I think not. No, it is done; I am done, and I want no more to do with it. I will need a few hours to clean out the lab spaces and to pack my things. I will be ready to leave this godforsaken place by tomorrow afternoon.” He looked at Klan. “Now that you have your epidemic, I assume we are free to leave?”

  “Of course. I will see to the arrangements, but we will probably not be able to get you out of here until the morning after tomorrow. First,” Klan said, nodding to the package on the table, “I must deal with this. Those who pay us are anxiously awaiting delivery.”

  Suddenly Lauda, who was on his second schnapps, began to clang on the side of his glass with a knife. “Your attention,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet. “May I have your attention, please. Achtung, for those of you from the fatherland.” He raised his glass. “It seems our project is complete; our mission here in the Heart of Darkness, finished. Please raise your glass to a successful effort and to our imminent return to civilization. Gentlemen, a toast.”

  “Here, here!”

  “To success!”

  “To going home!”

  There was a round of clinking glasses, and several of those in white coats made for the bar to recharge their drinks. François Meno merely rose and excused himself. He had a single bottle remaining from the case of Petrus 1996 Pomerol Bordeaux he had brought with him when they arrived almost six weeks ago. Tonight he would enjoy it in the privacy of his room while he packed his things. But before that, there were still a few matters he must attend to in the lab.

  After a second round of toasts, Helmut Klan sat looking at the box for several moments. He rose and tucked it under his arm. There was still time to get it out that evening, and have it aboard the last flight out of Harare. But that meant trusting it to the roads at night. Or he could send it out the following morning. Either way, the sooner it got to its destination, the sooner they would be paid. Back in his room, he placed a call to the mysterious Maurice Baudo. Baudo told him to get the package to the airport in Harare as soon as possible, taking all precautions for its safe arrival. Helmut Klan was given explicit instructions on how and where someone from the lab was to meet with the courier who would be receiving the precious cargo.

  In his Rome apartment, Pavel Zelinkow breathed a sigh of relief. It was 7:00 P.M., an hour behind Harare and all of Zimbabwe. All that remained now was to make a good delivery. When the product was in Riyadh, he would have fulfilled his commission, and he’d be done with this risky business. He poured himself a cognac and dialed a number in Harare. It was answered on the second ring. He gave the man instructions in Arabic and had him repeat them back. He had personally chosen this man for this particular job. He was not an experienced courier, but for his purposes that was to the good. Cell phone intercepts by Western intelligence agencies had led to the capture or killing of a great many terrorists. So the terrorists, primarily Al Qaeda and their operatives, had taken to using couriers. Now those same intelligence agencies had begun targeting known couriers. Zelinkow’s man was a Saudi businessman, driven by his faith to put his services at the disposal of Al Qaeda. He traveled frequently in his work, but had never been used in an operational capacity. He was a perfect choice.

  Zelinkow swirled the cognac in his glass a moment, savoring its aroma. He took a measured sip—excellent. Then he called Claude Renaud. The man had obvious
ly been drinking, but when Renaud heard the voice of Georges Frémaux, he became instantly alert. Frémaux had Renaud repeat his instructions as well.

  The rule of the Nyati was that they drank only beer when not on duty, but since it was his rule, he felt he could break it, and this evening he felt he needed something stronger. Claude Renaud stepped outside into the cool mountain air and took a flask from his pocket. It was gin, and he drank greedily. It was like dropping a burning coal into the pit of his stomach, but after the initial sensation, it seemed to steady him. He glanced around the hotel complex; all was quiet. The African night, like the dawn, came quickly. A faint afterglow still silhouetted the mountain to the west. There were lights burning in the main building, and the generators hummed as they kept a steady flow of power to the facility. Looking down the road, he could just make out the outline of the guard shack and the glimmer of a cigarette. Normally he would have stormed down and disciplined the offender; smoking while on guard duty was not allowed. But not tonight. It would be their last night here. The job was over, save for one final task that they were to complete tomorrow afternoon. He took one last look at the dark ridge of mountains that walled off the hotel from the valley that opened below and to the southwest. Then he pocketed his flask and went back inside the spa building.

  At the bar he opened a beer and motioned for his white team leaders to join him. They all knew the project would soon be over, and while the pay was good, they were anxious to leave. Like Renaud, they didn’t know exactly what was going on inside the main hotel building, but they knew it was not good. These were hard men, but dragging people from their homes and subjecting them to medical experimentation was an unsavory business, even for them. And the whites knew that the blacks liked it even less than they did. Well, Renaud thought, the blacks will have their chance to make it right.