Ghost of Africa

by Chuck Van Soye

  Bret noted that while most military uniform coats display the officer’s service ribbons over the heart, Zuluka’s instead displayed an attached sheath and dagger there, right on his chest, obviously ready for instant deployment.

  Zuluka walked over and put his face inches away from Bret’s. Zhu instantly repositioned himself and shoved the general back two steps, then stepped away.

  “So you are supposed to be an arms dealer, Steffan. From what I have uncovered about you, you are just a drunken rich playboy throwing money around to impress the girls and casino gawkers with a lot of noise and good luck. Secret arms dealer! I doubt it,” sneered Zuluka. “Mia reads and believes a couple dumb gossip stories online that hint that you are one. I don’t read that crap, or believe it. You certainly are not named in Wikipedia’s list of Notable Arms Dealers.”

  “I’ll have to complain about that.”

  “Give me some solid proof that you can supply the missiles we want.”

  Bret sneered back, “You come barging in here, insulting me and making demands.” You characters haven’t even told me the specifics of what you want yet, and now you demand me to prove I can supply some mystery missiles? Screw you. Go find your missiles somewhere else. Get outta my room before I turn Zhu loose.”

  Zhu moved closer.

  “Wait a minute,” shouted Zuluka. And after a pause, with lowered voice, he added, “I apologize for my rough manners. I am used to dealing with coarse men in the jungle. I do want to continue this discussion. I am under orders to procure missiles somehow. Can you really meet our needs?”

  “I accept your apology, but warn you now that I won’t tolerate further disrespect, whether physical or vocal.”

  “Understood.”

  “As I told Mia, I could fill any order for the right price, and indicated that I’d want a deposit to proceed after a quantity, make, model, and timing were decided. So what, exactly, are your needs?”

  “My orders are to procure ten surface-to-air missiles that could be launched by a single individual. Timing: as soon as possible. That’s it. No specifics, make or model.”

  “General, let me help you understand the scope of missile systems that I can make available to your commander. To put things in their proper perspective, please accept that I’ve worked hard over several years to develop a reputation as a safe source for quality military hardware. The key word I just spoke is ‘quality.’”

  “So what?”

  “In the case of missile systems, there are many crude early-model SAM’s produced by multiple countries. No quality. I refuse to handle any of those junk weapons. Instead, I’ve developed sources for Chinese, French, Russian and American state-of-the-art MANPADS.”

  “Uh, what s a MANPAD?”

  “General, that’s short for Man-Portable Air-Defense System. As I was saying, given enough time, I can have access to most of these top-drawer weapons.”

  “Good. How soon?”

  “But it happens that, at the moment and for a limited time, I have near-immediate access to only the Russian Ingla SA-24 and the American FIM-92E Stinger. I could deliver either for $60,000 each.”

  “Which is better?”

  “Both use infrared guidance to home-in on an aircraft’s engine heat, but if I was the buyer, I’d want the superior 26,000-ft. range and lighter 32-lb. weight of the American FIM-92E Stinger.”

  “I will be in touch with you, Steffan. I must now update Mia and my commander about your statements.”

  After the general’s departure, Bret turned to Zhu and said, “Great job of protecting me, Bro. Why don’t you take the rest of the day and evening off. I don’t want you climbing the walls around here any longer. Have fun, but remember, this town can be dangerous. Stay out of trouble.”

  Zhu almost ran out the door, quietly giggling and rubbing his hands together.

  Bret dialed TD to keep him in the loop, as promised. The call went to voicemail, so he phoned Chu. He was anxious to resume the conversation he had been having with her before Zuluka’s knock on the door. “Hi Babe. Sorry I had to break and run, but we’ve had some real developments here.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Mia sent an LRA general . . . a guy named Zuluka . . . to our room to talk about buying missiles.”

  “How’d he find you in that huge hotel?”

  “Not hard if you have a spare Jackson or two in your pocket.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Zhu and Zuluka almost came to blows. He demanded proof we had missiles to sell.”

  “Z meets Z; interesting. What did you do?”

  “I threatened to kick him out of the room. But relented, and gave enough information that he’d have to go speak with Kunga on how to proceed.”

  “I’ve got ‘proof’ for you.”

  “Huh?”

  “As we speak, a photo of a crate that’s holding an FIM-92E Stinger is somewhere in cyberspace on the way to Zhu. You’ll certainly have it within the hour.”

  “Fantastic. You’re incredible, Babe. A mind reader for sure. I’ll use that photo well the next time Zuluka appears. By the way, how’d you find that photo?”

  “Quality Welding had it. I was over there yesterday checking on their progress making the Stinger dummy. They’ve already fabricated the basic configuration they say requires only some delicate final machining. It looks so real!”

  “Did they say how soon it would be finished and ready for shipping?”

  “I asked, but they wouldn’t commit, or even make a guess.”

  “Nice job.”

  “Now, Buster, I want to get back to what I was gonna tell you before you hung up on me when Zuluka was knocking on your door. I have an idea how to protect you while helping you to capture Kunga.”

  “Oh, sorry again, Babe. Hold that thought. I’ve got an incoming call on the hotel phone, plus a meeting soon. I’ll call you back later. I promise.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Lee Suite, Rio Hotel, Klerksdorp, South Africa

  ’Buster’, she calls me! Chu’s really ticked. Twice I stopped her idea presentation. Damn well better remember to call her back tonight, thought Bret, as he reached for the ringing phone.

  “Hi TD. Thanks for returning the call. Can we meet somewhere soon? In my room? Yours? Coffee shop? One of the hotel bars?”

  “What’s up?”

  “You asked to be kept in the loop, and an awful lot has happened in the last few hours.”

  “I’m anxious to hear about it, Bret, but flush the coffee idea. It’s after 5:00, so a drink’s in order. I worry about our rooms, though, since personal experience tells me they can be bugged. So let’s grab a booth at a public bar and talk quietly.”

  “Okay, meet you by the elevator lobby in a few minutes?”

  “Make it fifteen.”

  Once seated in a nearby bar with drinks in hand, TD spoke first. “Where’s Zhu?”

  “I gave him the evening off. He’s been dying to meet some of the local ladies.”

  “Okay, so what’s been going on?”

  “Things are moving fast, almost too fast. The day after we met Mia in the lobby, a big guy in full-dress military uniform showed up at our door and literally barged in, almost getting into a fight with Zhu. He’s apparently Kunga’s general . . . top dog of the whole Lord’s Resistance Army. His name was Zuluka, if your boys in DC want to look him up. He demanded proof that I could supply the missiles Kunga wants.”

  “What happened?”

  “After we got him calmed down, I briefed him on MANPADS, and explained that I could supply the best model, a FIM-92E Stinger, for $60,000 each. He then left to brief Mia and, I presume, Kunga. He promised to get back to us soon.”

  “Meanwhile, I talked with Chu, and she forwarded a photo of a FIM-92E Stinger in a crate, ready to ship. That’ll serve as initial proof when Zuluka returns.”

  “What then?”

  “Who knows what’s next? I sure don’t, but wouldn’t be surprised if they wanted me to
show up in Kunga’s hideout with a Stinger under my arm.”

  “No wonder you wanted to tell me this. It sounds like it could all happen very fast.”

  “Yeah, and we’ve never even discussed how we could use such a confrontation to bring an immediate end to Kunga and his LRA. And do so without getting Zhu and me killed.”

  The waitress for their table came by a second time with refills.

  “Well, obviously we can’t let you two guys just disappear into the jungle. You’re the key to pinpointing the actual location of that dude. You’d have to wear some kind of GPS wire, I guess. Damn! The world’s been trying to find him for decades, and you’re getting close.”

  “Simultaneously, shortly after our arrival there, I trust the good guys would come charging through the bush or dropping from the skies to save our ass. Right?”

  “Wow,” exclaimed TD, “I’ve got to get busy pronto. Gotta push Baker for help a lot sooner than I thought.”

  “Yeah, how about a hundred Seal Team 6 guys, at least?”

  “Bret, Jim’s already on board to initiate and coordinate whatever rescue/capture action we need.”

  “Great, but I worry how fast he, or anyone, could make that happen within the jungle of an unstable third-world country.”

  “I’ll head up to my room now and start pushing. I’ll keep you updated.”

  * * *

  After leaving TD, Bret made a beeline for his room, another drink and the comfort of the sofa. He decided it was well-past time for “Buster” to check in with Chu. He called her on the secure cell, and apologized for the delays.

  “Honey, I can’t wait to hear your idea.”

  “Well, I was thinking about our Mediterranean Cruise after the Syrian affair.”

  “Yeah, Babe, that was a fun time.”

  “Do you remember that the ship’s crew was holding some special drills on our first sea day?”

  “Yup, testing some kind of long-range acoustic device.”

  “The crew told the passengers it was called LRAD, developed for the military after the 2000 attack on the USS Cole in Yemen.”

  “I remember now. . . a system that uses disabling high-volume sound to keep operators of small boats from approaching U.S. warships. Messes up their crews’ hearing or knocks them on their ass or something.”

  “I presume the one they were testing on our cruise ship was a smaller version than the military’s.”

  “Probably, but still effective enough to keep pirates from boarding our ship, I suspect.”

  “Well, here’s my idea, Bret, . . .”

  Bret was suddenly jarred by unrelenting loud knocking on the door.

  “Hold it, Chu, some jerk’s banging on the door, at midnight no less.”

  It was TD. “I need your shirt and shoe sizes.”

  Bret ignored him for a moment and apologized to Chu once again, explaining why he had to terminate the conversation with her. “I’ll try to call you tomorrow.”

  Turning to TD, he responded, “What? Shirt and shoe sizes? Is this a joke? It’s midnight.”

  “No joke, Bret. Baker wants them. Fast.”

  “ Hell, I don’t know; Chu buys all that stuff. Before we were married, I remember buying dress shirts with a 15 ½ neck, and sleeves that couldn’t be shorter than 33. But that was decades ago; today, I don’t know.”

  “What size shoe do you wear?”

  “Just a minute, I’ll look.”Bret sat down on the sofa and removed a shoe. “Uh, my New Balance sports shoes are 10/4E. I have a wide foot. Why does Baker want this stuff?”

  “He wasn’t too specific, but he needs it to make you into a mobile GPS tracking device.”

  “Ohhh, I get the picture, I think.”

  “Good. Baker also stressed, ‘Tell him to neither put himself into the hands of the bad guys, nor to commit to any time-related action, until I give the go-ahead. Stall, as necessary.’”

  “I love that advice.”

  “Now go to sleep. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  Bret added another drink to those already downed, sprawled on his bed and tried to sleep. But part of his mind was intent on exploring all the issues then spinning wildly in his head: Chu . . . Stinger delivery . . . jungle hideout . . . danger . . . GPS location . . . military rescue . . . LRAD . . . Zuluka . . .

  The cellphone alarm’s repeated chimes welcomed him partially back to reality. As he squinted at the slowly rotating ceiling fan blades above his bed, he grimaced at the greeting of a roaring headache. It was morning.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Lee Suite, Rio Hotel, Klerksdorp, South Africa

  Bret’s hangover left him without an appetite. Yet he hadn’t eaten lunch or dinner the previous day. His good sense decided he’d have to force some nourishment down, and ordered a room-service meal. When he later heard some scratching on the entry door, he assumed it was the bellman with breakfast, but when he opened the door, Zhu was laying there in a bloody heap.

  “Zhu, what happened?” he asked, while checking for a pulse.

  Zhu softly mumbled something incoherently. No serious gaping wounds or broken bones were visible, so Bret dragged him from the hallway, first into their room, and subsequently into the shower. A quick turn of the cold water handle instantly elicited a loud scream and series of curses. Zhu was wide awake, on his hands and knees, ready to strangle a bear.

  “Turn it off,” he pleaded.

  Bret complied with a grin, tossed him a towel and backed away, shaking his head. “I’m looking forward to hearing all about your date night with the ladies,” he shouted over his shoulder as he exited the bathroom. “Must’a really been something.”

  Zhu shouted back, “They both had big boyfriends. Use your imagination.”

  * * *

  Mia phoned that morning, asking Steffan to meet with her and Zuluka that afternoon. He agreed and told them to show up at his room about 4:00 p.m.

  Door chimes at 3:40 p.m. announced the arrival of his expected guests. Hmm, he thought, they’re early. Also seemed a bit anxious to talk on their call this morning. He invited them in.

  “The last time we met, you said you could provide proof of your ability to supply our needs,” said Zuluka, still wearing his full-dress uniform.

  Bret wondered whether he ever took it off. A prolonged up-close gaze showed significant wear and not too little dirt. Even though I know, someday I gotta ask him what army he leads and how big it is.

  “General, here’s the proof you asked for. It’s a photo just emailed to me by my staff in Colombia. It shows one of the FIM-92E Stingers in my warehouse being readied for shipment to another customer.”

  “I see. Very well. I have spoken with my superior. He wants a demonstration.”

  “That can be arranged. Where and when?”

  “I will issue you instructions in a few days. You must plan to come alone and bring a ready-to-fire missile with you.”

  “First of all, General, understand that I go nowhere without my bodyguard. I’m not stupid. And second, if you want to demo an FIM-92E Stinger, I need to see the money before we leave Klerksdorp. Full price, $60,000.”

  “We shall be prepared to meet this demand. That is one of the reasons why I will be unable to give you complete instructions for a few more days.”

  “I trust then that you’ll allow similar time flexibility in our effort to arrive at a specified location, and to have the demonstration missile shipped there to meet us in time.”

  “Yes, agreed.”

  As the visitors left, Bret said, “I’ll await your next contact. Have a nice evening.”

  Mia was silent the entire visit, but Bret assumed she too would be in touch with Kunga as a checkup on the general’s performance.

  As soon as the clients left, Bret sent a text to Chu: Be prepared to ship dummy Stinger in next few days. Looks like a demo in Africa likely next week. xxxoooxxx.

  * * *

  Chu read the message on awakening, and hurriedly scheduled a visit with the
Quality Welding owner for late morning.

  “What’s the fastest you can complete the Stinger job?” she asked him, face to face.

  “How much money do you want to spend?”

  “We’ve already committed $20,000. You said you’d have the job done in about five days. It’s already been almost double that time.”

  “I said I’d have the job done in at least five days, Ma’am. Urgency on your part is a late addition.”

  “I’m sorry to press you like this, but the dummy weapon is, frankly, critical to prevention of international massacre.”

  “I do understand you’re under pressure, but I need to run a business. Other projects would have to be delayed, and I’d have to have key employees work overtime. I’d need another $10 grand in order to meet a two-day schedule.”

  Chu decided on the spot, “I agree to a total of $30,000. Please get started without delay. By the way, what about that other idea I proposed.”

  “No problem. For now, thirty grand is fine,” he said as they shook hands.

  As soon as she got home, Chu decided to call Julien and ask for financial assistance. Because she’d spent ample hours regularly briefing him on everything Bret was accomplishing overseas, as well as her own activities online and at Quality, she felt no compunction asking for money.

  “I’ve already given Quality Welding $5000 out of our personal account, Julien, but locally we're tapped out. We've hundreds of thousands dollars of winnings in Bret’s offshore account, so you’ll get back whatever you provide now, plus the return of your stake in his gambling.”

  “I’ll write and send two checks immediately, Chu, $30,000 to Quality and a return of the $5000 to put back into your personal account. If you need more, let me know. I’m really getting excited over what’s soon going to happen somewhere in Kunga’s jungle. I’m also heartened that Bret’s now being partially supported by TD, Jim Baker and all necessary CIA assets.”

  * * *

  Two days later, Steffan got a call from Mia. His instructions were to travel to the Central African Republic, and await there for further instructions within six days. A cashier’s check for $60,000 was delivered to his room shortly after. Around noon, he and Zhu took the endorsed check to a local branch of the Johannesburg Wells Fargo bank, making arrangements to wire the funds to their KB Bank account in Monaco.