by Tom Clancy
Seronga and his unit came upon a familiar pond. The watering hole was smaller than it used to be. Irrigation had changed the floodplains, and the pigs had been relocated. Only the field mice and a few flightless birds came here to drink. But it was still unmistakably the pond where he had begun his road to manhood. In the rising sun, Leon imagined^he could still see the long shadows of his father and the other men. He could still taste the blood of the pig on his lips.
And one thing more. Leon could still see his father's dark eyes, hear his father's words: "Our people cannot survive without shedding blood. We cannot exist without risk. "
Fortunately, the other members of Leon's old Brush Viper unit felt the same as their former leader did. The men had remained in contact over the years. When one of the Brush Vipers heard Dhamballa speak, an opportunity presented itself to undo the mistakes that had been made. Leon went to hear the man in Machaneng, a village to the east. He was captivated by what he heard. He was even more impressed with what he saw: a leader.
They had to work with Europeans again, only this time they would do it right. They would take back what had been lost.
Distant structures appeared on the horizon, beyond the waving grasses. There were six of them built of logs with ceramic tile roofs. The sun glinted on the white satellite dish in a clearing. It played on the chrome of the cars and vans parked in the dirt lot.
Leon motioned for his men to stay low behind the grass. He knew that they should have come here in the dark, but it was important that he see the sun rise. Besides, the tourists inside the compound would not be up yet. Scouts had reported that the shutters remained closed until nearly eight A. M. The foreigners liked their sleep.
Saving the nation would not be easy. And it would not be bloodless. But that was to be expected.
Revolutions seldom were.
Chapter Two
Maim, Botswana
Monday, 5:19 AM.
Father Powys Bradbury opened his eyes a moment before the sun peeked over the windowsill. He smiled as he watched the white walls and ceiling brighten. It was good to be back.
The South African native usually rose at first light. Throughout his forty-three years as a priest, Bradbury had made it a habit of saying his morning offering at the break of day. The prayer was about dedicating one's day to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. It seemed only right to do that when the day began, not when it was convenient.
The short, wispy man continued to smile as he lay in his small twin bed. The bed was tucked in a corner of the whitewalled room. The only other pieces of furniture were a night table, a wardrobe at the foot of the bed, and a desk across the room. There was a simple laptop computer on the desk. Father Bradbury used that primarily for E-mail. The computer was surrounded by stacks of books and periodicals, which were also piled on the floor of the small room. The priest subscribed to newspapers from across the continent. He enjoyed finding out what other Africans were thinking.
The wardrobe contained two sets of his priestly vestments, a white bathrobe, a windbreaker for cool winter nights, and one pair of jeans and a Cape Town sweatshirt. Father Bradbury wore the jeans and sweatshirt whenever he played soccer with his more sports-minded congregants. Apart from the short pajamas he had on now, these were the only clothes the priest owned. He believed wholeheartedly in Psalm 119:37 which said, "Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity; Your way give me life."
Father Bradbury's only indulgence was a compact disc player that he kept on a shelf above the desk. He enjoyed listening to Gregorian chants while he wrote or read.
Father Bradbury stretched soundlessly. There was no one in the adjoining room. The seven deacon missionaries who were attached to the Church of the Holy Cross were in the field. But silence was a way of life for Father Bradbury. He had first developed a fondness for it at the Seminary of Saint Ignatius in Cape Town, where silence was mandatory for all but prayer. He felt there was something civilized about quiet. It was something that separated humans from the braying, roaring animals of Africa. He had never agreed with the notion that noisy, crowded cities were the hubs of civilization. To him, civilization was a place where sophistication was not as important as loving cooperation.
In just a few moments, the energies of the white-haired priest would be turned to the service of God. His attention would go to the people of the surrounding villages. Father Bradbury took a minute to enjoy one of the few times of the day that were truly his.
The night before, Father Bradbury had returned from a fiveday visit to the archdiocese in Cape Town. He always enjoyed his meetings with Archbishop Patrick and other mission priests. The cathedral itself was made of shining white stone, an inspiration to see and to work in. There were two bell towers framing the main portal, each of them five stories high. Their ringing could be heard all over the city. Archbishop Patrick himself was also an inspiration. He always had stimulating ideas about how to bring the word of Christ to people who had little familiarity with the Church and its teachings. The seven men actually had a great deal of fun as they went to the Veritas Production House to make audiotapes. Using simple readings and commentary, the clergymen outlined gospel values. These audiotapes would help the deacon missionaries of southern Africa bring new believers to the fold. Unlike Father Bradbury, who remained in his own parish, the deacon missionaries were the men who worked in the field, who went to the isolated villages and regions shaken by poverty, disease, and hunger.
Father Bradbury drew a deep breath of the dry, hot air. He exhaled slowly, then listened to the wonderful silence. Once in a while it was broken by chacma baboons that approached the compound in search of a handout. Though the grasses, insects, and fruits they ate were plentiful, the dog-nosed primates were among God's laziest creations.
There were no apes today. Nothing stirred but the wind. And it was absolutely delicious.
The air in Father Bradbury's native city was dusty and humid, and the streets were loud, even at night. The clergyman had been in Botswana for eleven years. He had spent seven of those years as a deacon missionary. He still had the rough feet and sunburned face to prove it. He had spent the last four years as parish priest at the forty-seven-year-old Church of the Holy Cross, which ministered to the neighboring villages of Maun and Moremi. Bradbury missed the church terribly whenever he was away. He missed the calm, he missed his ministry, and most of all, he missed the individual congregants. So many of them had given their time and their energy to make the church an extended family. The priest loved being a daily part of their lives, their thoughts, their faith.
Whenever Father Bradbury was gone, he also missed the tourists. For purely proselytical reasons, Archbishop Patrick had supported the construction of the tourist center adjoining the church. Each week, over four dozen tourists came from Europe, North America, the Middle East, and Asia. They enjoyed great comfort. Porcelain bathtubs, teak floors, mahogany sleigh beds, wicker chairs with thick cushions, and sumptuous native rugs. They ate from bone-handled silveware and copper plates. There were unfinished oak beams all around them. Guests had rich cotton sheets on the beds and elegant damask tablecloths in the dining area. Tourists used the walled compound as a staging area for tours and photo safaris. Many of the visitors were young. Religion did not play a large part in their lives. Archbishop Patrick thought that an inspirational place like the reserve might bring them nearer the creator. For Father Bradbury, the tourists also brought something, something more secular but no less important. Their wide-eyed awe at the countryside reaffirmed his own sense of wonder and pride in the region.
The priest threw off the lightweight top sheet. Even this far from the river, Father Bradbury needed a mosquito net. He was grateful for it. The priest had what his mother used to call "candy-sweet veins." Mosquitoes loved him. In addition to sore feet, he did not miss the mosquitoes, gnats, and parasitic warble flies that were part of his years of carrying the word of God from village to village. There were fleas here, but at least they could not fly. A shower a day with me
dicated soap, and they showed no interest in him.
Father Bradbury rose. He knelt briefly beside the cross that hung above the bed. Then he headed for the tiny washroom built between his room and the deacons' quarters. Along with the tourists, plumbing had come to the compound. It was a welcome addition to the rectory.
After showering in the tiny washroom, Father Bradbury dressed. Then he stepped outside into the warm morning. A small flagstone walk led from the rectory to the small church. Beyond that, only partly visible behind the sanctuary, was the tourist center. The government-licensed enterprise consisted of an office, bungalows, the lobby and dining room, and a parking area. Father Bradbury took a moment to look across the sixfoot-high wall at the rising sun. The wall had been built to keep out animals that strayed from their usual terrain. That usually occurred twice each year during a period of drought or flood. When that happened, wildlife officials always came to take the animals to a safe haven closer to Maun. They did so quickly, since lost herbivores tended to draw predators. And hungry predators drew tourists with cameras.
The sky was shading from deep blue to cerulean. There were no clouds, just the fair, faint crescent moon high on the northern horizon. It was a good morning and a good life.
A few seconds later, both the morning and Father Bradbury's life were changed.
There were a series of loud pops from inside the compound.
At first, the priest thought some of the hanging ceramic flowerpots had dropped from the tile eaves of the tourist center. Then he heard shouting. It was not shattering pots that had disrupted the peaceful morning.
The priest ran around the church. His sandals clopped on the stones of the walk. At the front of the church was a rose garden that he had planted himself. He had put them there so they would have the early morning sun. The church protected them from the late morning on. Father Bradbury reached the courtyard that fronted the tourist center.
The sixty-three-year-old director of the center was already standing outside. Native Maunan Tswana Ndebele was still dressed in his underwear. He was also wearing a look of tempered rage. His bare arms were raised ear high. About ten feet behind him, one of the tour guides and several tourists were grouped together just outside the door of the main office. They were all facing the open gate. Their hands were also lifted. None of them moved.
The priest noticed several bullet holes in the oak door frame. He turned toward the gate.
The gate was made of iron bars that resembled Batawana spears. The door had been swung inside, and over four dozen men were assuming positions along the inside wall of the courtyard. They were dressed in camouflage uniforms with black berets. Each man carried a firearm. They did not wear insignias or chevrons of rank. They were not government soldiers.
"No," Father Bradbury muttered. "Not here."
The group looked like any of the small, organized militias he had read about in his newspapers. During the past decade, they had caused revolutions in Somalia, Nigeria, Ethiopia, the Sudan, and other African nations. But there had been no rebels in this land since the 1960s. There was no need. The government was democratically elected, and people were generally content.
The soldiers were approximately two hundred feet away. The priest walked toward them.
"Father, don't!" Ndebele warned.
The priest ignored him. This was an outrage. The nation was run by a lawfully elected government. And this reserve was holy ground, not just the home of a church but a place of peace.
The militiamen finished filing into the courtyard. They stretched from the parked vehicles on the west side of the entranceway to the satellite dish on the east. One of the men walked forward. He was a tall, lean man with long dreadlocks and a resolute expression. His rifle was slung over his right shoulder. He wore a belt with extra rounds, a hunting knife, and a radio. He was obviously the leader of the unit. Not because of what he carried but because of how he carried himself. His dark eyes glistened even brighter than the sunlit sweat that covered his forehead and cheeks. He walked on the balls of his feet with his knees slightly bent. He did not make a sound as he crossed the coarse dirt of the parking area.
"I am Father Powys Bradbury," the priest said. His voice was soft but firm. The two men continued to approach one another. "Why have armed men come to our compound?"
"To take you with us," the leader replied.
"Me?" Bradbury demanded. The priest stopped just a few feet from the taller man. "Why? What have I done?"
"You are an invader," the man told him. "You and your kind will be driven out."
"My kind?" Father Bradbury said. "I am no invader. I have been living here for eleven years-"
The leader interrupted with a sharp gesture to the men behind him. Three of the soldiers jogged forward. Two of them seized Father Bradbury by his forearms. Tswana Ndebele made a move as if to protest. The motion was met by the distinctive click of a rifle bolt.
Ndebele stopped.
"Everyone stay where you are, and there will be no casualties," the leader declared.
"Do what he says," Father Bradbury shouted. He did not struggle, but he did look toward the leader. "I tell you, you have the wrong man."
The leader did not respond. The two men continued to hold the priest in his place.
"At least tell me where you're taking me," the white-haired clergyman implored.
The third militiaman went behind the priest. He pulled a black hood over Father Bradbury's head. He tied it tightly around the clergyman's throat. Father Bradbury gagged.
"Please don't hurt him!" Ndebele cried.
Father Bradbury wanted to reassure the director that he would be all right, but he could neither turn nor yell. It was all he could do to breathe in the tight, stifling mask.
"You don't have to do this!" the priest gasped. "I'll go peaceably."
Hands pushed roughly against Father Bradbury's shoulder blades. He stumbled forward. Only the men holding his arms kept him from falling. They tugged him up and ahead. The priest went with them.
Father Bradbury said nothing more. It was all he could do to breathe. The heat was terrible, and the darkness was unnerving. He also did not want to show fear to these men.
But Father Powys Bradbury could not hide his fear from God. And it was to God whom he spoke silently as the militiamen led him from the compound. The priest silently recited his morning prayers and then prayed for himself. He did not ask God for salvation but for strength. He also prayed for the safety of the friends he left behind and for the souls of those who had abducted him. Then he prayed for one thing more.
He prayed for the future of the land he had come to love.
Chapter Three
Washington, D. C.
Tuesday, 7:54 AM.
It was a dark, rainy morning and DiMaggio's Joe was not as jammed as usual. That was fine with General Mike Rodgers. He had been able to find a parking spot directly outside the coffee bar. And he spotted a small, clean corner table on the inside. He walked to the back of the room, slapped his damp cap and his copy of the Washington Post on the empty table, then got in line.
The line at the counter moved quickly, and to Rodgers's amazement, the display case actually had what he wanted. He paid for his oversized corn muffin and an ultratall cup of coffee. Then he returned to the table and sat on the stool, facing the back wall. He gazed into the past. He had to remind himself why he had become a soldier in the first place. And this was certainly the place to do it.
The legendary DiMaggio's Joe was located in Georgetown on the corner of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue. The coffee shop had been established in 1966 by a transplanted New Yorker named Bronx Taylor. Taylor was a New York Yankees fan back when the Washington Senators were their rivals and people could still smoke in coffee shops. The widower had retired and moved to Washington to be close to his daughter and son-in-law. He needed something to do, and he decided to be provocative. Taylor succeeded. Fans of the baseball Senators used to come in to yell at Taylor. They were all bluec
ollar workers back then. Janitors from Georgetown University, bus drivers, barbers, and butlers and gardeners from the tony old houses. The men would come in and deride the Yankees over juice, sausage, and watery eggs. And pie.
And coffee. And a smoke or two. And more coffee. Taylor made a fortune at this little place.
When Bronx died four years ago, his daughter Alexandra took over. The diner was gentrified. The woman replaced the catsup-stained white tile walls with wood paneling. Instead of a counter and booths with large, solid Formica tables, there were now wood stools with stands that had wobbly metal lattice tops. And Alexandra no longer served just one kind of coffee. For that matter, she no longer served just coffee. There were flavors and fragrances and blends that ended in an e. Rodgers still ordered plain and black coffee, even though it tasted as if it were brewed with potpourri.
Apart from the name of the place, Alexandra had left one thing more or less intact. Taylor had covered all four walls with framed photographs and faded newspaper front pages. The pictures were of Yankee Stadium and the star players of the 1940s and 1950s. The yellowing headlines in coffeestained frames boasted of winning plays, pennants, and world championships. Alexandra had collected them all on the back wall, and they were the only reason Rodgers still came. The mementos took him back to the summers of his youth.
Rodgers grew up in Hartford, Connecticut, which was closer to Boston than to New York. But he was still a Yankees fan. The Bronx Bombers had flash, confidence, and poise. They were also largely responsible for his becoming a soldier. Mike Rodgers could not hit a baseball worth a damn, as his lifelong friend and former Little League teammate Colonel Brett August often reminded him. Rodgers had the eye, but he did not have the power in his arms. Rodgers sure could shoot, though. He started by building orange-crate pistols. They used tightly stretched rubber bands to fire squares of cardboard with surprising accuracy and force. Then he graduated to Daisy BB guns. The sleek Model 26 Spittin' Image was his first. Then his father bought him a Remington Fieldmaster.22 caliber pump to hunt small game. Rodgers shot the squirrels, birds, and rabbits that fellow students used for dissection in biology class. What he did would not be fashionable today. But in the early 1960s, it earned Rodgers a commendation from the school principal. The teenager's interest in firearms led him to study history. To this day, weapons and history remained his greatest passions.