The Devil's Horn

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The Devil's Horn Page 11

by David L. Robbins


  She concentrated instead on imagining the crisp green of the township hill, the freshness of the houses, new wood and concrete; she saw her gogo up there, free and pleased. Promise walked close behind Wophule, ignoring the flat, brown land. When the boy stopped on the game trail to gaze into the brush, she almost bumped into him.

  Wophule pointed.

  “What’s that?”

  A corridor had been bashed through a hedge of thornbushes and spindly marula. At first it seemed nothing more than the path of galloping or clashing elephants that had knocked aside everything in front of them, a common sight. Upended roots, loose leaves and twigs lay scattered. But a long gash had been cut in the earth, running straight through the hedge. Debris that was not of the bush lay strewn in it. Chunks of gray metal, a wheel.

  Promise took the lead, the boy at her back. Two more black rubber wheels lay still attached to struts that had been snapped off something. Promise pushed through the shreds of the hedge.

  The groove hewn in the dirt ran another fifty meters past the line of scrub. At the end of the rut, in a small clearing, lay the thing that had fallen out of the sky.

  Wophule burst away from Promise, dashing ahead. She ran as swiftly as him.

  Both halted at what seemed a safe distance. Broken wings, a propeller, an intact fuselage, wheels, all said this was an airplane. It had fallen into the Kruger like a shot arrow, with twin tail fins jutting in the air, the crumpled nose cone rammed into a mound of scooped dirt. The thing recalled the way the aardvark had fallen with its snout crammed in the hole it had dug. The plane’s right wing pressed into the ground to hold the whole thing up like an arm; the left one clung only by struts and cables.

  The plane made no hisses or mechanical gasps. No human voice, no moan, came from it. Promise couldn’t tell how long ago it had crashed, but in the surrounding bush, every animal held its breath; no guano stained the wings, no paw prints in the surrounding dirt showed the approach of a curious creature. Her guess was it had crashed within the last few hours.

  Wophule took a step forward. He shrugged away Promise’s reaching hand.

  “This is no plane. It’s a drone.”

  Promise crept behind the boy. On instinct she took her machete in hand.

  Smaller than an airplane, with a wingspan of ten meters, the thing had no windows, was solid gray without insignia. The impact had bent the propeller like wilted petals. A metal ball clung to its sleek belly, and from it a round glass eye gazed darkly at them.

  Under the right wing, the one dug into the ground, a long, rectangular box hung from a sleek metal arm, gray like the rest of the machine. Beneath the ruined left wing, a matching box lay dented in the dirt. Both containers were divided into four sections, like packing cartons. What were they?

  Bold Wophule inched forward to inspect closer. While he moved in, Promise circled more. She tingled at the wreckage of secrets that lay before her. Big secrets, too, for who had drones like this but nations? Whose was it? What had made it crash? Why was it flying over the Kruger? Promise tightened her circle, drawn by curiosity. This was something she and Wophule were not supposed to see. It was exciting and rare, and in Shingwedzi.

  She continued her circuit while Wophule ran a hand over the fuselage. Promise scanned the horizon, wondering who else might have seen it come down. Had the sector EC patrol been near enough? Judging by the furrow in the ground, the drone had flown in from the east, across the Mozambican border. Like all the Kruger’s sectors, Shingwedzi was immense. Perhaps only she and Wophule and some hiding animals knew the thing had plummeted here.

  Promise put away the panga; her fears eased as she grew more inquisitive. She crept past the nose of the drone, knelt to get a good look inside the box, then jumped to her feet.

  “Wophule! Get away!”

  The boy froze beside the fuselage.

  “I said get back. Now!”

  Wophule stumbled while getting clear of the drone. Promise backed away, too, until the boy jogged beside her.

  The two stood at a distance that might not have been enough if the missile inside the box, a rocket launcher, were to go off.

  Wophule and Promise sat on their haunches in the slanting sun, trying to decide what to do. All around them, the bush kept its uneasy silence. Wophule concluded they should do nothing. The drone was definitely military. Whoever lost it would know what had happened. Someone would come looking for it. The rocket appeared undamaged and was nothing to fool with. Best to leave it alone, walk away and let it disappear on its own, like a carcass.

  Promise listened to Wophule’s logic, convinced that he was right. Someone would come. She could only guess at when . . . soon, after dusk. But she had different thoughts about walking away.

  Promise got to her feet.

  “Stay here.”

  The boy straightened his legs to stand in her way.

  “What are you doing?”

  Promise answered only with a palm in his young face, telling him to stay, and stepped around him.

  She moved closer to the drone on tiptoes without reason to believe this was a safer way to advance, only going by her habit with animals. The glass eye under the drone took no note of her. She moved near enough to enter the shadow of the broken wing. Promise ducked under it, sliding her fingers over the metal as if to pet it, soothe it as she approached. The hard skin felt warmed; it had lain in the sun for at least a few hours. The drone let her come, for everything about it seemed dead, except the missile.

  Promise kept her hand on the drone instinctively; should it leap suddenly to life she would know. Inching forward, she ducked under the fuselage to the right side where the missile sat in its square nest.

  She took a knee beside the battered box on the ground, inspected it, and found it empty. She moved to the launcher still attached to the wing, sliding a gentling hand along the fuselage as she moved. Everything about the drone was frightening. Both launchers were two meters long, narrow, and the most lethal things she had ever touched. Promise ran fluttering fingers over the smooth tip of the missile, touching its thick tinted-glass face.

  She backed away, unsure what to do next. The pair of launchers and the drone lacked markings. Did they come from her own South Africa? The drone had crashed only ten kilometers from the Mozambican border, one hundred kilometers south of Zimbabwe, three hundred from Botswana. Whose was it? Where had it been? What hushed job did it do? Plainly, forces far beyond her and Wophule were in play here. The drone and rocket were missing, and somebody’s clock was ticking. How valuable were they? How dangerous? How much time until someone showed up?

  Her gut roiled, and the boy, as if sensing this, spoke out.

  “Leave it.”

  Promise kept her back to him. She pulled out her cell phone.

  “I’m going to call it in.”

  Promise dialed. She walked away from the crash and young, trusting Wophule, so the boy would not hear her calling Juma.

  Chapter 9

  Kingsman 2 leveled out of its sharp bank, flying away from the sun.

  Why were they headed east? Why hadn’t they jumped out behind the GAARV? What about the air show? Doc, Quincy, and Jamie were on the ground with both vehicles, watching LB and Wally zoom off without them. What the hell?

  LB unbuckled his chute container and pack. Dropping the fifty-pound burden put a spring in his step. Wally still stood in his jump gear. One hand steadied him against the fuselage; the other pressed on his radio earpiece.

  Arms spread, LB moved in front of Wally. He couldn’t read Wally’s face behind the opaque sunglasses. He reached up to snatch them away. Wally slapped down LB’s hand, then raised an index finger, the shut up finger, in the air between them.

  The loadmaster had disappeared into the cockpit, probably for a briefing from the air crew. The GAARV was gone. The big, thundering cargo bay held only Wally and LB. LB’s patience boiled quickly, since he appeared to be the only one on the plane who didn’t know what was going on.

  He sat
close, where he could see Wally’s face to read his lips. Wally turned away, peeved; LB resat, if that was how Wally wanted to play it. This time Wally aimed the silent finger dead into LB’s face, very stern. Wally collapsed into a fabric seat, produced a pen and small pad, and started scribbling furious notes. He shot LB a mirrored glance over thinned lips. Something was going down, and Wally wasn’t liking it.

  LB went back to the window seat to watch South Africa slide below, and with it the air show, applause, beers on a patio, and his team all faded. Sunset lay two hours off. Kingsman 2 leaned back, gaining altitude.

  Finally, Wally pulled his finger from his ear and stowed his pen. LB kept his seat. Wally shucked his own chute and pack, then plopped into the seat beside him. Wally doffed his helmet to run a hand through his cropped hair, as if trying to rattle his thoughts into an order that made sense. Wally took off his sunglasses. LB laughed, made a little nervous by this.

  “Okay. Now you’re scaring me.”

  “You won’t believe this.”

  “Sadly, I will.”

  Wally tapped the notepad to indicate he wasn’t making any of this up.

  “That was Torres.”

  “You stayed off your knees, so I figure this is business.”

  “LB, not now.”

  “Check.”

  “About three hours ago, the CIA chief of station at our embassy in Pretoria got a call. He met with his senior defense officer. The SDO called AFRICOM—”

  LB swirled a hand between them.

  “Swear to God, I don’t care who called who. Where are we going?”

  Wally waited LB out, letting him settle down like a curtain in a breeze. Insofar as every man has some genius, this was Wally’s. He did nothing before its time, never reacted in anger or frustration. Wally jumped out of planes this way, shot a rifle and led men this way, on target. That was why proposing to Torres in Djibouti, three thousand miles away, over the radio was so precious, out of character, and perfect for razzing.

  “I’m telling you so you’ll know how far up this has gone.”

  And it’s going to go up further, LB considered, shifting his butt in his seat.

  “Whatever.”

  “The embassy asked AFRICOM what assets were available in South Africa.”

  “Us? We’re on temporary duty, at a fucking air show.”

  “We’re on a plane, we’re in chutes. We’re ninety minutes out. Nobody else close.”

  “I’m not going to like this.”

  “Nope.”

  “Close to what?”

  “The Kruger.”

  The Kruger? The big game park on the Mozambican border. The place was huge, and full of animals. Big, wild animals.

  “We’re jumping into the Kruger. Just you and me.”

  “Correct.”

  “Why?”

  Wally opened his mouth to answer, but LB stopped him with a raised finger of his own.

  “And let me add. Why are we jumping into the Kruger with no provisions, no med rucks, no weapons, and no team? Dying to hear.”

  “The decision was made to go ahead with the show jump. It’ll hold down the attention at us turning around. The guys can handle it.”

  PJs jumped into missions prepared as well as any Spec Ops teams in the world. They were experts at getting in and out of isolated, tough areas: any terrain and weather, any rescue or combat situation, covert or on the record, they had the best training and the right tools. LB patted his pockets for Wally in a show of poverty; for this mission, he had nothing.

  “And the rest of it?”

  Wally eased a palm down; the gesture said, No worries, we got this.

  There lay the opposite of Wally’s genius. His unyielding optimism.

  “A drone’s gone down in the Kruger. Torres says she needs eyes on it.”

  “What? Why are we flying drones over South Africa? We don’t have clearance.”

  For three decades, the United States had treated South Africa as a pariah because of apartheid. The South Africans were working hard to change their society. But they hadn’t dropped all their grudges against America. That was the purpose of hands-across-the-water displays like air shows, to rebuild some bridges—and the reason why the United States could not get caught flying a drone over South Africa without permission. That was no small thing.

  Wally hedged, almost reluctant to give the answer.

  “This is the hard-to-believe part.”

  He clapped his hands and rubbed his palms together. Then Wally opened them like a magician who’d just made something really unlikely appear.

  “It’s not our drone.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “South African. It’s a Denel.”

  “Then why are we going after it?”

  “Like I said. CIA.”

  “Wally, just tell me.”

  “It’s our missile.”

  LB’s jaw slacked. Like a gulping fish, he formed the start of several words, all with a W: why, where, who, what, when. He finished none of them and collapsed back against the trembling wall of the climbing cargo plane.

  Wally referred to his notes and told LB the story of the mission.

  For the past few years, Al Shabaab, an Al Qaeda offshoot based in Somalia, had been looking to expand into southern Africa. The Somalian government, with plenty of international pressure and help, had finally begun to get its act together regarding not just piracy in its waters but Al Qaeda in its mountains. Al Shabaab needed new digs.

  Tanzania, with a Muslim population of 50 percent and its own share of African poverty, was the next promising step along the continent’s east coast. Recently, Al Shabaab had gained a toehold in Tanzania, blowing up a few mosques, gunning down some priests and religious moderates. But an earmark of Al Qaeda was their ability to adapt, and being run out of Somalia wasn’t something they meant to repeat. So, while they were dropping roots in Tanzania, they’d also begun to probe the next domino to the south.

  The ideal candidate was Mozambique, sparsely populated in its hilly, dry wastelands, plenty of room for clandestine training camps near the northern border with Tanzania, where the Muslim population was concentrated. The long Indian Ocean shoreline was impossible to secure. And the next potential domino, just three hundred miles off the coast, Madagascar.

  After watching the debacle in Somalia and the rising violence inside Tanzania, the government in Maputo, Mozambique’s capital, had no intention of letting Al Shabaab metastasize in its country.

  So Maputo did what many poor, disorganized, and distraught nations did when they wanted somebody killed quietly. Once they got reliable word of a high-level Al Shabaab meeting on their turf, they passed it on to the CIA.

  Wally paused while LB tamped all the puzzle pieces into place. LB ventured a few guesses, starting with the obvious.

  “So we sent a drone to do the job.”

  “Yep.”

  “A South African drone.”

  “Yep.”

  “And I assume the bad guys got a knock on the roof.”

  Wally made an explosion sound and spread his fingers to mimic the blast.

  “Okay. Then we’re working with the South Africans on this.”

  “Nope.”

  “Wait. What?”

  LB had hit a dead end faster than he’d expected. How had a US missile gotten on a South African Denel drone without their cooperation? LB slapped both his thighs, then held out one flat palm to Wally, like an usher, motioning for Wally to show him the way.

  Wally, who knew the answer, began to give it, but after a few words burst into laughter instead. He tried to restrain himself to finish his report, but whatever he was about to tell LB was plainly so implausible, so wicked or Machiavellian, that it cracked him up. LB couldn’t share in the laughter, so he crossed his arms and waited.

  Wally wiped a palm across his mouth to plug his mirth. He winced with the effort of keeping himself from guffawing again.

  “Okay. The Kruger’s a wide-open place.
A lot of illegals cross from Mozambique. Security risk. Once in a while the South African military flies drones over the park.”

  “Alright.”

  “Well.”

  Wally bit his quivering lower lip. LB prodded.

  “Yeah. Well?”

  “Do the math. CIA hacked one.”

  LB went rock still while this struck him.

  “No, they didn’t.”

  Wally had only to nod before LB doubled over, leaning almost out of the cloth chair. LB flicked his gaze around the empty cargo bay, as if looking for something to help him digest this plot, to fathom it. He had to gape down at the steel deck because he couldn’t bear to look at Wally, who was chuckling again and trying to wipe it off his face.

  LB coughed, but this turned into a snicker. That reignited Wally; both of them gave in, letting the laughter shake itself out of their systems.

  When they were done, LB spit on the floor as though to clear his palette and start over.

  “You’re shitting me.”

  Wally couldn’t do it. He said only, “No,” then motioned for LB to give him a second. He composed himself, cleared his throat, then repeated, “No.”

  “We can actually do that? Hack someone else’s drone?”

  “Looks like it.”

  Wally filled in the rest of the operation’s odd details. The CIA had determined Al Shabaab’s mud-hut meeting in the Mozambican hills a sufficient threat to American interests and agreed to Maputo’s request to drop in. Once the target intel was confirmed, the challenge for the CIA came in finding assets for the operation. The US Air Force had no air bases in southern Africa and no drones with sufficient range to make the round-trip from the base in Djibouti to Mozambique.

  So they hijacked a South African drone out of the sky, over the Kruger.

  The CIA had sent false avionics to the South African controllers to make it look like the Denel had simply stopped transmitting, not an uncommon phenomenon; around 10 percent of all UAVs in every military went offline at some point during their missions. They usually flickered back to life at some point on their own; some crashed.

 

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