22.
The dive team did twenty-eight knots—top speed—for the entire trip back to the fish farm.
“Last time we go anywhere without packin,’” said Jensen. “I hated standing there while those fuckers decided whether or not to kill us.”
“I hear ya,” said Cohen. “We’ll run it past Mackey.”
They arrived back at the farm in almost half the time of the trip out and tied off at the rickety wooden dock. The four of them jogged up the small hill to where the campfire was usually burning. Sure enough, Mackey and Cascaes were chatting by the fire. They spotted the foursome running up the hill and stood. Something was up.
Jon spoke first. “Hey, Skipper—we made contact with the PAC today. By accident.”
Mackey raised his eyebrows. “What happened? Where?”
“We went north to fish and saw hundreds of little fishing boats out of Buwali—”
Mackey interrupted him. “Hundreds? Slight exaggeration?”
“No, sir. Hundreds. I think the villagers had everything that could float out on Lake Tanganyika. So we went to Buwali to see what was up. The Chinese are what was up. Two dinks, maybe officers—they had that sort of look, and two Africans, PAC, I assume. All four were carrying Type-81 Assault rifles.”
“And they saw you?” asked Cascaes.
“Hell, yeah. We talked to them. We went into the village and saw the chief. We were going to ask him what was up when these four thugs come down with guns out. The head Chinaman wanted to know what we were doing there…assumed we were Americans, but we stayed with our story. Anyway, it was hairy for a couple of minutes. We weren’t armed.”
“But we will be next time,” said Jensen, still looking pissed.
“Easy there, Sergeant Rock,” said Mackey. “You are a Canadian dive team catching fish, not American SEALs, remember?” He looked back at Jon. “So what happened?”
“Well, after we insisted we were just there to buy fish, they told us they needed all of the fish for themselves, and we split.”
“They know where you were coming from?” asked Cascaes.
Jon grimaced. “Yeah, we had to stick to our story, so I played it like a regular event, ya’ know? Like it was no big deal, but yeah, they know where to find us now.”
Cascaes nodded. “Okay, you did the right thing, but we have to rethink what we’re going to do now. We’re not set up to defend this position against a few thousand armed guerrillas.”
Mackey made a face. “You think they bought your story, Jon?” he asked.
“I have no idea, Skipper. They didn’t shoot us, which they could have done, but I guess that would have tipped off the villagers that they aren’t ‘the knights in shining armor here to save the country’ that they say they are.”
“Damn,” said Mackey under his breath. “If we split, they’ll know something is up. If we stay, they have the option of killing us whenever they want. Here’s what we do: starting now, the fish farm is run by you four. They saw you guys, but that’s all they saw. As long as the villagers don’t go blabbing, they won’t know about the rest of us. Hell, if they were to come here and ask about us, you could just say we were bringing fish to Luano Airport in Lubumbashi. We’ll set up defensive perimeters and begin night watches from outside the compound. Sorry to say, you four get to stay as cannon fodder.”
Jon nodded. “No problem, Skipper. What do you think if we sleep out by the dock? If the shit hits the fan, we can always boogie to Tanzania or something.”
Mackey looked at Cascaes. “Not a bad idea. Okay, fine. You guys can set up down at the lake, keep plenty of extra ammo down with you and make sure the boat stays gassed up with extra fuel, secure coms and weapons on board. We’ll be camping out in the bush outside the compound and setting motion detectors for night time security. Everybody takes turns on watch—two hours intervals. We’ll take another poke around Buwali and see if the PAC is staying there, or just looking for food. Maybe their MREs suck as bad as ours do.”
Cascaes laughed. “Hard to fuck up rice.”
“You never tasted my ex’s cooking. She could fuck up water,” said Mackey. “Okay, get everybody to the campfire and we’ll brief the rest of the crew. I liked this better when they didn’t know we were here yet.”
“Sorry, boss,” said Jon, “My fault.”
“No, it’s okay. I would have gone to the village if I was there with you. Don’t sweat it. All you did was push our schedule up a day or two. They would have found out we were here, anyway. Let’s just hope they bought the story and are busy with other things.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Cascaes.
***
Sergeant Major Han watched as the endless line of Africans filled the back of their truck with fish, some of which were still gasping. Major Wu, not an officer to usually ask the opinions of NCOs, walked over to his sergeant major and spoke quietly.
“Sergeant Major Han—do you think they were Canadians or Americans?”
The sergeant major, surprised to be asked for his opinion, bowed politely and thought about his response for a moment.
“Would not Americans have been armed, Shao Xiao?” he asked. “They looked frightened, not cocky like the Americans I have seen on television.”
The major scowled and thought it over. “I will report this to General Shen. Perhaps the local chief can tell us something.”
The sergeant major bowed, snapped a salute, and ran off to find Ma-fafe with his two PAC soldiers right behind him. Ma-fafe wasn’t far away, watching his people unload basket after basket of fish. The village would be very rich if this customer returned regularly.
Sergeant Major Han approached the chief and asked him in French if he knew the white men. The chief said, yes, and explained they ran the fish farm down the lake. His men brought them live fish for pets in Canada, not the big fish for eating. Sergeant Major Han thought about it for a moment and asked how long the fish farm had been there. When the chief, not fully understanding what he was being asked, responded that the farm had been there for many years, Sergeant Major Han felt relieved. He ran back to the major and spoke quickly.
“I am pleased to report that the men have been there for many years and do, in fact, run a fish farm for exporting fish back to Canada. They are fish the Canadians keep as pets, not food.”
Major Wu smiled, something rather out of character for ‘His Grouchiness’. “Good. We can continue our work without interference for the time being. Get these fish loaded and we will return to base.”
Sergeant Major Han watched as the endless line of Africans filled the back of their truck with fish, and smiled.
23.
Shen Xun-jun sat in a chair sipping tea, watching thousands of Africans clear a long stretch of ground that would be his runway. Nigel Ufume sat next to him drinking a gin and tonic.
“You should try one, general,” he said, feeling slightly buzzed. “The quinine in the tonic fights the malaria. The Brits figured this out a couple of hundred years ago. And if it doesn’t, who cares? It tastes better than tea.”
The general looked at the American traitor with disgust. As soon as his usefulness was gone, he would be disposed of. “Tea is an honorable drink. It doesn’t cloud one’s mind like alcohol, Mr. Nigel. There is work to be done. It is not the time for drunkenness.”
Nigel got pissed. “General, lemme tell you something—unlike the Chinese, Americans can drink without getting all fucked up. You want tea? Drink your fucking tea. I’ll stick to my Tanq and Tonic, thank you very much.” He was slurring slightly. “I’m gonna’ help you build this country into a modern nation. China is gonna’ make us rich, and the world is gonna’ stop shittin’ on Africa.”
The general was growing impatient, and would have been very happy to put a round through Nigel’s forehead, but grimaced and held his tongue. The black man would be needed in th
e months ahead as they rebuilt the Congolese government—a Chinese satellite that would provide the resource-hungry mainland with so much of what it needed to continue on its path towards world dominance economically, politically, and militarily. As the general looked at his traitor ally, he thought it appropriate that an American would be the one to help China become the next supreme superpower.
Shen Xun-jun stood up and called out to the PAC soldier that stood guard by Shen Xun-jun’s truck. He would rather stand in the heat and dust than sit with this drunken fool another minute.
The soldier ran to Shen Xun-jun and saluted. He spoke no Chinese and Shen Xun-jun spoke almost no French. Instead, Shen Xun-jun merely pointed to the truck and the soldier ran and opened the rear door for Shen Xun-jun to sit in the back. The general sat and pointed to the workers, and the soldier drove him out to inspect the progress. Back on the porch, Nigel raised his glass to the departing general.
“Here’s to you, you fucking chink. You are gonna’ make me rich—king of this fucking shithole. And the minute you fuck with us, we are gonna’ throw your asses out of here.” Nigel poured another couple of shots into his glass, spilling some on his hand, which he licked off. His heavy drinking had started shortly after he arrived back in Africa and saw the living conditions of people who all could have easily been him.
As Shen Xun-jun pulled out of the compound towards the workers, the truck rumbled in from Buwali with Sergeant Major Han behind the wheel and Major Wu in the front seat next to him. Two PAC soldiers stood in the back, literally up to their waists in fish. Between the supplies on hand and the fish, Shen Xun-jun would easily feed his army and keep it loyal to him. It wasn’t much different in the old Chinese army—provide food, shelter, clothing, discipline, and fear, and your army would do anything for its leaders. The Congo would be much better off under Chinese influence, of that, Shen Xun-jun was sure.
The truck squeaked to a stop in the center of the compound, near the large open tent where the cooking was done each day. Sergeant Major Han hopped out and started screaming in French to the nearest men he could find, who quickly ran to get wheelbarrows and begin the process of unloading several thousand pounds of fish. The two miserable PAC soldiers in the back were soaked with fish blood and skunked water, and trotted off to bathe in the lake and find new uniform trousers. Sergeant Major Han recruited several women and children from the other side of the compound who were performing other duties, and had them join in the daylong process of preparing fish for a meal. The cloud of flies surrounding the tremendous pile of fish guts and scales was so thick an hour into the cleaning process that Sergeant Major Han ordered holes dug and the mess buried as the people worked, rather than wait until the end of the chore. As Sergeant Major Han jogged off to find General Shen, he cursed this continent under his breath.
Shen Xun-jun was sitting on the hood of his truck watching the progress on his airstrip when Sergeant Major Han and Major Wu arrived on foot. They were both amazed at the number of workers and the amount that had been accomplished.
Major Wu snapped a salute. “Beg to report, General Shen, we have returned from Buwali with the fresh fish. The village can keep us supplied indefinitely. We did make contact with caucasians.”
Shen Xun-jun’s eyes narrowed. “Americans looking for us or Mr. Nigel?”
“We do not believe so, Shao Jiang. The locals in Buwali report that Canadian fish farmers have worked on the lake for several years. They catch fish to send back to Canada as pets. They supply fish for fish tanks, not for food. They were in the village trying to buy food fish, same as us. We sent them away.”
Shen Xun-jun mulled it over. “And do you know where these men are located?”
Major Wu fudged his answer a bit. “We can easily locate them, Shao Jiang. They are not far from Buwali.” Sergeant Major Han was making a mental note to find the damn fish farm as he listened to Wu Liling answer the general.
Shen Xun-jun slid down from the hood of the car and walked towards the thousands of Africans, sweating under the bright orange sun.
“We will have an airstrip by tomorrow,” said Shen Xun-jun quietly. “And then we will have our weapons.” He turned back towards his men. “It doesn’t matter if they are Canadians or Americans or Russians. In a week, China will be running this country. We will return home as national heroes and spend the rest of our careers on assignments anywhere we choose. That includes you, Sergeant Major Han.”
The sergeant major bowed politely. “Thank you, Shao Jiang. You are most generous.”
Cascaes was on his stomach next to Mackey, using an extra high-powered sniper scope. They were both invisible, wearing ghillie suits that made them both look like clumps of dried grass that mimicked everything around them.
“Road or airstrip?” asked Cascaes to Mackey.
“Airstrip. Think about it—they’re working across the length of a finite piece. If it was a road, they’d be working towards some direction of travel from the compound. These guys are just making an airstrip. Even have it set up for wind direction.”
Cascaes nodded. “Yeah—wind direction. I forget you’re a pilot. Good catch—I would have missed that, too. Okay, so they are building an airstrip. What for? Bringing in Chinese troops? Moving PAC troops around the country? Any guesses?”
Mackey kept watching. “We should have brought Jon with us. He could have ID’d the guys from the village. Damn. Look at the little guy by the car. Bet ya the farm that he’s the ring leader.”
“Yeah. Look at how the others two bow and salute and shit. Aid-station my ass. They don’t even try and hide it anymore. How many you figure they got recruited out there?”
“Been trying to count, but damn, there’s a shit-load out there. Could make three regiments out of that mess easy enough. Langley predicted five or six thousand, but there has to be almost double that out there. And that’s only here—what about in the rest of the country?”
“We better get the hell out of here. I only have about a hundred rounds. Definitely can’t take the rest of them in hand to hand,” said Cascaes dryly.
Mackey smiled. “I am way too old for hand to hand, brother. These days I prefer calling in an airstrike.”
“Yeah, well don’t get your hopes up. Like the man said in Virginia, we’re out here without a safety net. The Marines offshore are not coming to bail us out. Come on, let’s split.”
Mackey and Cascaes, almost a mile out from the compound, packed up their scope and slowly crawled through the grass until they were in heavier vegetation. They worked on the assumption that someone in camp had a scope as well, and was trying to find them, so they moved methodically until they were comfortable that they would be concealed to even a heavy telescope. Once they were in the forest, they jogged back to their waiting truck, where they stripped off their suits and hid them along with their scopes, under some boards in the back of the truck. If they were stopped, they were merely Canadian fish farmers looking for game. They did have a shotgun in the cab.
Cascaes drove the truck back towards their fish farm, and Mackey called ahead to Moose on his radio.
“What’s up, Skipper?” asked Moose from his end.
“Get our com equipment set up and ready to go. I want to call the company when we get back right away. Looks like our buddies are ahead of schedule. Out.”
24.
By the time Cascaes and Mackey drove into the fish farm, the team had finished setting up motion sensors in a hundred yard perimeter around the compound. Weapons and ammo were concealed, but easy to reach, in Fish Central, the huts and the boat. The team had split into two-person teams and spread out to keep watch in all directions. They felt a little bit like George Armstrong Custer.
Mackey and Cascaes went right to their hut, where Moose was ready with the secure burst satellite phone. Mackey grunted a hello and called Langley, where Dex Murphy picked up on the third ring. It was early morning back in
Virginia.
“Morning, Boss,” said Mackey. “I bring you greetings from the Congo.”
“Happy to hear your head isn’t on a pole,” said Murphy.
“No, that was the last assignment, remember?” said Mackey, thinking about his last gig in Paraguay where there actually were some cannibals.
“Yeah, I remember. What’s going on out there? Any sign of our missing person?” he asked, concerned about Nigel.
“Not the first clue,” said Mackey. “But I think our Chinese friends are way ahead of schedule. They’re building an airstrip at the aid station and they have quite an army out there, boss. I’m guessing close to ten thousand of them now. And that’s only at this location. Not sure how many other aid-stations the Chinese have out here.”
“Ten thousand? Damn. I’ll send that up the chain. If they fly in more advisors or artillery support, the Congolese president is going to be out of a job real fast. They know you’re out there yet?”
“Well, that’s not a hundred percent clear yet. We’ve had contact with advisors and PAC soldiers at Buwali, but they may have bought the cover story. So far, they haven’t come sniffing around, but we are preparing.”
“Preparing how?” asked Murphy, sounding concerned.
“Well, they only know about four of us, as of right now. Those four are staying in the compound and the rest of us will be patrolling outside. If it gets ugly, we have a boat and will head east across Lake Tanganyika.”
“That’s fine. Remember, I’d rather you just split without shooting if you can. Stay with your cover story. We’re waiting to see what political solutions can be tried before we start another Congo War.”
“We aren’t starting it, boss—we’re trying to prevent it,” said Mackey.
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