by Clancy, Tom
“I can’t tell you that,” Kline said.
“So much for trust,” Herbert said.
“I’m being truthful,” Kline said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m at liberty to reveal everything.”
“Do you know where they are?” Hood pressed.
“Yes,” Kline replied. “But under the circumstances, I cannot share that information. In fact, that is part of why I did not call to tell you about Father Bradbury’s message. I did not want information reaching Leon Seronga, either by accident or design.”
“That would not have happened,” Hood said. “We have had the same goal from the start. We sent our people in there to help you.”
“Well, things change quickly in our world,” Kline said.
“Not loyalties,” Rodgers said. “Not ours.”
“The only thing that changed is our agents went from being spies to being targets in the middle of a shit storm,” Herbert said.
“Then withdraw them,” Kline said.
“We may,” Herbert said.
“Gentlemen, let’s stay on issue,” Hood said. “The point of this conversation is that we all want to rescue the priest and get our people out safely. We also should be trying to save lives. Is there some way we can keep the air force from hammering the Brush Vipers?”
“At this point, I very much doubt it,” Kline said. “They are going to make an object lesson of the Vodunists.”
“But what if that isn’t necessary?” Hood said. “What if we can help get the priest out without any violence?”
“How?” Kline asked.
“Let me talk to my people over there. You talk to Gaborone,” Hood said. “Ask for a delay.”
“And what happens if the Brush Vipers use a period of détente to get away or to attack another compound?” Kline asked. “What happens if people die this time, Paul? What happens if the Brush Vipers decide to take hostages? Or kill other priests and deacons?”
“I can’t guarantee they won’t,” Hood admitted. “But it isn’t likely. Especially if they know what’s being sent against them.”
“All we’re saying is give our people a shot,” Herbert said. “Damnit, Edgar, forget all the shit that’s gone on between us. Try to delay the attack. That’s just basic statesmanship and something else the Church stands for.”
“Which is?”
“Humanitarianism,” Herbert said.
Kline sighed. “I wish it were that simple.”
“It can be,” Hood said.
“What happened to turning the other cheek?” Herbert asked.
“It went out when slaps became gunshots,” Kline said. “Besides, we’re not talking about bearing an insult. We’re talking about the abduction and killing of priests. Never mind by whom. The survival of the Church in Botswana, in Africa, is being challenged. It has to take a stand. And the Botswanans have to show that they are in power. Don’t forget, my friends. We did not ask for this war. The Vodunists chose this course.”
“Perhaps,” Hood said. “But someone else killed Bishop Max to escalate the situation. By doing the same thing, by escalating the war against the Vodunists, you are abetting the ones who attacked you.”
“That will come out in time,” Kline said. “First things first. We deal with the Vodunists and the kidnapping of Father Bradbury. Then we find out who attacked the Church and Botswana.”
Just then, Rodgers’s cell phone beeped. He checked the number. It was the embassy in Gaborone. That meant the clock was running. There was no time to leave the room. If the call were being relayed from Aideen, it could be pinpointed within two minutes. Rodgers looked at Hood and dragged a finger across his own throat to kill the speaker. Hood did more than that. He asked Kline if he could hold the line for a few minutes.
Kline agreed. Hood hit the Mute button.
“I’m surprised he agreed, the bastard SOB,” Herbert said.
“It’s worth the wait for him,” Hood said. “I might decide to share whatever information is incoming.”
Meanwhile, Mike Rodgers accepted the patch-through. Hood and Herbert fell silent.
“Yes?” Rodgers said. He did not use his name in case Aideen had dropped the phone and someone had discovered it.
“We need help,” the caller said.
It was Aideen. Her words were urgent, but her voice was calm.
“Go ahead,” Rodgers said.
“We’ve linked up with Seronga and are headed toward a rendezvous with Dhamballa,” she informed him.
“You’re staying?” Hood said.
“We have to,” Aideen said. “The Vodunists are changing their destination to meet us. Father Bradbury will be with them. We will try to obtain his release. We should be with them in about two hours. Do you know where the Spanish soldiers are?”
“No,” Rodgers said. “But we believe they are trying to reach Father Bradbury.”
“That was our conclusion,” Aideen said. “General, we need time. Seronga seems inclined to support us. We believe it’s possible to end this peaceably. Can you sell Gaborone on that idea?”
“I don’t know,” Rodgers said. “They appear set on ending this situation in a very public way.”
“What if you tell them that we have already obtained the release of the priest?” Aideen asked.
“That would make things worse,” Rodgers said. “The air force would still go in to mop things up.”
“Then we have to find another way to delay them,” Aideen said.
“Look, I’ll talk this over with Bob and Paul,” Rodgers said. “We’ll try to work out something.”
“Thank you,” Aideen replied.
“I understand,” Rodgers told her. “Proceed under the assumption that you’re a go for a peaceful resolution. If there’s a problem, I’ll let you know. You’ve done very good work.”
Aideen thanked him. Rodgers clicked off. The call had taken just over one minute.
“What have we got?” Hood asked. “Hold on,” he added. He clicked on the speakerphone. “Edgar? Are you still there?”
“I am.”
“Mike Rodgers just got a call from one of our agents who is with Seronga,” Hood informed him. “You will be hearing the briefing from Mike the same time we do.”
“Thanks, but I don’t see what good this will do,” Kline said.
“Can you be any less goddamn hopeful, you South African misery?” Herbert snapped.
“Enough, Bob,” Hood snapped. “Edgar, if nothing else, it will renew the partnership we were supposed to have in this operation,” Hood said.
“Fair enough,” Kline replied.
“Mike?” Hood said.
Rodgers liked what Hood had done. It was a no-lose situation for Op-Center. It accomplished three things. It neutralized Kline’s charges that Hood had not been forthcoming. It reinvigorated the idea of an alliance between Op-Center and the Vatican Security Office. And most importantly, it put the next move on the shoulders of Edgar Kline.
“Gentlemen, our three operatives are with Leon Seronga,” Rodgers said. “The word is that Seronga seems tired. From the sound of it, this whole movement is suddenly tired, or at the very least scared. Our group is meeting with Dhamballa and the Brush Vipers in under two hours. Our people believe they can obtain freedom for Father Bradbury and perhaps even get the Brush Vipers to disband. They have asked us to find a way to give them that opportunity. They have asked us to buy them those two hours.”
Hood waited a moment. Then he looked at the speakerphone. “Edgar? Any thoughts?”
Kline was silent.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it now. We started this as a mission to save lives,” Hood said. “We can’t sit here and do nothing, just say this is out of our control.”
“And I’ve told you, the Brush Vipers chose their own path,” Kline said. “We are not responsible for what happens to them.”
“Edgar, we are,” Hood insisted. “This information just made us responsible. We have options. We have a duty. Our job is to mana
ge crises, not sit on the bench and watch them explode. Your job, if I may, is to restore normalcy. We can do that. It’s not impossible.”
“The crime of kidnapping Father Bradbury does not call for a response of mass murder,” Rodgers said. “It was wrong, it was illegal, but let’s deal with it in those terms.”
“And there’s something else that just occurred to me,” Hood said. “Edgar, we don’t know who is traveling with Dhamballa. What if there are children at the camp who had nothing to do with any of this? Should they be punished, too?”
Hood let that thought soak in before continuing.
“Edgar, we don’t have enough information to allow an air strike to take place,” Hood concluded. “At least—at the very least—give our people the time to finish what they were sent to do.”
“Paul, I don’t know,” Kline said. “Even if I wanted to, I don’t know if I can make that happen.”
“Try,” Herbert said.
“Your say-so will get the Spanish soldiers to delay entering the camp,” Hood said. “If they don’t go in, the Botswana choppers won’t strike for fear of killing Father Bradbury.”
“You can tell them the camp is moving,” Rodgers said. “It’s true. They might miss it altogether.”
“Paul, they may be in there already, with the Brush Vipers,” Kline said.
“Then, Edgar, we can’t afford to waste any more time,” Hood pressed.
The silence that followed was tense, exaggerated. The hum of the computer fan sounded like a turbine.
Finally, Kline spoke. “I will do what I can. I’ll ask them to hold,” he said. “But I cannot answer for the Botswana military.”
“They may not attack without knowing that Father Bradbury is out of danger,” Rodgers said.
“I pray you’re right,” Kline replied.
The Vatican officer hung up.
“Well. All it took was three of us beating him with morality to get him to budge,” Herbert said.
“I’ve had to use more than that to get you to move sometimes,” Hood said.
“Yeah, but I’m usually right,” Herbert said.
Calmer now, Herbert left the office to see what Darrell McCaskey might have discovered about the Japanese connection. Rodgers looked at Hood.
“I pray we’re right, too,” Hood said.
“Yeah,” Rodgers said. “You want to make that official?”
Hood smiled. “Are you serious?”
Rodgers nodded.
“It’s been a long time,” Hood said.
“Then I’ll lead,” Rodgers replied.
The general slid off his chair and lowered himself to one knee. Hood did the same. Rodgers said something about God looking after the people in the field, especially those who were risking themselves for others. Rodgers knew from countless missions that the words themselves did not matter as much as the sentiment. His heart and soul were definitely in this. Not just because he felt they were right but because he understood the political crisis Botswana was facing. And he believed that only divine intervention could save Dhamballa and the Brush Vipers from being slaughtered.
FIFTY-SIX
Okavango Swamp, Botswana Friday, 11:19 P.M.
These were the hours that made life worthwhile. They were the challenges for which Captain Antonio Abreo had been trained. They were a chance to pit himself against an unfamiliar environment and a new enemy.
They were an opportunity to savor life by risking it.
His nonmilitary friends and relatives told him it was a crazy way to make a living. They were all farmers and fishermen and tour guides. They had comfortable lives. They would probably have long lives. Eighty years of boredom did not appeal to Abreo.
Risk, and planning for that risk, did.
Captain Abreo had felt there was a better chance of getting to the priest with two men rather than an entire unit. Dressed in camouflage greens, Abreo and Sergeant Vicente Diamante had decided to jump to the site described by Father Bradbury.
The two men had taken off from Maun. They flew on a twin-turboprop EMB-110 that had been flown in from Gaborone. The Brazilian-made aircraft belonged to the Botswana Meteorological Research Department. The government had loaned it to the Unidad Especial del Despliegue to make the incursion. Though Gaborone was not happy to have foreign soldiers operating on their soil, their involvement would remain a secret. It was more important to restore order absolutely. At the same time, the remaining members of the team were making their way to the swamp in the company of the Botswana military.
The BMRD had detailed maps of the region. Captain Abreo had used them to pinpoint the likely location where Father Bradbury was being kept. Then he and Sergeant Diamante had parachuted to the nearest small island, which was about a quarter mile away. There, Diamante deployed a small rubber raft. The men carried that plus a pair of night-vision goggles, a radio, two M-82s, and a pair of nine-inch hunting knives.
While the sergeant inflated the raft, Captain Abreo hid the parachutes behind a clump of vines. Then he scanned the darkness for signs of a camp. He found it with no problem. Lights, sounds, activity. He did not even need the night-vision glasses to see them. After dabbing mud on their faces and hands, the Spanish officers put the raft in the water. Then they made their way swiftly and silently toward the deserted northern side of the small island. All of the activity seemed to be centered in the south. It was clear that the Vodunists were breaking camp. There were several small huts on the island. Abreo spotted one where there was no activity. Where the windows were closed, despite the heat. That was probably the shack where Father Bradbury was incarcerated. Once the two soldiers had recovered the priest, the plan was for them to head north. When they were a half mile from the island, they were to radio the commander of the Botswana strike force. The attack would commence soon thereafter. When it was finished, one of the helicopters would retrieve the two soldiers and the priest.
The sergeant was crouched in the rear, rowing. First on one side, then the other. The dark water rippled gently around the raft. The captain peered ahead. He ignored the few gnats that clouded around his ears and cheek. Swatting them away would accomplish nothing except to distract him. It was surprisingly quiet out here. The only croaking and clicking they heard had been around the island. The officer was aware of all of it. The sounds, the smells, the gentle current under the raft. Once a mission had begun, Captain Abreo became a part of his environment. Alert, patient, defensive rather than offensive. Growing up on a sheep farm in the Basque country, he had learned a very simple lesson from foxes. The ones who got away were the ones you never saw coming.
As the elite soldiers neared the target, the radio blinked. It was a dull brown pinpoint flash that would not be visible more than a few feet away. Abreo picked up the headset. He attached the subvocal microphone to an elastic band he wore around his throat. Then he plugged the small disk-shaped microphone into the band. The tiny receiver plucked vibrations directly from his voice box. It would enable him to whisper and still be heard.
“Abreo,” he said.
“Captain, this is CHQ,” said the caller. That was the code name for Corporal Enrique Infiesta, the group’s radio operator. Infiesta spoke fluent English and was liaison with the Botswana military.
“Go ahead,” Abreo replied.
“Sir, the VSO liaison has asked us to postpone the operation,” Infiesta informed him.
“For how long?” Abreo asked. The order had killed the captain’s internal engines. He had to start them up again. They were still in a danger zone.
“Two hours,” the caller replied.
“What’s the reason?” Abreo asked.
“There is a simultaneous operation. That one has been given priority,” Infiesta replied.
“Priority? By whom?”
“I don’t know, sir,” the caller told him.
“There is no one around but cult members,” Abreo replied. “Do you know if this other party infiltrated the Brush Vipers?”
“I do no
t know, sir,” Infiesta told him.
“Are they Spanish or Botswanan?” Infiesta asked.
“I don’t know that either, sir,” the radioman replied. “Do you want me to call and ask?”
“No. That won’t change anything,” Abreo replied.
Abreo looked out at the island. The cultists were running around loading the boats. They were so intent on leaving, they were not watching their flank. That was the problem with young movements. Leon Seronga was obviously the chief strategist. He was not here. Whoever was the number-two officer did not have the experience to mount a successful retreat. Or perhaps they felt they were not going to be attacked here.
Or perhaps they had learned that they were, Abreo thought. If they had that information, that would explain the haste.
“Do the orders cover reconnaissance?” the captain asked.
“No, sir,” said Infiesta. “Only what I told you.”
“Very well,” said Abreo.
“Will there be a return message, sir?” the caller asked.
“Tell the VSO liaison that the order was received, nothing more,” Abreo replied.
“Yes, sir,” Infiesta replied.
The captain signed off. He removed the headset and microphone and turned to the sergeant.
“There is another team engaged in the rescue,” Abreo whispered. “VSO wants us to postpone.”
“Are they Botswanans?” Diamante asked.
“I don’t know,” the captain told him.
“But we’re just minutes away from possibly finding and rescuing the priest—” Diamante said.
“I know,” Abreo replied. There was a trace of irritation in his voice. He got rid of it. The men were still on a mission, and annoyance was a distraction. “We have our orders, and we will follow them. However, we have no instructions other than to postpone. We are going to continue to the island and conduct on-site reconnaissance. If we happen to encounter the priest and he asks for our help, we will not refuse it.”
“That would be wrong, Captain,” Diamante agreed.
“Very much so,” said Abreo.
The soldiers continued toward the island. Abreo continued to study the island.
The more he examined the hut through the night-vision goggles, the more convinced he became that it was a prison. Vines hung thickly in front of the window. They had never been cleared, which suggested that it was never opened. As they came closer, he also saw a dead bolt. On the outside.
