by R G Ainslee
"You okay?" asked Amadeo.
"Yeah, dog tired and my head hurts, how you doing?"
"Still sore, been worse."
"You think they'll find the cassette?"
Amadeo mulled over the question for a few seconds. "Probably been sold in the local market by now."
"Somebody's in for a surprise when he tries to play the thing."
"Yeah, but if anyone can recover the tape it'll be Jack. He don't give up."
"I think the same applies to John. He seemed determined. This ain't his first time around the block."
"You're right, Jack's told me some stories…" A young French lieutenant sat across from us, strapped in his seat, he had been waiting for us at the plane. "Some better left unsaid. You get what I mean?"
"Yeah, I can imagine." I really could. "What are we supposed to do when we get to Bangui? John didn't say anything about that."
"He told the lieutenant over there to look after us. Guess we'll find out when we when we land."
"Wonder what happened to Harry?"
"Don't know. For all I care the bastard can…" Amadeo's voice changed — a hard cold edge. "I hope his German comrades catch up with him. That'd serve him right and save me the trouble of tracking him down."
"They might even out-do Alix in that department."
He stared at the deck, nodded, and turned to me with a faint smile. "I ain't gonna say nothin about her. Promised."
"Thanks."
* * *
The flight gave me time to think about the events of the past few days. We were involved in another war, not just a local rebellion, the Cold War. The problem with the Cold War is no clear-cut victory is on the horizon. The specter of nuclear war removed that possibility. A triumph would almost surely entail the use of atomic weapons that would prove too costly. The current method of waging the Cold War is less destructive, for the major powers at least.
The bad news is that the carnage may never end. It's not a matter of nations fighting each other on a conventional battlefield; instead, the killing takes place on a different level: proxy wars involving impoverished third world countries, terrorism, and dirty tricks on the international stage. Victory denied by United Nations mandated ceasefires, the peacekeepers move in to watch over an uneasy peace, and when everyone is rested and rearmed, the slaughter resumes.
"You look like you're in deep thought?" said Amadeo.
"Thinking about the mess we left. This war will drag on for years, decades, who knows how long."
"Yeah, Chad's just another miserable third-world country saddled with tribalism and corruption. At one time, the French would intervene and bring the tribal groups in line. Now places like this are condemned to endless havoc, stuck in a spiral of hatred and revenge. There's always some unfinished business to tend to."
I glanced over at the French lieutenant, who appeared to be napping. "You saying the French don't want to play an active role?"
"Right, they prefer Chad government forces take the lead and don't care for a direct confrontation with the Libyans."
I nodded. "What gets me is the smug sanctimonious idiots who spout the line, 'They’re just different from us. They just think differently.' That's a load of politically correct bull."
"The end-result is those so-called humanitarians end up excusing murder and terror." He knew from experience, his father died at the Bay of Pigs, and he's been to a multitude of two-bit conflicts. "They want to substitute moral equivalence for truth. They gin up a pack of lies to generate sympathy for the so-called valiant insurgents. The truth is, when you get right down to it, the guys leading these wars are just a bunch of murdering bastards. At one time wars like this were local affairs, but now, backwater conflicts have global consequences."
"Yeah, it seems the rules no longer apply, makes it harder to defend against aggression. In the end, all this'll no doubt have a corrosive effect on civilization."
He took a deep breath and shook his head. "And we'll all have to pay the price."
I sighed. "Little Duval is just a baby, but I'm afraid — no I'm sure — someday he'll be fighting the same war, maybe against a different enemy, but the same war, nevertheless. Makes you want to barf."
Amadeo looked away, engrossed in his own thoughts. Exhausted by it all, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and sought solace in the peace only sleep can bring.
* * *
A change in vibration from the engines roused me from a fitful nap. I recognized the pilot reducing power to begin his decent. We were almost there. A glance to the front of the cabin revealed Amadeo returning from the cockpit.
"We're fixing to land in a little bit."
"Yeah, I gathered that. The change in pitch woke me up."
"Sounds like you're getting to be a real pilot. If I was Barker, I'd be worrying about my job."
"No way, I don't want to do this for a living." Then it occurred to me — it might be safer than what I had been doing.
"I talked to Lieutenant Gigot over there. He said he would take us to the main French base in Bangui, called Camp Béal. Says it's right in town. We can clean-up and he'll see to it that we get a change of clothes."
"Sounds good, we need to burn the stuff we got on. — Hope the mess hall is open."
"Yeah, I'm hungry too." He leaned forward. "What you think will happen now?"
"Dunno. Guess we sit and wait until John gets back."
"Hope they let us run a bar tab? Sure could use a cold one about now."
"Well, John was in Bangui, we'll just tell'em he said to put it on his tab."
"I like the way you think."
Monday, 13 October 1980, Bangui, C.A.R.
Bangui, a sleepy third-world city, and capital of the Central African Republic lies on the northern bank of the Ubangi River on the border with Zaire. An unexceptional yet typical African capital city, Bangui had everything and nothing. That's to say, if you were poor, you had nothing. Then there were the few, officials, and the French, they had everything, well except maybe good ice cream. Whoever coined the term backwater must have had Bangui in mind.
One might assume not much ever happens in Bangui, that's not so. Recent history has been more than bizarre. The French, worried about their mineral rights, went along with the shenanigans of a former colonial army sergeant turned president, who got bored and proclaimed himself Emperor Bokassa of the Central African Empire. French president Giscard d'Estaing, a hunting buddy of Bokassa, attended the coronation.
But in the end, Bokassa took the emperor business too far and was accused of cannibalism and beating to death political opponents and anyone else who got in the way. Too much even for the French, who sent in the 1er Régiment de Parachutistes d'Infanterie de Marine from Bayonne. They overthrew the regime and ended the three-year run of Bokassa and the Central African Empire. Even that didn't ensure peace. A counter coup soon followed, and even as we speak, rumors of counter coups abound. — Welcome to the Third World.
We enjoyed a leisurely two days at Camp Béal, the French military headquarters in Bangui. A trip to the dispensary followed by good French food, especially the bread, hot showers, and clean clothes made waiting easier. The French, unusually polite and cooperative, offered us the run of the place, but told us not to leave the base without an escort. We didn't even have to run a tab at the club. Lieutenant Gigot bought the first rounds and graciously fronted us a few Francs until John returned.
We still had no word from N'Djamena or from Wilson. Amadeo asked about contacting the American embassy. I nixed the idea. Wilson most likely hadn't informed them of our presence, so why stir up trouble. What would we tell them? Hey, we're on the run, stole an airplane in Algeria, please help us. Yeah, right, I wasn't born yesterday. Besides it was the weekend, we probably couldn't find anyone sober enough to care.
Sunday afternoon, our minder, Sergeant LeClerc, took us on an impromptu tour of the city. Our first stop was the central market, a lively place shaded by trees where I purchased a serviceable switchblade. Some Ch
adian soldier was now the proud owner of Tauzin's Marseilles special.
There was nothing much to see. Downtown, hemmed in by the wide muddy river and a line of hills covered by dense vegetation, consisted of yellowed plaster and decaying concrete buildings interspersed with a smattering of wood and metal shacks. Open traffic circles and a generous volume of large colorful trees added to the semi-exotic equatorial flavor.
We spent the rest of the afternoon at a hotel bar down by the river. We relaxed and concentrated on drinking cool bottles of Mocaf, a not so bad local beer, listening to loud deep brass sounds of a live band playing Congolese pop music, and watching crude fishing boats ply the dark brown Ubangi River framed on the other side by the green hills of Zaire.
The hotel had seen better days but was the place the elite came to see and be seen. We sat and watched the patrons, an exotic mixture of locals and foreigners including French soldiers and some tough looking guys who had a certain mercenary look. A couple of dubious characters, possibility diamond smugglers or dealers, sat at a corner table speaking in low tones. Then there were a few clean-cut types, missionaries perhaps or tourists, and the inevitable gaggle of slinky gals peddling their trade.
Later, back at the base, we viewed a French movie. Not certain what the flick was about, except some gal named Loulou deserted her family and got involved with a guy without a job. They seemed to have a lot of issues that never got settled. Something I could relate too.
* * *
Late Monday afternoon, we lounged beside la piscine, a rectangular concrete swimming pool, sipping on multiple bottles of Mocaf, and eyeing the French ladies. The weather, humid — steaming actually — not oppressively hot, just warm enough to produce that languid feeling you get in the tropics, especially after the sixth beer. We had nothing better to do and I was getting used to doing nothing, a welcome change of pace.
I had just closed my eyes when something landed in my lap. Startled, I jumped, and the object clattered to the concrete. I reached down and retrieved a cassette tape box with a picture of some dude atop a camel.
"You better not let that thing go into the pool — cost us sixty bucks baksheesh," said Jack standing proudly beside John.
"Sixty bucks."
"Yeah and it better be the one we're looking for," said John, "and not some fool singing about his damn goat."
"You hadn't played the tape?"
"Hell yes, you don't think we'd be here if it wasn't."
"How'd you find it?"
"The captain, the one who held you prisoner, gave the cassette to his wife or girlfriend, or whoever the hell she was. Turns out she passed it on to her cousin, who used it for a blank tape."
"You mean—"
"Yes, they recorded over one side." He let the suspense hang. "But fortunately, it was the other track. The signal's still there. Unfortunately, by that time they were on to our game and ran up the price."
"Find out what happened to Dylan?"
"No, we asked, even greased a few palms, but no luck. Sorry. You had word from the colonel?"
"No … nothing."
"I'll go to the French comm center and check on it. — Brannan, go listen to the tape."
* * *
We found LeClerc, borrowed his cassette player, and retreated to an isolated spot to play the tape. I popped the cassette in and pressed the button. A weird sound emanated from the speaker, not the signal, some opus from the N'Djamena hit parade.
Amadeo winced. "Your right Ross, that does sound like a neutered goat trying to pass a kidney stone."
I halted the tape and flipped the cassette. First, the BBC time announcement, and minutes later the intercept came through loud and clear. I grinned. "Raven-One's back in business."
"Now, I wonder what's the plan," said Amadeo. "We got the signal; can we go home?"
Jack grinned. "I don't see why not, nothing more for us to do here."
"Not so bad here. Mocaf's pretty good beer and they seem to have an endless supply. Been in worse places." I was in no hurry to go home. Without Lisette and the kid, I didn't really have a home anymore. Just the cat and he'd ignore me.
"Yeah," said Amadeo, "we gotta get back to work."
"Give me a break, I don't call sitting around cleaning your guns — work."
"Man — Talk about being under appreciated."
"Brannan," barked John returning from the comm center, and I didn't like his tone. "Thought you said you checked for messages?"
"Sure, every day … Why?"
He held out a yellow tear sheet. "This is from the colonel." He inhaled with an air of exasperation. "Been sittin' there for two days."
I took the message and noticed the time stamp and address. "It's addressed to you. Guess the comm center guy didn't think I was you." I read the message body. "Hells bells he's due here tomorrow."
* * *
Later, after several more rounds of beer around the pool, eyeing the French ladies, and swapping lies, we met in the dining room for supper. One question lingered in my mind. I asked John, "How much did it cost to spring us?"
He hesitated and spoke softly, "Three thousand dollars."
Amadeo snickered. "You mean we're only worth a thousand apiece?"
John shook his head. "Some people might think I paid too much."
"Oh, that's cold man, who'd think like that?"
"I'm sure you can imagine. Just hope the colonel agrees. Perhaps he'll arrange an easy payment plan for you to pay him back."
Amadeo grinned. "You got receipts? Wilson told Jack, he wanted receipts." John stared back, a withering stare. Amadeo knew he'd gone too far. "Hey man, we'll take your word for it."
I asked, "Did you ever figure out why they were holding us?"
"Yeah, that captain was a piece of work," said Jack. "He was in it for the money. Don't know if he ever informed anybody up the chain of command. That's one reason we got off so cheap. He didn't have to share the loot with his bosses."
"Not sure how I'm going to arrange it," I said, "but I'm going back to N'Djamena." John glanced up with a questioning eye. "I want to find the SOB that killed Dylan." He ignored me and took another bite of pasta. "I'm gonna—"
John placed his fork on the plate. "Forget about it."
"Forget … How in hell—"
"I said give it up … End of story."
"Okay, so tell me, how come it cost so much to get the tape. Sixty bucks seems like a lot." He took another bite and gave me an exasperated stare. "Did you get receipts?"
His eyebrows shot up. "I ain't got no receipts." John dropped his fork to the plate and stormed out of the dining room.
I looked at Jack. He avoided eye contact. "Okay … maybe you can—"
"He's not going to tell you, and he can't produce receipts for a very good reason." Jack paused and lowered his voice, "He paid Lieutenant Idriss five hundred dollars to take out the captain."
"Idriss — the captain?"
"Yeah, the captain had Dylan killed, ordered one of his soldiers to do it."
"Idriss killed the captain?"
"He was supposed to do it after we left."
"How can you be sure?"
"With the captain out of the way, Idriss will be the new captain. Simple really, all we did was provide a monetary incentive. Besides, John told him he would come back and waste him if he reneged. Looks like John will have to eat the five hundred dollars."
"No, he won't. I'll double his money."
"Count me in for a piece of the action," said Amadeo.
"I told him he could count on you guys."
26 ~ Wilson
Tuesday, 14 October 1980, Bangui Airport, C.A.R.
The sign on top of the airport terminal heralded our arrival at Aeroport de Bangui. The reasonably new building, a two-story facade of modernity, encapsulated the inevitable languorous chaos typical of a third-world bureaucracy. The parking lot offered a smattering of Peugeots and older Citroen's. If you could afford a car, most likely you could afford to fly.
&nbs
p; John insisted we arrive early for situational awareness purposes. Check the place out before the plane landed, standard operating procedure for guys like John, Jack, and Amadeo. Second nature to them, I was still learning.
We made our way through the lobby, and much to our surprise found the UTA, Union de Transports Aériens, DC-8 on the tarmac discharging passengers. I glanced down to double-check my watch but our gracious hosts in N'Djamena neglected to return my Timex.
Amadeo said, "They're early. Can't believe it."
I responded, "Yeah, I expected them to be at least an hour late."
"Most likely their time at N'Djamena was cut short," said John, who appeared irritated. "We expected an hour layover when I flew down, but the pilot refueled ASAP and didn't waste time."
"Don't blame them, besides the duty-free shop was probably closed," said Amadeo. "Why did you fly civilian?"
"Lower profile and faster. Military flights aren't scheduled every day and UTA has direct flights from Paris with a stopover in N'Djamena. Besides, we didn't want to attract too much attention." He looked at me with lips drawn tight and continued, "You boys didn't get the word on not drawing attention to yourselves? There are ways to get around without stealing an airplane … not to mention a trail of dead bodies."
I shrugged and attempted a smile. "Look at all the dough we saved—"
"Don't go there…" He paused, and a sly grin emerged. "No go ahead, tell the colonel all about it, how much money you saved, I'm sure he'll be impressed, you'll do him proud." He motioned with his head to Jack, "Go ahead, look around." Jack eased off and began to circulate among the small crowd in the lobby.
We stood at the window as passengers emerged from the airliner. Several French soldiers in uniform, four or five European couples, one with children, and a bevy of locals trooped down the stairs and across the tarmac to the terminal. The last to pass through the open hatch was Colonel Wilson followed by Commandant LeGrande and two other men, all dressed in civilian clothes. The big guy with a mustache, I recognized, having seen him on the base back at Bayonne. The other, a short pudgy fellow with black-rimmed glasses was new to me.
"Looks like he has an escort," said Amadeo."