Unlike the building across the street, the Executive Presidential Mansion had been extensively upgraded over the past few months. The most obvious were the wrought-iron gates protecting the entrance. Tall enough to deter most people, they were also thick and heavy. Mulbah was fairly certain they could stop most cars.
The grounds were also immaculate, a stark contrast to the rest of Monrovia he had seen on his way in. Even the flagpole had been recently painted, he noticed. On top of the pole flew the Liberian flag, so very similar to that of the United States. It reminded him that while he was one person, he had two distinct heartbeats. One beat with the compassion of his childhood in America, the second beat with patriotism for the land of his birth.
Guards stood on either side of the entrance wearing the Class “A” uniforms of the Liberian Presidential Guard, which had been instituted when former President Teah Njie was elected to office. They looked ridiculous to Mulbah, who favored the traditional camouflage design of the older Liberian National Army. Still, the bright blue uniforms and white plumed hats definitely caught the eye.
The two guards watched him as he approached, their eyes locked onto the Model 17 on his hip. They both carried ceremonial rifles of some design, though Mulbah was almost certain they weren’t loaded. The rifles were painted white to match the feather plume stuck in their dress hats. Mulbah nearly laughed. What had been designed to impress visiting dignitaries and citizens of Liberia seemed to be worth nothing more than a humorous chuckle for the mercenary veteran.
A third guard stepped into view from behind a raised pedestal, halting Mulbah’s approach. He was a big man, as tall as Mulbah but wider in the shoulders. It was obvious to anyone he worked out vigorously. Mulbah, who spent quite a bit of time in his CASPer suit, didn’t hit the gym nearly as much, and it showed. He’d developed a little bit of a pooch over the last deployment. It was something he vowed to fix, eventually.
“Visiting hours are from ten until four, Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays,” the burly guard said in a terse tone as he looked Mulbah over. It was apparent to Mulbah the guard was not impressed with the uniform or the ribbons. “Today is a Tuesday.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Mulbah admitted. He often lost track of the days while off the planet and readjusting to Earth’s schedule was a bit difficult for the first few days. “I need to see the president. I have an appointment, I believe.”
“Name?” the guard said as he pulled out his slate from the pedestal. Mulbah could almost hear the disbelief. It was insulting.
“Colonel Mulbah Luo,” he replied. The guard’s head snapped up and he inspected him a second time. After a moment of this, the guard snorted in disbelief. It’s the pooch, Mulbah decided.
“Sure you are,” the man said and slipped the slate back behind the pedestal. Mulbah frowned, pulled out his universal account access card, and handed it to the guard.
“Here’s my yack,” Mulbah said irritably. “Check it.”
The guard reluctantly brought his slate back out and scanned the card. A moment later his eyes widened in surprise as he handed back Mulbah’s card. Then the guard snapped to attention and saluted. “My apologies, Colonel.” Mulbah saluted back and the guard dropped to parade rest. “I was told you…well, I thought…” his voice trailed off.
“You thought I’d be seven feet tall, muscles on top of muscles, and with so many medals I wouldn’t be able to stand upright?” Mulbah asked before laughing. The guard nodded his head sheepishly. “I’m a merc. We come in all shapes and sizes. Even if I am a bit out of shape at the moment.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard nodded. “Sorry for the delay. I’m new to this detail, sir. Do you know the way?”
“Yes, I do. Thank you,” Mulbah said and waited for the guard to step aside. Mulbah thanked him once more, slipped him a business card for when the guard left the military, and entered the mansion proper.
Mulbah noted they had changed the carpet as he walked through the large, silent area. Since the legislature wasn’t in session and no public tours were being given, the mansion was decidedly emptier than normal. There were a few office doors open with secretaries and aides talking quietly within. It felt more like a funeral parlor to him than a presidential home. He’d been to the White House in Washington, DC once as a kid. The president hadn’t been there that day, but even then it had seemed more alive than this.
Mulbah had yet to meet the new president of Liberia. The election had been decided the day before the Korps had been shipped out to Krollenord, the dog-like Krolls’ home world, on a protection and defense contract. It had surprised many, including Mulbah, to learn the People’s Democratic Future Party had taken the presidency in spite of not earning a single seat in the legislature.
As crooked as Teah Njie had been, Mulbah at least had an understanding about how the former president worked. Bribery, then compromise, then a final bribe, and then the job would get done. It was a pain in the ass but at least he knew he could get results. Probably, he amended as his pinplants dug up more information on Liberia’s current president, Justin Forh.
He blinked in surprise. President Forh, his pinplant informed him, was very distantly related to Charles Taylor, a former president of Liberia who had been deposed and later convicted of war crimes. In an odd campaign, the newly-minted president had run on the good memories of his ancestor, focusing on the growth of infrastructure and education for all. Which, if anybody had studied history, was not something Taylor had been known for at the time. History was oftentimes too kind.
Mulbah shook his head. In the end, politicians all promise the same thing.
As he approached the Peach Room, he had a moment of melancholy. Oval Office. Peach Room. 10 Downing Street. RCR 7. Each residence of a nation’s leader held a certain mystique to it. Mulbah had always enjoyed the ambience of the Peach Room, even when the former president was threatening his company with economic sanctions. There was just something about being in the room that made him happy.
Striding purposefully into the waiting area, he quietly took a seat. Mulbah was a bit early for his appointment. Instead of bringing out his slate to see what was going on in the world since the Korps had left, he decided to enjoy the surroundings. Being patient would give the new president the impression Mulbah was eager to meet him. A lie, but not a bad one.
The new décor of the Peach Room suited Mulbah’s sense of style. It was muted, a far cry from the loud and celebratory feel it had when Teah Njie had served as the nation’s president. There were three paintings on the walls, and the wait allowed him to inspect them all in great detail.
The first was a bust of Liberia’s first elected black president, Joseph Jenkins Roberts. It was a marvelous painting, Mulbah thought as he looked at it. The painter had somehow managed to convey the difficulties and trials of establishing a new nation into his eyes while setting the mouth in a manner which suggested determination. The colors on the right were dark and shadowed, almost predicting the bloody wars Liberia would face in the future, but the left featured more light and suggested hope for the people.
The second was an idealist’s vision of a future Liberia, though not Mulbah’s. It showed everyone working in a field, happy, singing, with the word “UNITY” printed along the bottom. Bright colors abounded, and the painting was clearly made to catch the eye. It was pure propaganda, Mulbah knew, but it was effective for the non-educated denizens in the slums of Monrovia. Zion would have laughed at it and called it Soviet propaganda, and Mulbah knew his financial officer wouldn’t have been far off the mark.
The last painting was the one Mulbah liked the most. It was actually on his hard drive back at HQ, since he had been the one who took the picture over a year before while in his CASPer. The artist had stylized the look of the alien in the recording, primarily because Besquith are difficult at best to capture on film in the middle of a fight. It showed Captain Tolbert holding the Besquith out at arm’s length, disemboweling the massive alien with the blades on his CASPer’s arms.
The artist had done an excellent job of capturing the tension in the scene. Mulbah made a note to find out who the artist was and to hire him to do more stylized recreations of some of the crazier fights they’d been in during their three years as registered mercenaries. A series of portraits would look amazing on the walls of their offices at HQ.
“Colonel?” A small, petite woman stuck her head out of a separate office door near the other side of the room. Mulbah stood and walked over to the door. She waved him inside but then stopped him, frowning as she looked at his belt. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave your weapon.”
“Guild Law states that I am allowed, as a member in good standing within the Mercenary Guild, to be armed at all times unless otherwise stated by the Guild Council,” Mulbah recited by rote. It had taken four visits and multiple rescheduled appointments before the previous president had finally relented on the “no weapons” policy when it came to mercenaries. He hoped with this president it would be a lot sooner.
“My predecessor mentioned you were hard man to negotiate with,” a warm voice said from beyond the door. The secretary sighed and opened the door wider, allowing Mulbah the opportunity to see his country’s newly elected president for the first time.
President Forh wasn’t an imposing figure the way Samson was, but he was definitely taller than Mulbah. Dressed in a nice but not overly expensive suit and a well-groomed beard, the younger man made a positive first impression on Mulbah, if appearances were anything to judge a man by. He offered his hand, which Mulbah gladly accepted as he continued to look the new president over.
“Congratulations on your election, Mister President,” Mulbah stated as the other man nearly dragged him into a quick hug. Mulbah, startled, pulled back quickly as soon as President Forh allowed him.
“Sorry, sorry,” the president apologized. “But you are a celebrity, menh. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined ever meeting Colonel Mulbah Luo, owner of the mighty Kakata Korps!”
Mulbah blushed slightly and coughed, embarrassed. “I’m just a merc, sir.”
“Ha! ‘Just a merc,’ he says.” President Forh motioned for Mulbah to sit in one of the two proffered chairs. Once he was seated, the president took the chair opposite him. “You’ve created a legacy here in Monrovia, and Liberia on the whole. You’ve helped establish a new Mercenary Service Track school here and ensured it doesn’t have half the corruption its predecessor did. Then you actually hired mercenaries who passed their VOWS! My political opponents claimed you were running a tax evasion scam, but not I. I believed in the Korps; I still do. The people do as well. And because they believe, I was elected by them.”
Mulbah wasn’t certain that had been the reason. Rampant corruption had plagued the former president’s staff and his tenure in office. That probably had more to do with the landslide victory for Justin Forh. However, Mulbah was skilled enough in diplomacy at this point to leave this little tidbit out of the equation and give the president his moment.
“Thank you, Mister President,” Mulbah nodded slowly, thinking. He had not expected this type of reception when he had made the appointment. After years of dealing with a trumped-up blowhard, Mulbah had not anticipated a politician who actively wanted to do what was best for Liberia. It was…refreshing. And, Mulbah had to admit, a little terrifying. “I was trying to establish schools for children as well—free of course—but was met with reluctance by your predecessor.”
“How many schools do you wish to establish?” President Forh asked, leaning forward. “My Education Minister will do what I tell him, and I can write an Executive Order giving him carte blanche over the educational reforms in the private system. It’s not public education, so the legislature can’t complain about that now, can they? Plus, funding won’t come from government coffers, so they can stuff it, ken?”
“Two at least,” Mulbah admitted. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was feeling at the moment, but the best he had to offer was hope. The meeting was going far better than he had imagined in his wildest dreams. “More if we can…” his voice trailed off as he realized he had almost let slip the offer from the Mercenary Guild.
“More if…?” President Forh prodded gently. Mulbah swallowed and decided to see what the new president’s mettle was made of.
“The Mercenary Guild asked the Korps to, ah, help settle down the issues with our neighboring countries,” Mulbah said quietly, uncertain as to who might be listening. “They’ve offered the countries from Ghana to Senegal for us to rule, if we can bring peace to them.”
“Us as in Liberia, or us as in…?” President Forh motioned at Mulbah, who nodded. The President of Liberia steepled his hands before him and leaned forward. He wore a troubled expression on his face. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but those are democratically elected countries. It is not proper for us to consider usurping their own democracies to enforce our will.”
“According to the guild, Earth is not capable of ruling itself,” Mulbah said, recalling all the information he had received from Thorpi prior to accepting the contract. It was helpfully stored on his pinplants. “They’ve determined it is in Earth’s best interests for the guild to make the majority of the decisions. It’s why the head of the guild is currently at the Secretary of the General Assembly’s office as we speak. After all, Earth is merely a probational member of the Galactic Union.”
“I had not heard,” President Forh admitted. “Why do they wish for you to rule western Africa?”
“I think they were trying to tempt me with a prize if I put down any remaining mercenary companies here on Earth who won’t play ball with the guild,” Mulbah stated, a sour taste in his mouth as he finally admitted it out loud. “The Horsemen did break guild law, but this? I think this is an overreaction to the problem.”
“The charges laid upon them by the guild are very steep,” President Forh reminded him. “Violating galactic law is a way to get our membership revoked, is it not?”
“Which is why I accepted the guild’s offer,” Mulbah declared. “If the Korps can keep a lid on Africa and bring the other merc companies in without bloodshed, I can help protect Earth. Not from itself, but from the aliens.”
“This is your plan then?” President Forh asked.
“It’s all I’ve got,” Mulbah admitted. “It’s the job nobody else was willing to do. They ask for noble sacrifices in their fight to be heroes. They want people to rise up and battle on, against impossible odds, on planets far away from here. The problem, though, is the Horsemen have ignored what’s most valuable about our planet, what makes us Human.”
“What is that?”
“Our love of all Human life.”
* * *
After the meeting, Mulbah checked his messages and saw he had missed a call from Samson. He quickly brought up the message and all his hopes of saving lives and avoiding needless bloodshed sank as he listened to the shaken man.
“Colonel,” Samson began speaking, a hitch in his voice which Mulbah was not used to hearing from the calm and placid individual. “I screwed up and it led to the deaths of fourteen mercenaries from the Taranto S.R.L. There’s still some mercs down there and they’re refusing to come out. They’re underground so I’m going to flood them out. I think they have an underwater tunnel leading to the mainland, though. One wounded, but it’s Antonious—uh, Captain Karnga, bass. Took a MAC round in his upper chest, near the shoulder. He’s stable for now but the medic says he needs a trauma doctor. He’s on his way back to HQ now. We’re continuing with the mission.”
The video message ended, and Mulbah sighed and looked out at the Atlantic Ocean. He’d wandered out to the rear of the mansion after the successful meeting with the president to contemplate his next step. The first and most obvious would be to find a trauma doctor who could look at Antonious and determine the extent of the damage from his wound. Captain Tolbert would be next, since Samson obviously needed some sort of encouragement. If the mission in Liberia wasn’t so important, he’d drop everything and h
ead to Italy in his CASPer.
No, he would have to stay in Liberia for the time being. There was too much work to accomplish. However, he could tell Samson to continue his work with the Italians while having 2nd Company bring Antonious and his CASPer back to Liberia. Then Antonious could get decent treatment in the base HQ and perhaps come away with all body parts attached. Mulbah knew what a MAC could do to flesh, even with the armor of a suit in the way.
He pinged Zion to let him know he had wounded incoming, but the 3rd Company commander’s comms were isolated. That’s weird, Mulbah thought as he tried again. No response. Frustrated, he grumbled quietly under his breath as he switched channels.
“I’m gone for a few hours and everything goes to hell. Major, are you there?”
“Yes, Colonel,” Thorpi replied almost instantly. “How’d it go?”
“I’ll tell you in a bit,” Mulbah answered and eyed his surroundings. “Can you run a trace on Zion?”
“He’s out on Bushrod Island,” Thorpi informed him. Mulbah bit back an exclamation as the alien continued. “He told me he was going dark to take care of an issue, and he would be back on in an hour, two tops.”
“Copy,” Mulbah growled, displeased. “He could have at least…no, he knew where I would be. He went to you next. He followed the chain of command. Good on him. What’s next?”
“Captain Tolbert needs to speak with you as well,” Thorpi said. “He says it’s rather urgent.”
“I got the message,” Mulbah said. “I’ll call him next.”
“Yes sir. Colonel?”
“Yeah?”
“Go easy on him,” Thorpi suggested. “Accidents happen, especially in combat, no matter how well-trained you are. Remember his past, and your own, sir.”
The comms went dead, and he stood alone for a long moment, staring off into the distance. Thorpi was right. There was a time to berate a junior officer and a time to teach. This was a teaching moment, as well as a way to try and console the man. He knew of Samson’s past. This was tough for anyone to deal with, doubly so for the former child soldier. Mulbah made a promise to keep this in mind as they talked.
Sons of the Lion Page 7