by Tom Grace
THE LIBERTY INTRIGUE
Nolan Kilkenny Novels
Spyder Web
Quantum
Dark Ice
Fatal Orbit
The Secret Cardinal
Undeniable
Also by Tom Grace
The Liberty Intrigue
THE LIBERTY INTRIGUE
Copyright © 2012 by The Kilkenny Group, L.L.C.
This edition published by Regnery Publishing in 2017. Originally published in paperback by Dunlop Goddard in 2012 under the title The Liberty Intrigue.
Sample chapter from Undeniable copyright © 2017 by The Kilkenny Group, LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
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eISBN 978-1-62157-689-1
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CONTENTS
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Part Two
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter TWENTY-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Part Three
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Part Four
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred-One
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
About The Author
Author’s Note
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
KIJIJI, SAFO
JANUARY 18
“Today will be a good day.”
Kwame Gyasi Cudjoe, the Most Exalted Excellency and Supreme Leader of the Democratic Republic of Safo, made this pronouncement from an ergonomic recliner wrapped in the leather cut from the hide of an endangered African elephant that he had personally hunted and killed. Cudjoe’s flying throne was bolted to the floor in the salon of the presidential helicopter. A standard Russian-made Mi-26P helicopter could carry sixty-three passengers, but the amenities added for the comfort and protection of the African leader cut that number in half.
Cudjoe’s powerful frame was clad in khaki fatigues and his combat boots gleamed like polished black onyx. No cartoon general, the strongman wore a single star on his battle dress uniform that he earned during a storied military career, one that ended with the coup d’état that won him control of the entire nation. He wore dark sunglasses, despite the shades being drawn over the porthole windows, and slowly swirled a glass of English whiskey in his left hand.
The Safolese dictator traveled light today, his only guest on the flight from the capital being a swarthy Iraqi named Latif.
“I think you will be quite satisfied with the demonstration, Excellency,” Latif said, his eyes on the metal briefcase beside Cudjoe’s throne.
“That is what I am paying you for,” Cudjoe replied. “Satisfaction.”
Officially, Latif was an engineering consultant to the Safolese government, employed for his expertise in mining and mineral extraction. One of Cudjoe’s first official acts after seizing control of the country was to nationalize the mines. After all, maintaining a steady flow of gold and diamonds from the earth was essential to replenishing the nation’s coffers.
Few aside from Cudjoe knew that the engineer’s identity was a fabrication to conceal a fugitive. Prior to the US-led invasion of Iraq, Latif had engineered chemical weapons for Saddam Hu
ssein. For his efforts, he was made the five of diamonds in the US military’s “Most Wanted Iraqi” playing cards. In homage to Latif’s infamous past, Cudjoe’s briefcase contained the Iraqi’s fee in uncut diamonds.
At twenty-two, Tanu Baafi was the youngest member of the eight-man security detail aboard the helicopter. The reedy lieutenant’s decade-long climb through the ranks began when he was conscripted as a boy during the civil war that followed Cudjoe’s coup. One of the few boy soldiers to reach manhood, he had made a profession out of the only skill he possessed.
It was the height of the dry season, and the tall grasses of the vast northern savanna stood sun-bleached and brittle as straw. The flight ended at a large rectangular clearing of scorched earth. Baafi studied the scene outside the porthole window as the helicopter slowed to a hover. Several khaki-colored military trucks lined one side of the clearing, showing at least forty soldiers. Two large, open-sided tents formed a command post with an array of communications and weather gear. A windsock fluttered limply, indicating a mild wind blowing out of the Sahara.
A lone transport stood at the far southern end of the clearing—a Bofors FH77 Archer. It was an articulated, six-wheeled truck consisting of a four-man armored crew cabin in front and a 155mm, self-loading Howitzer turret in the rear. The barrel of the field cannon stood at a high elevation, aimed at an unseen target several miles distant.
The helicopter landed in the center of a large H painted on the ground on the opposite side of the clearing from the Archer. Baafi and half the security detail deplaned first, followed by Cudjoe and Latif, and the remainder of the men.
The general in charge of the field test and several members of his staff snapped to attention as their commander-in-chief approached. Cudjoe parted his security detail and saluted the officers, then turned his attention to the general.
“Report,” Cudjoe commanded.
“Sir, the weather conditions are ideal for the test. The forecast for the next few hours is warm and dry with clear skies and light winds out of the north. There is no sign of the Harmattan.”
Cudjoe nodded, thankful to avoid an encounter with the dry, dusty sandstorms that raged out of the Sahara this time of year. “And the munitions?”
“The gunnery crew reports that the weapon is fully operational and ready for the test. Three 155mm rounds have been loaded with fuses set for an airburst fifty meters above the target.”
“Does that meet your specifications?” Cudjoe asked Latif.
“Yes, Excellency, it does.”
Cudjoe returned his attention to the general. “And the target?”
“We’ve established a wide perimeter around the target area and the troops have been equipped with protective gear for the test.”
“Good,” Cudjoe said. “You may proceed.”
The Safolese leader and his guest were shown to seats beneath an open tent with a clear view of the Archer and an array of large LED screens displaying terrain and weather data. After the flight, Cudjoe preferred to stand, locking his gaze on the long, slender cannon pointed skyward.
The Archer shuddered as the Howitzer roared and the first shell flew into the air. The turret adjusted slightly for the second round, then the third. In a mere thirteen seconds, three volleys arced across the savanna.
The woman did not hear the Archer’s thunder as she sat weaving a basket, but noticed that the many birds that populated the massive acacia tree had suddenly grown silent. She then heard a faint whistling growing louder like an angry kettle on the fire.
There was an explosion overhead, followed by a puff of smoke that appeared above the treetop. The birds scattered as tiny metal fragments rattled through the branches. After two more explosions marked the sky, the three smoky clouds formed a triangle over the small village. Some of the woman’s neighbors looked up from their chores while others ran for shelter.
As she watched the wisps of smoke, the woman detected the aroma of bitter almonds. Several birds fell from the sky and landed nearby, their bodies racked by death spasms. The woman pressed the fabric of her boubou tight against her mouth and nose, praying for the nightmarish scene to end. Her breathing came in panicked bursts and her heart raced inside her chest. Dizzy and nauseated, the woman collapsed against the trunk of the tree.
Cudjoe watched the airbursts over the village on the monitors. Remote cameras fitted with telephoto lenses captured the scene, including the deaths of many birds as they attempted to flee the upper limbs of a large acacia tree.
“Baafi!” Cudjoe called out.
Baafi approached and snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.”
“You are a good observer. You will be my eyes,” Cudjoe said. “The general is sending a squad of men to inspect the village. Go with them and report back to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
Baafi collected a radio headset and joined the rest of the survey team as they boarded a truck for the test site. Kijiji was only a few kilometers downwind from the Archer, so the heavy truck closed the distance on the rutted path quickly.
One kilometer north of the village, the truck stopped so the occupants could don chemical suits. Baafi felt his body temperature rising inside the suit as he secured the seals around his wrists and cinched a web belt with a holstered pistol around his waist. He took a few slow, deep breaths to suppress a growing sensation of claustrophobia.
The truck stopped just north of the village and the survey team covered the remaining distance on foot. The village was a typical collection of cylindrical buildings with conical thatched roofs joined by low walls to form a compound. In a noticeable break from tradition, no one came out to meet them.
Baafi heard nothing but the rustling of the multilayered chemical suit and his own breathing. The wind barely fluttered the leaves of a large acacia tree. All else was still and silent.
He followed the team into a large building that served as the entry into the compound. Inside, they found an elderly man, likely the village chief, lying on the ground. His eyes were rolled back such that only white was visible. Foamy spittle ran from his mouth.
More bodies lay inside the compound—adults and children and the livestock either dead or dying. The poison unleashed by the Iraqi engineer spared no one, not even the flies that feast on the newly dead. Baafi had seen death before and had killed many on orders, but the murder of this village felt evil.
The temperature inside Baafi’s suit was climbing. With sweat beading across his forehead and soaking his uniform, he steadied himself against a doorway to counteract his growing light-headedness. As his vision cleared, he noticed the traditional mural painted around the opening. Though common to this region of Africa, the intricate geometries on this doorway seemed impossibly familiar. His eyes swept back and forth across the design and he knew that he’d seen this pattern before.
One of the few memories Baafi retained from his abbreviated childhood was of his mother decorating the doorways of his village. He was perhaps five and his mother had taken a break from painting to get a drink of water. Imitating her, he had stuck his hand in a bowl of ocher paint and made a full handprint on the wall. His mother reprimanded him, but incorporated the mark he’d made into her design. The hidden handprint was their secret and only they could see it. Near the bottom of the right jamb, Baafi found his mark.
Baafi fled the courtyard, fearing that his suit had failed and that whatever had killed these people was beginning to affect him. He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping and overheated. Gradually, his heart rate returned to normal and he realized he wasn’t dying. He then heard footsteps approaching from the village.
“You okay, man?” the squad medic asked, looking through Baafi’s face shield.
“Yes, just getting hot.”
“I’ll be glad to get out of this suit, too, but not until we’re clear of the area and hosed down. Understand?”
Baafi nodded. The medic patted him on the shoulder and returned to his work collecting blood samples from the victims. Baafi had seen enou
gh of the village and would remain outside its walls. He spotted the acacia tree and felt that eerie sense of déjà vu again.
As a boy, he and his friends had climbed in a tree like this one. To see such a great living thing amid so much death seemed comforting. He found himself drawn toward it. Baafi was only a short distance away when he spotted the woman seated at the base of the tree. A partially woven basket having tumbled from her lap, she lay back against the trunk with both hands holding the cloth of her dress against her mouth and nose.
Baafi squatted in front of the woman and saw that she was not breathing. Gently, he lowered her hands into her lap and pulled the printed cloth of her boubou away from her face. Though the years and grief over the loss of a son had left their mark, he instantly recognized his mother’s face. And the lies of his mother’s death and the razing of his village by Dutannuru rebels were laid bare.
CHAPTER TWO
UMOJA RIVER HYDROELECTRIC PLANT, DUTANNURU
Victory or Death
The letters flowed from the fat tip of a black marker, the indelible ink bleeding into the camouflage fabric stretched taut over the combat helmet. Ross Egan peered over the shoulder of the young man who carefully rendered the block letters onto the brow of the helmet on his lap. So intent was the soldier on his task that he failed to notice his audience.
“‘These are the times that try men’s souls,’” Egan quoted.
Upon hearing the unique sound of English spoken with a flat mid-American accent, the soldier bolted to his feet and in a fluid motion donned his helmet and snapped a crisp salute.
“At ease, Sergeant,” Egan said reassuringly. “I’m a civilian.”
“Orders, sir. You are bwana—master of the power plant.”
“I’m just the guy who keeps the lights on, but if it will make you feel better,” Egan stiffened his stance to offer his best approximation of a salute. “Now, at ease.”
The soldier set his feet shoulder width apart but remained ramrod straight.
“May I see your helmet?” Egan asked.
“Yes, sir.”
With both hands, the soldier removed his helmet and placed it in Egan’s hands. The engineer read the brave words in the waning daylight and pondered their meaning.
“‘Remember the Alamo,’ sir.”