And in the moment, her hope was that tenuous, that fleeting, that scarce. She just needed to hang on until the cavalry arrived.
And she didn’t know when that would be.
CHAPTER 16
Kwango Province, Congo
BLACK CROUCHED BEHIND a tree and watched the gunmen on the opposite shore retreating into the jungle. He glanced at Patrice’s lifeless body one last time. Black didn’t want to forget Patrice’s sacrifice.
With the ADF soldiers halting their fire, Black seized his chance to improve his position in preparation for his attack. With curious eyes peering at him from around the trees, he couldn’t risk staying in the same place for too long. A hungry kid would be happy to report Black’s location in exchange for a dollar, making Black’s mission far more challenging. But the quicker he could disappear, the better.
He retraced his steps, zig-zagging back and forth through the jungle, crisscrossing the river three times, creating confusion for anyone who might be attempting to track him. However, no matter how many times he went back and forth, Black was steadily moving closer to the ADF encampment.
After several hours, he sought cover in an earthen cave. Black inspected the hideout, unsure if he should use it out of fear that someone might return to it. Based on the interior, he was certain that it was man-made, likely started by a small amount of erosion but finished by a human seeking shelter. He wanted to stay there all night but knew it wasn’t a wise idea. However, he figured a short reprieve there from his constant misdirection wouldn’t hurt.
Black took the opportunity to rest and rehydrate, two vital actions he needed to maintain the strength to finish the operation. After draining most of the water from his canteen, he set up a perimeter alarm Jana had designed for him and then nestled against the back wall of the cave. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep for about a half-hour.
When he awoke, he noticed the jungle was getting darker. The dense canopy had a way of snuffing out the sunlight when one needed it the most. But Black was thankful for the cover, giving him more confidence that he could maneuver closer to the ADF camp without being noticed.
Black navigated parallel to the river for another half mile before heading deeper into the lush vegetation comprising the area away from the shore. He hid behind a cluster of papyrus plants at the water’s edge until dusk fell. Then he forged the Kwango River and scaled an Afrormosia tree less than a hundred meters from the perimeter of the camp.
Black ascended more than eighty feet before reaching the lowest branch suitable to both sustain his weight on a suspended tree tent for the night and keep him well out of sight of any midnight patrolmen. Once he was settled, he hailed Shields on his coms.
“How are things looking?” Black asked.
“Well, for starters, we can’t use Special Forces to extract you from the jungle,” Shields said.
“What the hell—please tell me you’re joking,” he said.
“I wish I was. Direct order from the president, in fact.”
Black scowled. “Does he want to kill me and Secretary Geller?”
“I wouldn’t accuse him of that to his face, but it certainly seems that way.”
“In that case, I should just turn around right now. Let the mission fail. Let Young get exposed for playing politics with Secretary Geller’s life.”
“But let her die?” Shields asked, her tone expressing a measure of disbelief. “I don’t think you can do that.”
Black sighed. “Of course I can’t. But it’s what I’d want to do if I was a psychopath. I’m going to do my best to get Geller out of there, but that doesn’t really matter if we’re only going to be shot to death while fleeing or killed by an indigenous tribe.”
“You get no argument from me, but I thought I’d let you know what you’re up against.”
“Any work-arounds yet?”
“Blunt’s been working the phones trying to call in some favors from anyone in that region, but President Young has been explicit in his instructions that no military personnel or military craft are to be used in Geller’s extraction.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Black said. “Why would he—”
“I think we established a long time ago that the president’s moves don’t always make sense, but they’re usually the right ones,” she said. “Take you, for instance. He may not like you that much, but here you are on one of the country’s most important missions in ages.”
“And here he is not getting me the support I’ll need.”
“We’ll figure out something.”
“But we’re running out of time,” Black said. “The minute the ADF releases that video, this game is up. Young will want to come in here and lay down Napalm all over the ADF camp and every other space within a five-mile radius just to make sure not a single living thing escaped.”
“I hope you’re wrong, but even if you’re right, let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“I’ve got my fingers crossed.”
“How about cross both sets of fingers—and your toes, too,” Shields said.
“Now what?”
“I wanted to give you a heads up that my imaging system is struggling with the dense jungle vegetation,” Shields said. “I can barely make out any heat signatures, so I’m not going to be able to provide much reliable help.”
Black sighed. “Can it get any worse?”
“There’s a storm brewing off the coast,” she said. “If it hits—”
“La-la-la, I don’t want to hear it,” Black said. “Until it comes ashore, I don’t want to think about it. I’ve got enough on my mind without having to worry about Mother Nature’s decrepit ways.”
Shields wished him good luck and told him she’d be ready in the morning when he was ready to infiltrate the camp.
“I hope you have better news for me then,” Black said.
“Just—”
“Hello?” Black said. “Shields? Are you there?”
Nothing. The com link was dead. He checked the battery and it was still working, but he couldn’t connect with her. He growled and ripped out the ear piece.
He settled down and looked up at the stars. He hadn’t been this far away from any light pollution in so long that he couldn’t recall the last time he’d stared up at a dark night sky.
Things felt darker than usual, though he wasn’t sure if that was from being so far removed from civilization or from the haunting sense he couldn’t shake something was amiss.
He leaned back and sighed as something wrapped around his leg.
Without hesitating, Black shined his flashlight on the painful area, revealing a snake. Black stabbed the reptile several times, causing it to hiss at him. But the loss of blooded caused the animal to lose interest before releasing Black’s leg and toppling to the ground.
The thud on the forest floor attracted the attention of a patrolling guard. He stopped and checked out the animal before putting a couple of bullets in its head. They both looked up in the general direction of Black’s tree tent, but neither guard appeared to notice an enemy was lurking above them.
Their inability to notice Black put his mind at ease that he’d selected the right spot to construct his tree tent.
Black didn’t have to think about anything now but getting a good night’s sleep. He had a mission to complete in the morning—and he needed all the rest he could get.
CHAPTER 17
Langley, Virginia
ROBERT BESSERMAN INSPECTED the bottom of his coffee mug and considered having another cup. He knew with all the caffeine he’d been consuming throughout the evening that he’d have a hard time sleeping. But caffeine or not, that was going to be the case.
Finding a way to sneak an extraction team into Congo that wasn’t Special Forces bordered on the impossible. But he wasn’t sure his conscience could take both Secretary Geller and Agent Black dying on his watch. The political fallout was the least of his worries, though he was certain President Young wasn’t considerin
g how the press would pummel him for this decision, which would be far more difficult to survive than a lie that was in the interest of national security.
Get Secretary Geller out of there without a Special Forces team. Who does the president thing I am? A magician?
Besserman threw caution to the wind and decided to pour himself another cup. No milk. No sugar. He needed it straight. He could dress up his coffee in the morning, but right now he needed a sheer jolt, some brain power to figure out a way to solve the near impossible situation the president had given him.
Besserman considered all the possible routes out of the jungle—and there weren’t many of them. Using the Kwango could work, but that required an experienced river captain, not to mention a fast boat. And he couldn’t think of any off hand. Even if he did find someone crazy enough to take it on, that still wouldn’t get them out of the country. Using the water to escape the camp would prove harrowing.
Since escaping on foot would be filled with even more pitfalls, the only viable route remaining was by air. Getting access to a helicopter or plane on such a short notice wouldn’t be easy, never mind the logistics of finding a clearing long and smooth enough for a takeoff and landing. Then there was coordinating that with Agent Black, who would be up to his neck in hostiles.
Besserman took a long sip of his coffee and thought. Nothing was coming to mind.
Then he got up and paced around his kitchen. He stopped for a moment when he noticed something hanging on the side of the refrigerator that gave him an idea.
The picture affixed above the March calendar consisted of a man standing shoulder to shoulder with several Indonesian natives clutching spears in front of an airplane. Besserman didn’t recognize the man, but he was very familiar with the organization—an aviation nonprofit that conducted humanitarian missions to isolated people groups. Aviation Heroes and Angels, known as AHA, had bases all over the world. One of Besserman’s old college buddies flew for AHA in Ecuador.
Besserman glanced at his watch. It was nearly 11:00 p.m.—late but not insanely late since his pilot friend was an hour behind. Besserman dialed his number.
“Bobby? Is this you?” Joe Tinker said as he answered the phone.
“The one and only,” Besserman replied.
“Now, I haven’t heard from you in maybe three years and you pick the exact moment I was just about to fall asleep to call me.”
“Just like when we were in school.”
Tinker chuckled. “That’s right. I’d start to drift off to sleep and you’d burst into our dorm room with two of your buddies who’d been drinking all night. I swear my GPA would’ve been a half-point higher my freshman year had it not been for your waking me up so often.”
Besserman laughed. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’m normally in bed an hour or so earlier than right now.”
“Are you ill?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Besserman said. “Probably just old age.”
Tinker huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “Well, what in the world is so important that you felt the need to reach out to me right now?”
“I’ve got a situation and I was wondering if you could assist me,” Besserman said. “I can’t go into specifics because this is classified, but I’m desperate and I thought you might be able to connect me with one of your pilot friends in Africa.”
“Africa? What in the—”
“No questions, Joe. Can you just trust me here?”
“Well, I don’t know if that’s going to work for anyone I know over there.”
Besserman flipped through the calendar and noticed another picture of a pilot taken in the Congo. He squinted as he studied the caption, which named the man.
“What do you know about a pilot named Gene Gordon?”
Joe laughed. “Funniest pilot I know—and one of the best too. I saw him get a fully loaded Cessna 172 off the ground with just 650 feet of runway once. The man’s a legend within AHA.”
“That’s the kind of person I need for this job.”
“You need someone in Congo?”
“No questions, Joe. Remember?”
“Of course. But hypothetically speaking, if you needed someone in Congo, Gene is your guy. I’m not sure if he’ll go for it or not, but with the right motivation, you might be able to convince him.”
“What kind of motivation?”
“Well, there’s only one that will really convince Gene to help you. AHA has a Kodiak plane sitting in customs. It’s been there for three years as agent after agent demands their palms to be greased in order to allow it into the country. Now, if the State Department could put some pressure on the government there to get that plane flying, it’d be a huge benefit for people in remote areas of the country.”
“What kind of benefit?”
“In short, it'd save lives by helping us get to people more quickly and deliver supplies more efficiently.”
“The person I know who could solve all of that would be the person most grateful for Gene’s help.”
“In that case, give me a second and I’ll get his number for you.”
Besserman pumped his fist over the news. He thanked Tinker profusely for the information before hanging up. Then Besserman wasted no time in calling Captain Gordon.
“This is Gene,” Gordon said as he answered.
“Mr. Gordon, my name is Robert Besserman, the deputy director of the CIA. How would you like to get that Kodiak in Kinshasa up and running?”
Gene’s enthusiasm to help was evident in his voice. “As long as it’s legal, just tell me what I need to do.”
CHAPTER 18
Washington, D.C.
PRESIDENT YOUNG READ his evening brief prepared by Salisbury, recapping the day’s events. Salisbury made notations alongside each entry with any recommendations for actions to take. Suggested bills or executive orders appeared next to a few items. But there was one entry that was out of the norm, more like a warning for the coming day.
Young read the line and then squinted at the paper, unsure that he had read it correctly. After reading it a second time, he snatched his cell phone off his desk and dialed Salisbury’s number.
“I thought you might be calling,” Salisbury said with Abe yapping in the background.
“You should’ve at least mentioned this to me,” Young snapped. “I could’ve been working on a contingency plan.”
“I’ve already taken care of it, sir. Between the time that I wrote up the briefing and now, a lot has happened.”
“What did you do?”
“You’re familiar with NBC White House correspondent Michelle Ryland?”
“I wish I could say I wasn’t,” Young cracked.
“Yeah, she’s a bulldog.”
“But she’s always got an axe to grind.”
Salisbury chuckled. “Of course she does. But like most reporters, she’d sell her soul for an exclusive.”
“What’d you promise her?”
“Nothing yet, but I had a good idea of what might get her to pause her pursuit of the story and possibly jettison it completely.”
“What was her angle?”
Salisbury sighed. “That you’re actively lying to the American people. And that your security measures aren’t tough enough as you’re responsible for one dead Secretary of State and another one kidnapped by terrorists in the past few months. And she wouldn’t be wrong.”
“The real story is who’s sharing sensitive information with our enemies. I want them caught yesterday and tried for treason.”
“We’ll get to that eventually, sir. But in the meantime, we need to misdirect Ryland and put her off until we can get Secretary Geller back safely to her summit in South Africa.”
“And then what?” Young asked. “What are we going to do to make sure this story never sees the light of day?”
“I’m not sure trying to hide this will be such a good idea,” Salisbury said. “No matter if we rescue her or—God forbid—her capture by terrorists is publicized,
we have to be truthful. The key is when we are truthful and how. Letting Geller tell her story after she’s been extracted will serve us well politically.”
“How so?”
“First of all, she’s going to be a hero if she survives. We can leverage the story with the press, using it to talk about women in combat. They’ll eat that stuff up. Then, you can also use it to further demonstrate the importance of functioning alliances between the west and other nations, particularly African ones, to combat the rise of terrorism.”
Young grunted. “Sounds good, but it’s just a concept. I’m not sure how it will play out in real time.”
“We have no other choice at this point, so we’re going to find out one way or another.”
“These aren’t the kind of theories I want tested out on my administration, Dave.”
“There’s not a president—past, present, or future—who’d want to wade into these waters, but sometimes you get eight years of peace, sometimes you get eight years of turmoil, conflict, and a world on the brink. If you rise to the moment, you’ll be celebrated. If not, you’ll just be a footnote in history. I’m counting on you to ascend to greatness after this whole ordeal is over with.”
Young forced a laugh. “You have more faith in me than I do.”
“Force of habit, sir. Always believe in the people you work for—until you can’t.”
“All right,” Young said. “Tell Abe goodnight for me and I’ll see you in the morning—hopefully with the republic still intact.”
Young hung up and looked at his watch. Daylight would be breaking soon, if not already, in Congo. He dialed Besserman’s number.
“Bobby, please tell me you have some good news,” Young said.
“Sir, it’s not a good idea to keep pestering me for updates. It’s best that you didn’t know everything.”
“I don’t care,” Young growled. “I’m worried about Rachel. She’s a firebrand, but I love her like she’s my own daughter. And the thought of her still being held captive by those animals makes me ill. I’ve tried to push the reality of her situation out of my mind, which I’ve been somewhat successful at doing, given everything else that’s going on right now. But I can’t do that every waking moment of the day.”
State of Conspiracy (Titus Black Thriller series Book 8) Page 8
