by Tom Kratman
"Is it true that they wouldn't follow anyone else?" Phillie asked.
Stauer sighed. "I've known two, maybe three, commanders in the Army that the troops cried over when they left. I've only known one who, after he left command, the troops formed grievance committees and went to demand of the higher commander that their old commander be returned to them. That happened with Reilly, if all reports are to be believed, at least three times." He sighed again. "Yeah, I suppose I'm going to have to give the son of a bitch a strike team."
"Anyway, Reilly's one of six men I've called who can bring the cadre for their own units with them. The others are Terry Welch-he was a Special Forces type-and Bill Cazz, a jarhead, plus Ed Kosciusko, retired Navy, and Mike Cruz, who was a jarhead aviator. Also Richard Thornton who was a SEAL."
"Jarhead?" Phillie asked. She knew what a SEAL was, from the movies.
"A Marine."
"Oh. Reilly said he needed medical personnel. Would an ER RN do?"
"It would help," Stauer conceded. "But before I let you volunteer we'd at least need to have a long talk."
The front door opened. Someone called out, loudly, "Free beer?" In walked Wahab followed by several more men, each clutching a small overnight bag. "Excuse me, Phillie," Stauer said as he turned to the door. "An army marches on its stomach."
He clapped one of the men on the shoulder and said, "Matt, Ralph is expecting you upstairs." To another, a tall, stout black man who looked to be about seventy years of age, he pointed at Phillie and said, "Sergeant Island, that's the lady of the house. If you would see her about messing arrangements?" Stauer's tone of voice contained a lot more respect for Sergeant Island than Phillie had heard him use with anyone, ever. Phillie had a couple of internal reactions to Stauer's words, pleasure at lady of the house and annoyance at the assumption she needed help with feeding people.
Then again, I've never cooked for even a dozen men, and more keep coming. Maybe I need to listen to Sergeant Island, or even let him take charge.
"Phillie," Stauer added, "Master Sergeant Island's bible is the 1910 Manual for Army Cooks."
"All the wisdom of the world, in one volume," Island said righteously. "Everything since is either mere commentary or obvious decay. The 1896 manual is, of course, very good, too, but a bit dated."
To a third, a big, bruiser of an obvious ex-soldier, he said, "Terry, I'm turning over my lodge to you and your boys. It's one hundred and seventeen acres with a log cabin down in Somerset, about twenty-five miles from here. I've already drawn you up directions. Go upstairs and pick whatever weapons I've got you think might be useful to train with until we have something more concrete for you to work with. At the lodge there are four Class IIIs, all suppressed, one Sterling, one Uzi, one Smith and Wesson Model 76, and one MP-5. There's also a single PVS-7"-night vision goggles- "with enough batteries for . . . well . . . a while. Ammunition for all of them is in the cabinets upstairs." To the last newcomer, Stauer said, "Ed, one of my guys is working on finding us a ship or ships and a sub. He's in the kitchen; answers to ‘Gordo.' Go figure it out."
"But I still don't understand what the mission is?" Ed Kosciusko said.
"Ah, that's easy. We're going to invade somebody by sea, land, and air, destroy a small navy at anchor, maybe blow some bridges, smash a minor air force on the ground, and in general have the time of our lives."
CHAPTER SIX
We cannot blame colonialism and imperialism
for this tragedy. We who fought against
these things now practice them.
-Joshua Nkomo
D-150, Port Harcourt International Airport, Nigeria
The ambulance doors were open, showing one weakly thrashing body, with sweat simply pouring off of it, a clustering of vomit about mouth and chin, emanating incoherent moans. Even in Port Harcourt, the stench arising from the body was something noticeable.
To either side of the stretcher-borne young man, seated along the walls facing inward, were six other men, all wearing masks and latex gloves. Four of these were Labaan and his cousins. Their bags were piled toward the front of the ambulance. Labaan, seated at the right rear, passed over his and three other passports to a stout customs inspector wearing a green beret and a short sleeved, gray dress jacket with epaulettes and sundry insignia Labaan had not a clue to the significance of. He actually rather doubted the insignia had much significance.
The inspector fanned through the passports quickly. He couldn't, after all, so much as see the faces of those purporting to be their owners. As for the fifth man, the one on the stretcher . . .
"His is in his pocket," Labaan said. "We were afraid . . . "
The inspector's eyes darted to the softly moaning body. He answered, in clear, clipped Nigerian English, with just that trace of upper class British accent, "I understand completely. But you see, I'll have to explain to my supervisor . . . "
Labaan reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew an envelope. "This is a letter of explanation from our captain," he said. The envelope was much fatter than any simple letter needed to be. It was unsealed. The inspector handed back the passports and took the envelope.
The inspector opened the loose flap and ran his thumb along the top of the stack of bills contained therein. About two thousand Euros. Half for my boss . . . no, a quarter for my boss. After all, he didn't have to take his life in his hands getting close to this diseased creature. Then, too, my job is keeping undesirable things out of the country. This one wants to leave, or would if he were able, and so I am just doing my job in helping him, and them, leave.
The inspector glanced over the letter. Good, it says nothing about money. He then took the three quarters of the stack of bills he had decided were his due, stuffing the roll in his left trouser pocket and leaving the remainder for his boss. On second thought, no, if I leave five hundred he'll assume there's more. The inspector took another two hundred, folded that, and slid it into his right breast pocket. That way, when his boss shook him down for the rest he could produce that. His boss might even give him back a hundred.
"Everything seems well enough in order," the inspector said. "And your casevac flight to Cairo is standing by. Damned odd plane for a trip to Cairo, though."
"I'm told it's what was available," Labaan answered.
"Yes, well, not my problem. Enjoy your flight and"-again the inspector's eyes darted to Adam's body- "good health to you."
Unseen under his mask, Labaan frowned. Poor Africa, to have such servants.
The Kenya Airways Saab 340 already had its engines running. Not having a rear ramp, it was suboptimal for a medical flight. Nonetheless it had been available to Labaan's chief, Gutaale, at an acceptable price. What did the chief care, after all, about four men having to manhandle a stretcher up a narrow set of boarding steps?
The flight attendant was female, extravagantly so, and dressed in a striking red uniform, complete to scarf. Equal opportunity had not yet hit most African airlines and, given the typical quality of the service, it was generally felt to be a good idea to give the paying cargo something to think about besides the accident rate or the probability that someone in the maintenance crew had taken a bribe to accept inferior replacement parts.
Kenyan Airways was actually much better than the norm is this regard. Nonetheless, its reputation suffered for the sins of the rest, hence the perceived need for pretty staff. Like Labaan, his team, and Adam, the stewardess was the result of millennia of admixturing with the Arabs across the Red Sea, albeit to a lesser degree. Thus the light brown skin, softer than the African norm hair, and somewhat softer features.
If the woman thought it odd that an emergency medical flight had been contracted for nearly a month prior, she said nothing. Indeed, she was far too occupied in trying to back out right through the airplane's walls to think of much of anything. She didn't have a medical mask, and tried-quite futilely- to cover her mouth and nose with one hand. The other was busy scratching at the wall behind her.
Ignoring her, e
xcept for a quick and appreciative glance at her chest, Labaan led the others to the rear of the aircraft. "Get him out of the stretcher and into a seat," he ordered. "Don't clean him up yet."
D-149, N'Djamena, Chad
In fact, the inspector's observations about the aircraft chosen for a flight to Cairo were spot on. You just couldn't get there in a Saab 340, without at least three stops, one of which was guaranteed to be a rotten, problematic layover in either western Sudan or southeastern Libya. This would have mattered, too, had the plane actually been going to Cairo. It wasn't.
Labaan glanced out the window of the plane at the rows of military aircraft lining one side of the runway. French, he thought. The one European people which didn't give up its empire here. And, arguably, the controllers of the only "countries" in Africa that haven't decayed to complete ruin since decolonialization.
In his heart, Labaan knew that wasn't true. Were the "former" French colonies run a bit better than the norm? Yes, some of them, but there were a few decolonized African states that were doing well, for certain values of well. His own wasn't among them and that knowledge perhaps clouded his thinking on the subject. Conversely, the country they were in, quite despite-or perhaps because of-French tutelage, had the distinction of being rated as the most corrupt country in the world, some years, and never better than seventh from the bottom.
Of course "it's all the white's fault," Labaan thought. Isn't that what all the black studies people said at the university? Except it isn't. Though conquered once, Ethiopia was never really colonized. It's a mess. "The imperialists mixed up tribes and thus guaranteed conflict." Which would seem to be true except that Rwanda and Burundi have the same tribal mix they had before the Euros showed up. They're the very definition of a mess. And of my own "country," the less said the better.
I'm barely old enough to remember the euphoria of decolonialization, though I've heard enough about it. I wonder if there's a man or woman in Africa who wouldn't prefer things to go back the way they were under colonialism? What did that expat Canadian cynic say? Ah, yes, I remember: "By comparison with the sonofabitch system, colonialism is progressive and enlightened."
And at least back then we could all get together in peace, love, and harmony in hating the whites. Now we only have each other to hate and fear. And to steal from, of course.
There was a youngish white man, tall, muscular, tanned, blonde, and bearded, waiting for the Kenya Airways flight as the hatch opened. The white's sweat-stained shirt was unbuttoned halfway to his navel.
Labaan took one look and thought, God . . . no! Not one of them, not here?
"Dude," the white said, as Labaan reached the foot of the debarking steps, "the plane . . . it's bogus . . . it's broken."
God save me from Californians, Labaan thought. It wasn't enough to have to go to school with the mindless twits. Even here, without a surfable beach for over a thousand miles, they find me to blight my existence and insult their own language.
"And you are?" Labaan asked.
"Lance, dude."
Of course. Lance. "What's wrong with the plane, Lance?" he asked.
The California expat's real name was Roger. Since, however, he was acutely conscious of his origins, he went by "Lance." Lance threw his arms in the air and answered, "Man, I dunno. I'm still trying to figure it out."
I knew everything was going too well, Labaan thought, calmly. For the first time since beginning his mission he felt comfortable. This was Africa, after all, and things were not supposed to go well. Besides, God must have his little joke with us.
"How long to fix it?" Labaan asked.
"No clue, dude. Nobody here can do a fucking thing with it, and I mostly just fly 'em."
"Of course" Labaan sighed. He began rubbing his forehead against the headache that was beginning to build. There are maybe three hundred kilometers of paved road in this country, he thought, and most of them are not between here and our next stop. Fuck.
Hmmm . . . we could hire some camels and drivers. And that would take weeks . . . .maybe months. That would be too late. The local airline would be a bad option. We can hardly trust our prisoner not to make trouble and if I inject him again nobody would let him on their flight. Rent a van, truck, or bus? I shudder. Stay here until the plane is fixed?
Labaan took another look at Lance. A rental vehicle it is.
Labaan sipped a coffee in a small shop overlooking the buses. His compatriots were with him. So was Adam, who had been tranquilized but not given anything else beyond that. Abdi had liberally sprinkled the boy with some imported brandy, enough so that he reeked of it. Labaan watched as the drivers of the various conveyances busied themselves with fixing luggage to the roofs of their vehicles even though there were no paying customers yet.
"What is all that?" he asked his waiter.
The waiter laughed, broad white smile showing in a friendly black face. "The buses don't leave until they're full. So they put the fake luggage on to convince people that they're nearly full so that more people line up to get on their bus. In a strange way, it even works as those who are best at looking like they're ready to leave are most successful in getting people aboard so they can leave."
"I see. And yes, I see how that could work."
And I've no time to fuck around with this; I'll just rent the whole bus. The budget will cover that.
"Make sure the driver has the tank filled before you take off," the waiter warned. "Sometimes they'll deliberately run out of gas so they can take up a collection among the passengers."
Labaan thought the driver's demand for rental of the bus to be outrageous.
"You think so, sir?" said the driver. "Come with me."
The driver then led him to the nearest gasoline station. Labaan took one look at the cost of a liter of fuel and said, "I agree. Here to Abéché, at the price you quoted."
CHAPTER SEVEN
The villainy you teach me I will execute,
and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction.
-Shakespeare, "The Merchant of Venice,"
Act III, Scene I
D-123, San Antonio, Texas
It was very late. While some of the crew could be heard arguing quietly, or in the case of Kosciusko and Gordo, not all that quietly, most were asleep. Phillie could hear still others typing on keyboards. She was amazed that any of them were still on their feet. She heard footsteps and looked up as Boxer descended the staircase.
"Well," said Ralph, walking down the stairs, "Victor's going to be a problem."
Stauer, currently poring over a map with Wahab, looked up and asked, "Why's that?"
"He's been caught and is in a Myanmar jail. Lox and Bridges are working on a complete report of the situation."
"So much for Victor," Stauer said. "Now who replaces him?"
"Nobody," Boxer answered. "The only other one who both could have and would have, Israel Efimovich, is in an Italian jail. And that Yemeni I mentioned is too much of an unknown quantity."
"Well that sucks moose cock. Suggestions?" Wes asked.
"Spring one of them. I'd recommend Victor, in part because he's better at his job than Efimovich, in part because his operation is probably much more intact, and in part because a Myanmar jail has to be easier to spring him from than an Italian one. After all, the Italians have been practicing on the Mafia for decades."
Stauer nodded and turned to Phillie. "Hon," he said, "would you call Terry at the lodge and have him come here?"
"But it's so late . . . "
"Trust me, babe, that's not an issue."
"You're actually going to free Victor Inning from jail?" Wahab asked. As an African, he was more than ordinarily sensitive to the various wars fed by the likes of Inning and his competitors.
"You knew we were going to use him, Wahab," Stauer said. "What difference how we get him? I mean, does your chief want his son back or not?"
"Speaking of which," Ralph interjected, "I know how the boy left Boston. I think I do, anyway."
"I did a query of queries," Boxer answered. "About six weeks ago someone at sea, on a ship christened the George Galloway, did a number of searches for kidnappings and disappearances reported in Boston. Can't think of any good reason for someone to do that who wasn't concerned expressly about kidnappings in Boston. The Galloway also left Boston the morning after the boy disappeared. It was next seen in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. After that, the trail goes cold, unless the boy's still aboard."
"I wonder what the crew could tell us?" Stauer mused.
"I doubt they'd tell us anything," Boxer answered.
Stauer gave a wicked grin. "Yes they would. It's only a matter of making sure they understand their real priorities. Can you track down where the ship is and where it's headed now?"
"Piece o' cake," Boxer answered.
"Phillie," Stauer called out, "tell Terry to bring his tame SEAL, too."
"Use four men to take down one ship with a crew of maybe twenty or twenty-five, when they've got no warning that we're coming?" the SEAL asked. He sneered "Piece o' cake."
The SEAL, more exactly the retired SEAL, Richard "Biggus Dickus" Thornton, had arms the size of Terry Welch's legs. And Terry's legs were not spindly. Even Stauer found the man's sheer bulk and obvious strength almost intimidating.
"But," Biggus added, "We'll have to hit it in or near a port, preferably as it's leaving, so I'll need the ship's schedule some time in advance. Also architectural drawings, arms, a way to get there, NVGs"-night vision goggles- "preferably PVS-21's-"
