The American Mission

by Matthew Palmer

  “Get me the goddamn American ambassador,” he shouted into the receiver. “And you,” he said, looking at Nkongo. “You . . . get me a drink.”

  Nkongo walked over to the bar and poured a generous measure of Johnnie Walker Blue into a crystal tumbler that matched the one lying in pieces on the other side of the room. He added a handful of ice from the bucket and set it down on a coaster on Silwamba’s desk. As he did this, Nkongo touched the handle of the M9 Beretta pistol in his belt holster, just to remind himself that he was a soldier and not a valet.

  The President drained half of the glass in a single swallow. When he set it back down, he missed the coaster by at least six inches. Although the air conditioner in the office was turned to an aggressively cool setting, Silwamba was perspiring heavily. It was hard to tell whether that was from the booze or the fear. The President loosened his Hermès tie and undid the top button of his sweat-stained collar. A third chin that had been kept prisoner under the collar leaped out to freedom. Almost contemptuously, Silwamba pointed at the extension on the side table, inviting Nkongo to pick it up and listen in.

  A click indicated that the call had gone through.

  “Mr. President, you are connected to Ambassador Spence,” said the voice of the operator.

  “Spence? That prick Ilunga is marching on the palace.” Silwamba was now slurring his words badly. “There are a hundred thousand lowlifes on the street in front of my house, Ambassador. My own soldiers are too scared to let go of their dicks. I need the cavalry. Marines, Green Berets, SEALs, I don’t give a shit, but I want your boys in here now to straighten this all out. They can work with the Lions on the details. They’ll need helicopters and tanks. You have my permission to shoot as many of those assholes as is necessary.”

  “Mr. President, I’m sorry, but it doesn’t work like that. I cannot snap my fingers and call up a brigade of Marines. That’s our President’s decision, and frankly, I don’t see anything like that happening. Politically, it would be . . . controversial . . . at best. I’m afraid that you will have to rely on . . . indigenous assets to manage your security challenges.”

  “What do you fucking mean I’m on my own? After all the business we’ve done together, you take a walk when things get tough? Is that how it’s going to be?”

  “From what my people are telling me, the demonstrators are not violent. If you feel you are in imminent danger, however, you may want to think about Switzerland. That’s where most of your funds are in any event, and I’m sure our Swiss friends would welcome you for an extended stay in your villa on Lake Constance.”

  “I don’t want the Swiss Guard in their fucking pantaloons.” Silwamba was now shouting into the receiver. “I want the U.S. fucking Army here to protect me.”

  “That’s not going to happen, Mr. President. The United States military is not coming to the rescue. You need to think about other options.”

  Silwamba hung up. He drained his glass.

  “Call out the regular army,” he said to Nkongo. “And get me another fucking drink.”

  39

  AUGUST 29, 2009

  3:35 PM

  KINSHASHA

  Private First Class Issama Bangala loved his Soviet-era armored personnel carrier, the BMP-1, a clumsy but powerful piece of Eastern Bloc machinery. Sergeant Kabila was the BMP commander and his superior, but it was Issama who controlled their movements.

  As commander, Kabila stood in the center hatch, from where he could see everything. The gunner sat in the turret to his left. The BMP-1 mounted a 73mm automatic cannon that packed a considerable punch. The driver’s chair was just in front of the commander’s seat. Issama looked out through a periscope viewing block that gave him a slightly fish-eyed window on the world. In the crew compartment behind them, eight soldiers sat with their knees touching and AK-47s propped muzzles-up on the floor.

  Ordinarily, there was nothing Issama liked better than driving his BMP. Today, however, he would have been happy to stay on base and play cards rather than politics. At Kabila’s behest, Issama pulled the BMP out of the shaded staging area and onto the road that ran from the main gate through the middle of the camp. A dozen BMPs were lined up on the road with their engines running. Clouds of diesel smoke choked the air. Issama’s seat was made of steel. He had wedged a small pillow into the back of the seat that helped cushion the jolts somewhat, but it was still far from a comfortable ride.

  By good fortune, Issama’s BMP was first in line. This meant that they would not have to breathe in the dust of the BMPs in front of them. It would take at least twenty minutes to reach the palace. The poor loser at the end of the line would spend the entire trip cloaked in the dust of a dozen thirteen-ton killing machines.

  “All right,” Kabila said from the turret. “Let’s move out.” It was clear to Issama from the flat tone in the commander’s voice that he was no more enthusiastic about this mission than Issama was.

  Issama engaged the engine and gave it just enough power to move forward at a sedate five kilometers an hour. As they approached the gate, however, he saw something through his view block that forced him to brake. An eighteen-wheel flatbed truck loaded with cement blocks pulled up sideways in front of the gate and stopped. The driver turned off the engine and jumped out of the cab. Without so much as a backward glance, he ran off into the alleyways of the city. Almost immediately, another heavily laden truck pulled up alongside the first and parked. At least ten more heavy trucks followed, boxing in the gate and trapping the BMPs inside their own base.

  Issama waited for orders. Kabila got on the radio and called in their situation to the base commander. It took a long time for the commander to make a decision. Finally, word came over the radio with instructions for the BMPs. Stand down. Return to the staging area. It was with a degree of relief that Issama pulled his BMP under the canopies, where the armor was parked out of the sun.

  Some of the soldiers returned to their leisurely afternoon pursuits. Others, including Issama, huddled around a shortwave radio listening to the news on the international Radio Sans Frontières. Many of the soldiers sensed that they were on the cusp of an historical event. But whatever happened today in Kinshasa, it would not involve the 15th Mechanized Brigade. Issama was not at all unhappy about that.

  • • •

  The team was small, only ten men, but they were veterans of the fighting in the bush. And while half of them were missing significant parts, including one man with both a prosthetic arm and a wooden leg, they were disciplined and experienced. This counted for considerably more than being of sound body. They were all armed, but they kept their rifles on safety and they were under instructions to fire only in self-defense.

  Paul Mbane, a skinny thirty-year-old who had spent half his life under arms, was in command. Mbane’s left sleeve was rolled up to his shoulder and pinned off. The Freedom Coalition had taught him to read and write, and helped him find a job in a shop owned by one of Ilunga’s supporters. He would have had no compunction about killing for the man who had given him a new lease on life. But that was not his mission.

  A truck pulled up in front of the state-run Telecom Congolaise in Kinshasa’s Kintambo district. Mbane and his “squad” dismounted. The two private security guards at the main gate with pistols in their belts were only too eager to surrender their sidearms and make themselves scarce. Mbane led one team of five to the President’s office. A second team took control of the central telephone exchange. Confronted by a team of heavily armed men, the president of the national telecom, an ally of Silwamba, was surprisingly gracious. Other than holding him, Mbane and his men made no demands of the telecom executive. Everything was calm and orderly. No one was hurt.

  That scene was played out across the city at carefully chosen locations: TV and radio stations, newspapers, and government office buildings.

  Paul Mbane did not know it, but it was all straight out of the CIA’s playbook.


  40

  AUGUST 29, 2009

  4:10 PM

  KINSHASA

  I want you to exercise judgment,” Colonel Nkongo told his second in command.

  Captain Azarias Zola saluted smartly, but it was clear that he was not entirely certain what to make of this ambiguous instruction.

  “The President’s decision-making is growing increasingly . . . erratic,” Nkongo explained. “This unit has a proud reputation and every man in it earns the honor of being a Lion every day. We are the President’s guard, but we are also the guardians of our traditions. I will not have this unit or its members stained with accusations of dishonorable or criminal behavior.”

  “Yes, sir.” Zola understood what Nkongo was saying to him. The Lions had received orders to arrest Albert Ilunga for treason and subversion. This would require moving through a crowd of tens of thousands of Ilunga’s supporters, seizing him, and then making their way back through the same crowd carrying Ilunga in shackles. With armor support and hundreds of disciplined troops in full riot gear, the mission was straightforward. With the fifty soldiers that Zola could deploy, no matter how superbly trained they might be, the most likely outcome was a massacre of civilians that would focus the disapproving attention of the world on the Black Lions and its commanders.

  Zola was a leader of men. He took no small pride in that, and if he had a weakness it was that pride. At six-foot-four and two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, the captain was an imposing physical figure. But it was the force of his personality and the strength of his will that allowed him to lead men such as these. The Lions were precise on the parade ground, but they were not a ceremonial force. They fought. Their claws were bloody as well as sharp.

  In the concrete barracks building, the Lions were getting ready for their mission. They donned body armor and Kevlar helmets. Zola had instructed the men to carry nothing larger than a Kalashnikov or a shotgun. He would not use machine guns or rocket-propelled grenades in the crowded plaza. As always, the men were thorough in their preparations. Even so, Zola detected an undercurrent of unhappiness that was a potentially serious concern. The Lions did not welcome this mission.

  The barracks were located in a largely residential area half a mile from the presidential palace. The narrow one-lane street that led from the barracks to the palace was closed to all but official vehicles. This was the only route to the palace from the barracks. It was contrary to good security practices, but the President preferred to keep his Lions close at hand rather than basing them at a more secure facility farther out. On most days, the route was a lively pedestrian street with a vibrant market scene. When Zola led his soldiers out of the barracks, however, the street was nearly deserted. The metal shutters and grates that secured the shops in the evening were pulled down and locked tight. This activated Zola’s internal-threat radar. He scanned up and down the street, but did not see anything else out of the ordinary.

  The captain led from the front, setting a quick pace that would bring them to the plaza in less than ten minutes. At about the halfway mark, Zola saw a man standing alone in the middle of the street. He was armed, but he held his Kalashnikov in his left hand with the barrel pointed at the ground. Even if Zola had not recognized his face, the brass kitchen faucet around his neck would have marked him as a member of the feared Hammer of God. Joseph Manamakimba stood between the Lions and their designated target. With a clatter of metal, shutters on either side of the street swung up on their rails, and thirty men and boys from the Hammer of God rushed out to stand behind their leader. All wore at least one magical talisman around their necks and all were armed.

  Manamakimba smiled broadly in welcome.

  “Brave Lions,” he said loudly enough for all of Zola’s men to hear. “Go back to your den. Today is not a day for hunting. Today is a day for change. By sunset you will have a new president, one worthy of respect and the service of such fine men.”

  “We have our orders, Joseph Manamakimba. We will pass.”

  “Whose orders? The orders of a tyrant, a thief, and a murderer? You are better than that, Captain Zola.”

  Zola considered his position. In addition to the soldiers deployed at street level, the Hammer of God had placed two .30-caliber machine guns on second-story balconies. If Zola’s troops tried to bull their way through the Hammer of God forces, the machine guns would rip them apart with enfilading fire. Even if the Lions won the fight, they would be so badly cut up that they would have almost no chance of carrying out their primary mission. And while Zola hated to admit this to himself, part of him agreed with Manamakimba. Silwamba had done nothing admirable in an office he held but did not deserve.

  For a moment the two sides stood poised on the point of conflict. Then, with a hand signal, Zola turned his forces around and marched them back in the direction of the barracks. He did not look back at Manamakimba and the Hammer of God. He was uncertain as to whether this was the right course of action, but there was no going back from this decision. The Black Lions had taken sides.

  • • •

  The humidity was doing brutal things to her hair, and Annette Cartwright thought about covering it with a head scarf. It was not a particularly good look for her, however, so she quickly brushed her hair out and freshened her makeup. While she was not completely satisfied with her appearance, her story was hot. Over the course of the day, the crowds in front of the presidential palace had swelled to hundreds of thousands.

  “What’s this bit for again?” she asked her producer.

  “CNN International. Renee is anchoring.” Renee Maksimova was an Oxford-educated Russian and one of a bevy of young attractive women the cable station had hired in an effort to hold on to viewers who were getting more and more of their news online. Annette had never met Renee, but she disliked her on general principle.

  “And we go live in three, two, one . . .”

  “Good afternoon, Renee. Here in Kinshasa, the pressure on the Silwamba government continues to build. We estimate that there are now more than a quarter million people crowding the plaza in front of the presidential palace demanding Silwamba’s immediate resignation. Opposition leader Albert Ilunga has made an appearance and will be addressing the crowd. His primary challenge will be to maintain control of his own supporters and to keep this situation from becoming violent. Serious violence here could bring the Congo’s wars home to the capital for the first time, and the fighting that has plagued eastern Congo could take root here as well. Ilunga has to be sensitive to this challenge even as he continues his efforts to topple the weakening Silwamba administration.”

  The cameraman swung the lens away from Annette and focused in on the flatbed truck that served as a platform for the speakers. Ilunga was climbing the stairs to the stage accompanied by an attractive Congolese woman whom Annette recognized from earlier rallies. A source had told her that she was a tribal chief from the east and that she had Ilunga’s ear. Annette made a mental note to seek her out for an interview.

  “Renee, it looks like Ilunga is ready to speak. Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  “Silwamba,” he shouted into the microphone, the speakers carrying his voice clearly to the crowd gathered in the plaza while CNN carried it live around the world. One of Giles’s more advanced students was part of the team that had taken over RTNC, and he was patching the CNN feed into the RTNC broadcast. Across the country, Congolese citizens with no access to international news were able to listen to Ilunga’s speech via the CNN feed.

  “Silwamba,” Ilunga continued. “You are trapped like a rat in that grotesque palace of yours. You command nothing. You rule nothing. We the people have taken power. Come out, Silwamba, and the people will be merciful. Do not think that you can wait us out. For we have waited long enough . . .”

  41

  AUGUST 29, 2009

  5:45 PM

  KINSHASA

  President Silwamba threw a heav
y crystal ashtray at the three-thousand-dollar plasma television in his office. The glass shattered and the picture of his hated rival went dark. That did not solve his problem because he could see Ilunga and his growing mob of supporters through the picture window in his office. He could even hear the taunting of the crowd as they called for him to step down. Nkongo and Zola stood ramrod straight on the carpet in front of his desk.

  “I send you out to do the simplest damn job and all you come back with are excuses. I asked you to arrest one unarmed little man and you can’t even do that. You two are a disgrace.”

  “Mr. President,” Colonel Nkongo said. “The risk of civilian casualties and the unexpected appearance of the Hammer of God in the city made the costs of the operation too high. We regret that we could not carry out your instructions in this instance, and we urge you to consider evacuating the city.”

  “Evacuate?”

  “Yes, sir. We have a helicopter on call, ready to ferry you to a military airfield and a Gulfstream standing by with a flight plan for Switzerland. At this point, Mr. President, this is the best available option.”

  “I will not hand my country over to that rabble. If you cannot take him alive, I want him dead.”

  Silwamba walked around his desk and stood looking Nkongo right in the eye. The whiskey smell of Silwamba’s breath was almost overpowering and his eyes were bloodshot and angry.

  “I asked you if you understood me, Colonel.”

  “Yes, Mr. President, but the Black Lions cannot support you in that. We have our sworn duty to you, but we also have sworn an oath to our country. We have found the balance between these responsibilities. I urge you to take our advice and evacuate . . . sir.”

  On the wall next to the broken television, there was a gun rack. Silwamba selected a wicked-looking Russian Dragunov sniper rifle and held it out for Zola.