Revolution Device

by Don Pendleton

  His fellow Phoenix Force warriors—Calvin James, Gary Manning, T. J. Hawkins and Rafael Encizo—were all seated around the same table. Stony Man Farm’s ace pilot Jack Grimaldi was on his feet, his lanky form propped against a wall, the bill of his baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, which were closed.

  McCarter’s muscles felt stiff and his brain fuzzy from lack of sleep. The group had spent the past two days breaking up a weapons-smuggling ring in Yemen that had been sending rocket-propelled grenades and other ordnance to al-Shabab terrorists in Somalia. Once they’d wrapped up that mission, McCarter had planned to jet to London for some R&R.

  But just as they’d finished loading their weapons and their fatigued bodies onto the plane, they’d been summoned to Kinshasa. From the airport they’d been transported to the Embassy in a caravan of limousines and led to the secure briefing room.

  There’d barely been time for McCarter to nick a can of Coke before the meeting. Even on his best day, the former British Special Air Service soldier was fueled by caffeine. Coming straight off a mission, though, he felt like he could use a cooler filled with the stuff. McCarter was a product of London’s East End who, during his career, had become an ace pilot, a small arms expert and an Olympic-level pistol shooter.

  The one Embassy staffer in the room was Richard Austin. Austin was of average height, slim, with a thick head of neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper hair and a disarming grin that he flashed frequently. The grin never reached his eyes, though, and he seemed to be sizing up his new guests with the cautious gaze of an experienced spy. He was listed as a mid-level bureaucrat for the State Department, but actually was the CIA station chief.

  “Welcome to paradise, gentlemen,” Austin said. “Hope you enjoy your stay here in Kinshasa.”

  “Loving it already,” Grimaldi muttered. His eyes were closed and he was resting his chin on his chest.

  Austin checked his watch, swore under his breath, darted to the table and stepped in between Hawkins and Encizo. Punching a couple of keys on a laptop, he gestured at a white screen that hung from the ceiling.

  An image of the State Department symbol set against a blue background emerged, filling the screen.

  “Boring,” McCarter muttered.

  The image faded and was replaced by a close-up shot of Barbara Price, her honey-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, a black headset fitted on her head.

  “Much better,” McCarter said.

  “Excuse me?” the former model asked.

  “Good to see you,” the Briton said, flashing a lopsided grin. “Where’s the old guy?”

  “Catching a power nap,” Price said. “In a few hours, he has a private briefing with the Man. We have Able Team in the field and the Man wants to be brought up to speed on that. He’ll also want an update on your mission to Somalia.”

  “We made friends and influenced people,” McCarter quipped.

  “Don’t you always?” Price replied. “By the way, your host, Mr. Austin, is an old friend and cleared to hear what we’re talking about. He’s always happy to cooperate with NSA paramilitary forces such as yourselves.”

  “Always glad to help the NSA,” Austin said, either not knowing or not caring that he was being lied to.

  “We appreciate that,” McCarter replied before swallowing some more Coke.

  McCarter guessed Price was pegging them as NSA employees to deflect further questions. A sweeping glance around the room told him that none of his comrades reacted to the reference, either. His team was used to moving in the shadows.

  Encizo stifled a yawn. A native of Cuba, Encizo as a younger man had participated in covert attempts to unseat the government. A physical fitness enthusiast, Encizo had spent time as a scuba instructor and participated in diving operations off the coasts of Jamaica and Puerto Rico, searching for treasure from sunken Spanish and British ships. Though he’d contracted at various times with the CIA and DEA, he’d refused to join either agency. A few strands of gray running through his jet-black hair were the only hints he might be older than forty. He’d also worked as a professional bodyguard and an insurance investigator at various points in his career.

  “So we’re here to discuss Hal’s sleeping habits?” Encizo asked.

  Price smiled. “I wish it was something that mundane. It’s not. We need you to move on something before it gets out of control.”

  In spite of his fatigue, McCarter felt his heart kick up a notch at the prospect of some action. He guessed his fellow soldiers were feeling the same thing.

  Price asked, “You heard about Blake Pearson, the ambassador who was killed, right?”

  Price didn’t wait on them to nod their heads, but instead continued speaking. “The killers used an IED to blow up his limousine. The motorcade was outfitted with all kinds of jamming and detection equipment, but somehow they still were able to get them. It was a very professional hit.”

  “It was the Lord’s Resistance Army, right?” Manning asked.

  Price nodded. “An offshoot group of the LRA, actually. The killer team was led by Jules Nmosu. He used to be a mid-level commander in the LRA before he and a couple others jumped ship and started their own group. According to our files, he had some decent military credentials to his name, but nothing to indicate he could pull off something of this sophistication. They apparently knew Pearson’s route, faked an auto accident to divert him from it, trapped the motorcade and attacked. From what the forensic teams could tell, some of the parts used to make the IEDs were shipped through an export company owned by Seif Escobar.”

  “So he’s our target?” Encizo asked.

  Price shook her head no. “The other guys are handling him right now. We need you to take care of something else. Like I said, we find this Nmosu’s involvement in this troubling. We’ve given the LRA some hell over the years. And, according to the intelligence we have, he’s narcissistic enough to try something like this. Once you set the obvious stuff aside, though, it doesn’t pass the smell test.”

  “Explain,” said Manning. The Canadian only spoke when he had something important to say. A perfectionist and a workaholic, he was considered one of the world’s foremost experts on explosives and demolition. These skills had helped him succeed in the construction and mining industries as well as in combat. In addition, he was an excellent marksman and had helped form a counter-terrorism unit within the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  Price acknowledged Manning with a nod. “Well, for starters, the alleged mastermind of this hit— Mr. Nmosu? The local authorities found him at the scene, dead.”

  “Killed by one of his own?”

  “That’s the theory. The authorities swear they didn’t do it. And we have no trouble believing that. It took them a couple of minutes to get to the scene, especially with the main roads clogged by an accident and emergency crews already tied up on a call. And, frankly, I’m not sure why they would lie about it.”

  Scowling, Manning rubbed his chin with his thumb and index finger. “I’m not sure a betrayal scenario makes sense, though,” he said. “If they were going to do that, you’d think they’d do it before the murder.”

  “Because someone thought it was a dangerous move,” Encizo offered.

  “Right,” Manning said.

  “You raise a good point,” Price said. “Unfortunately him getting killed by one of his friends is the best theory we have at this point. Unless someone just happened by just after the explosions and—for reasons I don’t understand—decided to take him out and disappear.”

  “You’re right,” McCarter said. “That theory’s daft.”

  “Thank you,” Price said. “In addition, he has some ties to some shady characters.”

  “Duh,” Grimaldi muttered.

  “I know. I know. I mean, high-level shady characters. The other team’s in the field right now investigating his link
s to a Mexican weapons smuggler, Seif Escobar. We believe Escobar provided him the components used in the IEDs. It’s possible he even provided the training and had his own people construct the IEDs.”

  “Which goes back to the question of motivation,” Manning said. “If this Escobar guy knew what the weapons would be used for, why would he build and sell them? Even a greedy sociopath would know better than to piss off the United States over small change.”

  “Right,” James said. “All he’s done is draw unwanted attention to himself.”

  Born on Chicago’s South Side, James was one of Phoenix Force’s two native-born American members. As a younger man, he’d joined the U.S. Navy, eventually becoming a SEAL. After he left the Navy, he moved to California, where he began studying medicine and chemistry. His academic pursuits were cut short when criminals killed his mother and sister. That event spurred him to join the San Francisco Police Department, where eventually he joined the department’s SWAT team.

  “Right, his motive is murky to us,” Price said. “We have theories, but no answers at this point. Of course, we found out about his shipping the IED parts through one of the undercover agents placed in his organization. Escobar wasn’t brazen about it. The Feds just had a person in the right place at the right time. Otherwise we might still be in the dark.”

  “Fair enough,” McCarter said. “So if we’re not hunting Mr. Escobar, what’s our role in all this? Or are we just chatting?”

  Price showed a weary smile.

  “Hardly,” she said. “Word came down from the Man. He wants Nmosu’s organization dismantled. Part of it’s retribution for what they did, obviously. But the links between Nmosu and Escobar are troubling. And...Escobar’s been talking with someone in Iran, which only heightens the mystery. It may be nothing. It may be something.”

  “Any ideas on where to start?” McCarter asked.

  Price nodded. “When Nmosu split off from the group, he didn’t go alone. Justin Mulumba and Daniel Lukwebo, each of whom has a war crimes file as long as my arm, went with him. Your briefing packets include pictures and bios on each of the men. For the moment, though, I wouldn’t invest a lot of time into Lukwebo.”

  McCarter’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”

  “Apparently someone decided he needed another hole in his head,” Price said. “So they shot him and dumped him in an alley.”

  “Are you sure another black ops agency isn’t already taking these guys down?” James asked.

  “Negative. We ran that through all the channels and every one pleaded ignorance. Whoever killed Nmosu and Lukwebo probably wanted to shut them up.”

  “We could just sit back and see if someone waxes Mulumba for us,” Encizo said.

  “I see your line of reasoning, Rafe. But that’s not a good plan,” Price said. “If someone’s trying to cover tracks, we want to know who it is. Otherwise, they’ll get away with killing one of our ambassadors.”

  Encizo nodded his understanding. “Point taken,” he said.

  “Send us the briefing packets,” McCarter said. “We’ll take it from there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Move your legs faster,” Justin Mulumba shouted, “or I’ll cut them off.”

  Mulumba patted the worn handle on his machete and barked out a harsh laugh.

  The small group of women he was addressing—all younger than twenty, some many years younger—shot furtive glances in his direction, but quickly turned their attention back to their work. They were carrying weathered leather suitcases or cardboard boxes filled with Mulumba’s possessions. Like a line of ants, they loaded the items into the back of one of his Toyota SUVs before turning away and looking for something else to move. Though young, some of the women struggled with the burdens they carried, their bodies rendered weak from lack of food and health care. Not to mention the frequent sexual assaults they suffered at the hands of Mulumba or his men. None wanted to catch his eye because they knew that with attention came exploitation and abuse.

  Mulumba had collected the women during various raids on local villages over the past couple of years. He’d had a larger group six months ago, one that had included a few elderly men and a couple of babies. Disease and starvation had thinned the group down, which explained at least to some extent why only the young women had survived.

  A group of Mulumba’s guards stood nearby. All carried AK-74 or AKM rifles. A couple wore ragged camouflage fatigues, the same ones they’d owned when they’d deserted the DRC’s army. Another man wore cut-off blue jeans and a tattered black T-shirt, while the fourth was dressed in cutoffs and a faded red shirt with the sleeves ripped off.

  The women had spent the morning packing the contents of Mulumba’s tent in preparation for his departure. Once they’d loaded the vehicles, he’d count off maybe half the women and take them along, though he’d make them walk alongside the vehicles and not allow them to ride inside.

  The remaining women would be taken into a field and shot dead, like diseased livestock, except he wouldn’t bother burying them. He’d heard a couple of the women who’d been with him the longest sob. They knew what was coming. If they didn’t die, they’d have to bury the ones that did. After that, they’d walk several miles on empty stomachs before they stopped for the night, cooked dinner and satisfied whatever other hunger Mulumba experienced.

  The afternoon was hot, the air thick with humidity. Mulumba, his shirt dark with sweat and clinging to his chest and back, turned away from the women and swigged from the bottle of water he carried. Fear fluttered in his stomach and constricted his breathing. He didn’t like feeling scared and he certainly didn’t want to look at his people when he felt afraid.

  Yet he found himself unable to stop the sense of panic when it bubbled up inside him and seemed poised to consume him. Within the past twenty-four hours, everything had changed. He found himself in unfamiliar territory—living as prey rather than predator—and it unnerved him.

  A former army captain, he’d deserted the military three years ago when he realized the rebel factions lived better than he did. Sure, he’d had a job, a title and a small but regular paycheck. He’d spent less time looking over his shoulder. Rebels lived on the run. But they also took what they wanted—took who they wanted. They lived comparatively well, no small feat in an impoverished country.

  He’d started out with the M23 rebel group. But he quickly found himself at odds with the leadership. They’d wanted to effect some kind of change—or at least claimed they did. For his part, he just didn’t care. He could mouth the words and the slogans. But, at the end of the day, he just wanted the perks. He wanted to invade a village and take its young women, its crops and whatever other meager valuables it had, and he wanted to keep as much as possible for himself.

  In that way, he didn’t consider himself any different than other rebel leaders—or politicians, for that matter. He was just willing to admit it, at least to himself.

  Now all that was falling apart.

  When Nmosu first had told him about their intention to work with the Iranians and Hezbollah, Mulumba had been wary. Most of the Western world—save for a few bleeding hearts at human rights organizations—ignored people like him so long as he and his fellow rebels left Western people and property alone.

  But Jules Nmosu and Daniel Lukwebo, the founders of the group, had had a different take. Or at least they had after Iran and Hezbollah began waving big wads of U.S. dollars in their faces.

  They’d signed on to the whole affair, spent months training for it and even pulled the whole damn thing off.

  Now they were dead.

  He guessed the Iranians had killed Nmosu. It’d happened too quickly for it to have been a reprisal for his actions. The way Mulumba figured it, the Iranians probably had killed Nmosu because he knew too much. Lukwebo was another matter. Maybe the Iranians had killed them; maybe
the Americans had done it as a reprisal for the murders.

  Regardless, it left Mulumba in charge and probably meant he also was a target—of somebody.

  So he was packing up his belongings and his people and getting the hell away from the camp before someone came looking for him.

  Once he drained the bottle of water, he crumpled it in his fist, tossed it aside and checked his watch. He wanted to have the camp torn down before nightfall. That gave him about three hours.

  Mulumba stalked over to his Toyota and yanked open the rear driver’s-side door. He stood six feet, eight inches. At three hundred pounds, his body was packed with muscle. A wide scar snaked his forehead before it cut a lumpy, purplish trail over the bridge of his nose and across his right cheek. A man of his size and with his combat background rarely found himself afraid of anything, at least not when it came to head-on confrontation.

  But in Lukwebo’s case, the dumb bastard had never seen it coming. He’d climbed into his pickup, started the engine and an instant later a bomb under the hood had vaporized him and everything else inside the cab. That was what scared Mulumba. If he couldn’t see it coming, he couldn’t fight it. That meant he was helpless; a feeling that was all but alien to him.

  With some difficulty he maneuvered his large frame through the door. An olive-drab blanket neatly folded into a rectangle lay across one half of the backseat. Grabbing one corner, he flipped aside the blanket and exposed a Type 79 submachine gun. The gas-operated weapon, originally manufactured in China, fired 500 rounds a minute from a 20-round magazine. The weapon, which he’d won several years ago in a poker game, fired 7.62 mm ammunition.

  Fisting the weapon and an ammo belt, he withdrew from the vehicle and slung the SMG’s strap over his shoulder.