Peacemaker

by Gordon Kent

  “Fuck, don’t call me sir. It’s Tom.” He started to rip open one of the envelopes, glanced at the security stamps on the inner wrap, tore at it. “Halland says you’re okay.”

  “I thought he was probably okay, too.”

  Tom guffawed. He looked around, found a glass, and poured himself a dark liquid. He raised the bottle. Alan thought, Ooh, shit, here comes the booze. “Iced tea?”

  Chastened, Alan accepted an iced tea. Tom read his secrets and put the two envelopes aside. “Let me put you in the picture. This city is a zoo. Kabila’s troops are still four hundred miles away, but the smart money is that Mobutu is finished.”

  “He’s surprised a lot of people before.”

  “Yeah, well, the surprises are over. Some of the French hard-liners from the old days aren’t very happy, but fuck ’em. We think they’re still trying to turn the clock back. There’s wheels within wheels here, Craik—good French and bad French, good Zairians and bad Zairians—and it’s all been stirred with a stick. It’s a mess. See, the French from the old days always backed Mobutu and the Hutus, and now they’re out of the government in France, they’re limp dicks up there, but they’re still at it down here. Backing the Hutus, among other things.”

  “And the Hutus have O’Neill.”

  Tom grunted. “O’Neill was probably in the wrong place at the wrong time, but they really fucked up big-time, grabbing him. Now they’re losing the war, and we hope they’re trying to lighten the load, so they’ll turn him over.” His eyebrows went up and down, and he guzzled more tea. Then he looked up and said, “We’re negotiating.”

  “I can identify him.”

  “Yeah, I was pretty excited when I heard that. Frankly, I can’t believe they’d dick around with us, but they were stupid enough to grab him in the first place, and they’re pissed off because the Tutsis and the Ugandans are beating the shit out of them. Ralph Halland says you’ve got a gun.”

  Alan’s face gave him away.

  Tom studied him and grinned. “Keep it.”

  “You got a plan to get O’Neill?”

  “I’m waiting for a meeting that’s supposed to give us a place; we’ve picked three spots we’ve already scoped out, close to Kinshasa but where the people who have him won’t feel too threatened. I’m going to ask the embassy to lift the firearms restriction—right now, we’re not supposed to leave the compound armed—and get me a couple of shooters to cover the meeting without going ape-shit. You ever do a hand-over? A lot can go wrong—one guy gets nervous, all of a sudden everybody’s shooting. I want it to go quick and easy and then I want to get rid of O’Neill. That’s where you come in and it’s why I don’t mind you being here: you fly him out to your carrier before it makes any press and that way everybody is happy, for once. Okay?”

  Alan allowed himself a grin. Everything was going to be okay, and this guy was going to let him play. And he’d pick up some information to take back to the admiral. Now, if he could just suppress the tremor that was making his right calf vibrate like a jackhammer, he’d be fine.

  That afternoon, Tom and Halland let him read their finished reporting, going back four weeks, and he used those reports to write an informal situation summary for the admiral. He showed it to Tom and watched him wordsmith it for an hour. He wanted to object but realized that Tom had political concerns; Tom controlled its release, so he could only accept the changes. Still, when he and Djalik sacked out that night at the Marine House, he had filed a situation brief via message traffic that might cut through some of the confusion coming from LANTFLEET—although what the message really said was that the confusion was in the embassy itself.

  While Alan was still typing, somebody—not Tom and not Halland, and Alan never found out who—returned from the meeting to set up O’Neill’s release. Alan went to sleep on the thought that Tom seemed to want to get O’Neill out and was apparently being as forthright as anybody who was distrusted by his boss, surrounded by violence, and unsure of Alan himself could be expected to be. Sporadic gunfire sounded through the night, although always distant. Some of it had to be coming from across the river in Brazzaville, he thought. Would they have to plan and run two simultaneous evacuation operations?

  Djalik and Alan both slept late and were alone in the mess hall at 0900. Alan downed a small steak and a stack of really good pancakes, while Djalik seemed bottomless, consuming eggs, bacon, steak, and corned beef hash with a reckless disregard for the consequences. A shower and the American breakfast gave a great sense of well-being, of a protected, American-style life. The embassy compound was a little enclave, a little fortress in a very sick city. Out there were chaos, unpredictability, want; in here were order, cleanliness, plenty. Alan understood why people flocked to embassies when everything fell apart outside. But with the feeling of safety came a feeling of apartness, then inevitably of contempt.

  He waited to talk until they had both finished their second cups of coffee.

  “Djalik, you got a gun?”

  “I understood I was here as an IS, not a shooter. Arnie says nobody here is allowed to carry, anyway.” Arnie was his buddy from the back seat.

  Djalik didn’t ask if Alan had a gun, and he was going to tell him about the H & K when he realized that Djalik might not want to know—might not have asked deliberately. That way, he could be honest with Arnie. Meaning that if Lieutenant-Commander Craik had a gun, that was his business and he, Djalik, wouldn’t be the one to rat to the embassy. Only later did he notice that Djalik had evaded his question.

  He glanced at Djalik, wondered how well he knew the man. He would have to tell him before they actually went in to get O’Neill, if that’s the way it went down. But better to tell him just before they went in—and after he’d lost contact with Arnie.

  Alan buttered a last bite of toast and shook his head. He had lost interest in the adventure part of this. He wanted to get his friend, get on a plane, and go back to the carrier.

  24

  Late November

  Kinshasa.

  The first hint of trouble when Alan entered the office was Tom’s face. He had seen it deeply tanned; now it was blotched red. Ralph Halland was leaning in a corner next to a bookshelf, and even with his arms folded he looked as if he was standing at attention.

  “Morning,” Alan said, nodding to Ralph. They ignored him.

  “What the fuck is he thinking about?” Tom roared. This had nothing to do with Alan Craik, everything to do with embassy business. Alan started to leaf through Tom’s message tray; Tom put his hand over it. “No.” Alan looked at his eyes. It was a complete turnabout. Overnight. “We’ve been directed that you don’t access our information.”

  This was the treatment he had feared yesterday. Today it made no sense.

  Ralph spoke from his corner. “The deputy ambassador is not pleased with the message you put out last night. He said that it reflects badly on the mission here and suggests that Zaire is unstable. He also said that it was highly biased and indicated that we had misled you. He was particularly incensed by the suggestion that American and certain French interests were at odds.”

  Alan digested this, wishing he had another cup of coffee. “For Christ’s sake, that’s exactly what you told me!”

  “Yeah, and that’s why I’m being punished. I’m out of the loop on getting your guy back.” He slid a message paper across the desk. “You didn’t fuck up the whole thing. Your fucking admiral did.” Alan looked at the message. Under all the headers was a short Pfor—“personal for”—LCDR Craik. Clearly, Pfors were not considered private in an embassy.

  Good stuff. Get a headcount of numbers and concentrations of US, UK and Canadian citizens for possible NEO planning Kinshasa and Brazzaville. Get mission view on timeframe of possible Kabila ETA.

  Get O’Neill soonest.

  Regards to all. Pilchard.

  Tom’s face had got less red. He leaned across the table and looked Alan in the eye. “The deputy ambassador thinks any discussion of a Non-combatant Evacua
tion Operation is premature, here even now or in Brazzaville any time. He thinks that the admiral sending notes to his inferiors rather than messages to the embassy is rude. He wants to know why your admiral is taking so much interest in things here but not communicating with us. I don’t always see eye-to-eye with him, but I kind of agree with him.”

  “When an admiral sends his flag intelligence officer, he is communicating.”

  “Not if you’re a tight-assed Foreign Service officer! Anyway, that’s history. What’s bad is, my request to carry weapons to the meeting to get O’Neill was nixed. The deputy ambassador says that, to Africans, America is the land of guns, and that image needs to be changed.” Tom held up a hand. The hand was quivering. Tom’s face was getting blotched with red again. “I know, I know—a few of the Africans out there have guns, too, but we won’t go into that. Apparently the deputy ambassador means to change America’s image right now.” He stood and put his hands on his hips and stared out the window for several seconds. “He’s not sending us to get your guy. He’s sending a junior Foreign Service officer ‘to avoid misunderstandings.’ No guns, no shooters, no backup. I hope that suits you.” He glanced at Alan, shrugged. He looked ready to explode. “It may work. I view it as a recipe for disaster and made the mistake of saying so. We don’t even get to take this young pup to the meeting. A DS guy is doing that.”

  Alan swallowed. “Am I going?”

  “As of now, no.” Alan felt outrage, suppressed it as Tom went on. “If we explain that O’Neill was a personal friend, I suspect he’ll let you go—as a scapegoat if anything goes wrong, if for no other reason. That’s for sure what I’d do. If you have an ounce of sense, you’ll refuse. I’ve cabled the Director for help, but we won’t get a reply before the meeting goes down.”

  Alan thought of O’Neill. Alone, as Alan had never been alone. Humiliated at having been taken, probably beaten, maybe maimed, maybe sick. Alan thought of what it would be like to be out there alone, and who would look out for O’Neill in this divided embassy. O’Neill had always looked after himself, but what shape would he be in after weeks with the Hutu militias?

  “I want to go. Please.” The words were said before the thoughts were done.

  Two hours later, Alan regretted his impulse. It had become clear that nobody wanted to be part of the retrieval. Nobody wanted to be in charge, but everybody wanted to keep Alan out of that role. Nobody was doing any planning.

  The green Chevy Blazer was sitting in the courtyard. The appointed embassy officer, a young blue-blood named Thorn (Thorn in my side?) who sounded more English than American and seemed a little too afraid, was waiting to go. Djalik’s new pal Arnie was to be the driver. The chief of embassy security was rumored to be trying to wriggle his vehicle and his man out of the whole thing, but nobody would confirm that. If he succeeded, what were they going to do, hitchhike?

  Alan thought of the time that went into planning an air strike. Teams of planners. Maps. Briefings. Here, there was nothing—not even a chat over coffee. Alan knew from Harry that the Agency didn’t do things this way.

  He tried unsuccessfully to see the deputy ambassador, and then he tried, first through Ralph and then through the military attachés, to send a message to the boat. He met a freeze: the attachés were out doing their jobs. Two were on home leave. He was what is officially called SOL—Shit Out of Luck.

  Alan found himself sitting in an empty Navy office, wishing the attaché were there to help him and staring at a telephone as if he could make it produce its owner. Then he realized that the ALUSHNA, the naval attaché, had left his key in his secure phone. Alan turned the key. Nobody came on to ask questions or to challenge him. He dialed a digit. The phone waited for more. Whom could he call who could patch him to the boat? No way to patch a telephone to the boat—unless it was to the pay phone sailors used to call home. Well, any port in a storm. He dialed the twenty-four-hour watch number at LANTCOM.

  It took him two minutes to persuade a harried petty officer to let him speak to the senior watch officer, and the senior watch officer to connect him to the INMARSAT line to the Jackson—the satellite hookup to the public phone on the squadron personnel’s level. After eleven seemingly endless rings, he got a junior bosun’s mate, and he persuaded him to walk up three decks and find somebody from the intelligence center. Finally, he heard movement at the other end of the phone.

  “Commander Scott.” The CAG AI.

  “Sir? This is Alan Craik.”

  “Jesus, Alan, where are you? What the hell are you doing calling on the—”

  “I’m on the beach. Where I’m supposed to be. This is an open line.”

  “Got it. What’s happening?”

  “Sir, I’m going to retrieve my package and I’m not too happy about the mission planning and the strike package, if you get me.”

  Long pause—Trans-Atlantic transmission time via satellite, then thought.

  “Okay Al, I think I read that. What can I do?”

  He wanted to say, Tell the admiral I’m in over my head, but the words wouldn’t help anything, and he wasn’t sure he should even say “admiral” on an open line. “Tell my boss that the situation within these walls is such that I can’t send any more faxes, and I plan to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  Long pause.

  “That bad? Our guys or their guys?”

  Long pause.

  “Not guys in uniform. Not strangers.”

  Long pause.

  “I got it. Do what you have to, Al. Do you need anything?”

  Long pause.

  “A COD at 2130. If I need it sooner I’ll call back. Give me the number where you are, sir?”

  “Wait one. Uh—hold it—It’s scrawled down the side. 01131236571119. Does that sound right?” Longer pause, with echoes. “The guy behind me in line says it’s the right number. His ombudsman handed it out before cruise. Why don’t we have an ombudsman?”

  “Thank you, sir.” Alan waited. He felt tied to his ship, to his whole way of life, by that scratchy thread of sound.

  “Keep your head down and get your ass back here, mister!” Hanging up sounds.

  Alan took a deep breath. He put the number in his wallet. Okay—the COD would be here to whisk them back to the ship. Now he had to try to get O’Neill on it. He looked at his watch. The meeting—if there was a meeting—was supposed to go down in two hours.

  He went back to the Marine House and changed into shorts and the khaki shirt he had bought at REI, way back—when? A month ago. Seemed like ten years ago. Rose. Mikey. Saying goodbye—He put on athletic socks and light hiking boots. Grabbed his helmet bag—gun, cartridges, first-aid kit—flashlight, GPS, fishing kit, What the hell is the fishing kit for?—jacket, boonie hat, bug repellent—malaria pills—Swiss Army knife—

  Then he went back to Tom’s office. Empty.

  Alan looked for Ralph Halland, for a secretary.

  Nobody. Conveniently away. On the wall next to Tom’s desk was a clump of local cell phones. Several had names taped to them, one still wrapped in its original plastic, no name on it. Mine, now. He dropped it in his helmet bag, followed it with a battery. You never knew what you might need away from the embassy compound.

  He went down to the vehicle and found Djalik already there, dressed very much like Alan, in Africa-practical civilian clothes, baggy shorts. Was now the time to tell him about the gun?

  “I called the boat. We got a COD at 2130.”

  “No problem.”

  “This could be the biggest cluster-fuck since Little Big Horn.”

  “I figured that out, sir.” Djalik held up a plastic box the size of a laptop, with a red cross taped on it. “Medical kit. You never know.” He smiled. The smile was ambiguous—was it really a medical kit?

  He wanted to say more, but the DS driver, who was checking something under the hood, smiled at Alan. Meaning he’s supposed to keep an eye on me. The theory is that Djalik is already no problem.

  Djalik lowered his voice.
“Commander—you packing?”

  Alan thought about it. “Not on my body.”

  “In the helmet bag?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You better give it to me.” Djalik seemed to be merely stating a fact. He was wearing sunglasses; he now turned those expressionless surfaces toward him. “That’s the first place they’ll look.”

  “They’ll be Hutu militia. They won’t find it. I’ve put cigarettes on top; that’s all those guys will want.” He sounded, he thought, more confident than he looked.

  “Commander, if you want to trust your life to a pack of cigarettes, that’s fine with me. I don’t.” He held out his hand where Arnie, at the front of the car, couldn’t see it. Alan was going to argue—he’d never had anybody find squat at an African checkpoint. (But, then, it was true that nobody had ever been motivated to look very hard.) And then he thought about which of them would really be better with the gun if things went to hell. He had played a fair amount of playground basketball in his youth. He had never been able to shoot, not close, not far. He had learned to take the ball in close and pass, even if he was open to shoot. Any SEAL could shoot better than he could, and it was probably the last chance to pass before the game ended.

  And then Arnie slammed the hood, meaning he was getting ready to go. Alan thrust his hand down into the bag and handed the H & K to Djalik.

  “Don’t stand in the line of fire. If I give you a shove, go.” Djalik put the pistol down the back of his shorts.

  “Jeez, that’s cool,” Alan said. “They’ll never look there, right?” He was angry. At that point, Arnie joined them.

  “You guys ride in the back. Mr Thorn will ride up front with me.”

  Thorn came out carrying a briefcase and wearing a seersucker sport coat, unconstructed, very Eastern Establishment. He looked as if he might be heading for a weekend at Bar Harbor. He also looked scared shitless.

  Nobody saw them off. No ambassador, no team. No backup. No plan, no fallback, no counter-surveillance. Just Mr Thorn, who couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five.