The End Time Saga Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Greene, Daniel

  He nodded at Jackie for another cup of terrible coffee, who hopped to it immediately. She looked a bit bookish, but performed her job adequately.

  Kinnick had been in the Air Force for twenty-one years before he crossed over from Department of Defense to Department of State. He had achieved the rank of Colonel, so he was no novice to conflicts in failing states. He had served in Somalia in the nineties before the shit hit the fan in Mogadishu or, as the soldiers had named it, ‘the Mog.’

  He had switched over to the State Department in 2003, after his country had become embroiled in the affairs of two other conflicts. The differences between the cultures of State and Defense were dynamic, but he had always felt a little more diplomatic than his peers at Defense. It comforted him to know he could open a can of whoop ass on anyone of his staff. He continued to eyeball some of the smartest people he knew. They had the information for him, but he would have to pry it from them piece by piece.

  “What do we know for sure, here? Terrorists have overrun our embassy, and there are an unknown number of American hostages. Do they have the Ambassador?”

  Kinnick turned toward his most senior analyst expecting to be impressed. “We don’t know, sir,” Aaron replied.

  A lot of good that Ivy League education is doing us now. “Has there been any chatter online from anybody claiming the attack?”

  His senior analyst answered again. “No traffic from the usual suspects.”

  At least he knows what we don’t know, which is a hell of a lot. Kinnick massaged his temples. Its going to be another long day.

  After three hours of bouncing around ‘what if’ scenarios, a light appeared in the darkness.

  “Sir?” A civil servant, he thought her name was Tammy, leaned in and handed him a sheet of paper containing a transcript. Her perfume smelled divine as it tickled his nostrils.

  She summarized it for him: “This guy called on the regular line from the embassy. He referred to himself as Colonel Kosoko. At first we thought it was a prank call, but upon further review we think he is credible and part of the rebel group Free Congolese Brigade. It’s a militia from the North Kivu province in the DRC.” What the Hell are they doing so far West?

  Tammy had his full attention. She continued, “So get this… he kept talking about some sort of medicine. We have no idea what he’s talking about, but he also said he was willing to trade hostages for it.”

  Kinnick immediately began to exploit the information in his head. He turned to Michelle, one of his intelligence analysts. “I want a full report on these guys: leadership profile, numbers, where they sleep, what they eat and where they shit. And I need it yesterday,” Kinnick said firmly.

  Michelle nodded, scrambling from her chair to send out feelers to the other intelligence agencies.

  An hour later, Jackie set another piping hot cup of coffee in front of Kinnick. He was getting a little jittery from the caffeine, and his head had started to throb. Maybe some food would help. He snagged a doughnut from the middle of the table. There were only glazed ones left; none of his favorite powdered sugar variety. I guess it would do for now.

  He still knew too little about this Jacobin Kosoko and his Free Congolese Brigade. Apparently, Kosoko was the military chief of a rebel group that had broken away from the government. Nobody knew exactly how many men he had under him, or how large a force held the embassy. He would kill for a subject matter expert, but the one person in his department who would know was out sick.

  “Somebody get Peter on the phone. Tell him he can’t be sick today.”

  “Michelle, keep reaching out to the intelligence community. Somebody has to know something about this guy. You’re doing a great job. Keep it up.”

  She flashed him a pretty, dimpled smile.

  Kinnick sipped his coffee as he reviewed the militia profile. The coffee tasted like ground dirt. The rebels exploited the mineral reserves controlling the region and had been blamed for countless human rights violations. Child soldiers. Systematic rape. Beheadings. He kept skimming the intel report. No obvious al-Qaeda affiliation lurked beneath the surface. The group seemed to be tied to the Hutu-Tutsi conflict, which had affected the DRC as well as neighboring Rwanda and Burundi. Millions of deaths had taken place just over the country’s borders.

  It appeared that these guys were willing to kill at the drop of a hat. He said a short prayer for the embassy staff.

  Kinnick became immersed in his paperwork, and before long he was nodding off.

  Suddenly Jackie grabbed his arm, scaring the hell out of him. “Jesus, Jackie,” he said, giving her a dirty look. “This better be good.”

  “The Secretary is on the line. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Good enough.”

  God, what now? He hurried over and picked up a secure phone in the corner. Jackie followed him still talking.

  “No one has been able to get ahold of Peter. No one is answering the phone at his house.”

  Kinnick covered the mouthpiece. “Keep trying.”

  “This is Kinnick,” he said softly.

  “Hello, Under Secretary Kinnick. This is the Secretary.” Kinnick wanted to yell at him to get to the point. The man always referred to himself as ‘the Secretary’ first. What is the point in having a personal assistant answer the phone for you if people like him were determined to make the same announcement all over again?

  Kinnick humored the man. “It’s good to hear from you, sir.”

  “You know why I’m calling. We’re in a real tough spot. We have limited military resources in the region. The DRC hasn’t been a major priority in this administration or any of the previous ones. In fact, nobody’s really cared much about it since the Belgians left in the fifties. Our rapid deployment forces that cover this area are tied up in other deployments.”

  “I see, sir.” Someone somewhere had to be available to pull out the embassy staff. This guy can’t possibly be telling me that there was no one available to extract his people. I know we have teams in Italy and multiple Marine units in the Horn of Africa. They could drop them in. Shit, it wouldn’t take long to get a ship to the coast of the DRC. A week, max. But they didn’t have a week.

  “We want this to go away quietly. No Benghazi, no publicity.”

  “What are you saying?” Kinnick murmured. He didn’t like where this was going.

  “Apparently, there’s some sort of outbreak, a flu or disease or something, and we have a team of doctors being held hostage as part of the embassy staff. This is coming down from the top.”

  The top top, thought Kinnick. The only higher rung on this ladder is the President himself.

  “We’re going to negotiate with this ‘rebel’ group and give them what they want. So make the calls and get the operation underway. We’ve coordinated with the Counterterrorism Division, and they’ve already deployed a team of CT agents to escort the embassy staff back to the U.S. A couple of CIA officers are headed to the DRC as well. The problem we have, is that neither of these groups knows about the trade. I suggest you contact them and get them to work out the details. I know we are asking a lot of everyone, but people’s lives are at stake. We just don’t have the military assets in the region to assist, so we’re going to play ball with what we’ve got. Do you understand?”

  Kinnick rubbed his brow. “Yes, I do. We’ll move right away.”

  He hung up the phone and rejoined his staff at the table. They were officially up shit creek. How am I supposed to make this trade happen when we don’t have anything to trade? This is a huge risk, but we’re going to have to throw the dice. I have no choice.

  He waved, gaining their attention, hand on hip. “All right, everybody. This guy Jacobin Kosoko wants to make a deal, and the administration wants to move forward with it.” His team eyed each other nervously. “I know. I wasn’t expecting this either.”

  The previous administration probably would have gone in with guns blazing. This administration had shown some constraint. Kinnick’s job wasn’t to question
the decision; it was to make sure it happened. They could not afford another Benghazi. It would destroy the administration and make the American people lose faith in their government, more so than they already had.

  He knew that if this went bad, it would be one of the worst public relations nightmares in American history. And he knew who would be sitting in the hot seat during that congressional hearing.

  “I want to be in touch with this Kosoko fellow, now. Yes, call him back. We need to see what we can offer him. Jackie, get me in touch with the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency and the Director of the Counterterrorism Division. We need to contact their people and get them onboard. Our people are coming home.”

  KOSOKO

  US Embassy Kinshasa, DRC

  Kosoko lounged in the Ambassador’s office inspecting the man’s crystal liquor decanter. Pouring himself a glass of the brown oaky liquid, he stuck a thumb in the spirit and licked it. Not bad, Ambassador. Not bad. His situation was favorable at the moment. The American compound was secure. His men had rounded up all the American diplomats, the best hostages in the world, and his soldiers had swept up the rest of the Marine guards.

  One of those bastards had fragged a dozen of his men in a stairwell, leaving pieces of the maimed and slain everywhere. It was a mess. Kosoko had wanted him taken alive to be made an example out of, but his men had been a bit overzealous riddling his body with bullets.

  He threw his booted feet up onto the Ambassador’s desk and lit up a Cuban cigar. Stupid Americans. If they only knew what they were missing, insisting on an embargo with Cuba. The Cubans truly made the best cigars. The Nicaraguans made good cigars, but nothing beat a Cuban.

  The rich tobacco smoke filled his mouth, and he exhaled a light gray plume. Leaning back in the Ambassador’s luxurious maroon chair, he rubbed the soft leather with the palm of his hand. He closed his eyes.

  The slums of Kinshasa were a distant memory. A blur of uncertainty in his past. Memories that only brought him pain, but reminders of how far he had come. Kosoko had never known his father. According to his mother, he had died soon after Kosoko’s birth. To this day, Kosoko never knew the truth, but it was safe to say that if his father had been alive all this time, he was dead now.

  Most of his childhood, he struggled to get enough food in his belly. At the age of twelve and despite his meager efforts to save her, his mother became ill and died. He had no one to turn to. Begging by day, he turned to thievery by night. It was easy to be overlooked in a city with seven million inhabitants where the average income was less than $1.25 per day.

  He ran with a pack of thugs as he grew older: other orphans, castaways and abused youth. Being the leader required brutal efficiency, and it grew more natural over time. He constantly had to be the meanest, and the most willing to gamble it all in a heartbeat.

  When he turned eighteen, he got caught up in a police shakedown at a local brothel and mouthed off to the wrong officer, who had beaten him within an inch of his life. The police were no more than an armed gang with uniforms; the only difference was they had better weapons. The right side of his face had been broken and healed poorly, leaving him disfigured. He was lucky to be alive. Before he blacked out, he remembered only one thing, the laughing policeman pissing on his battered face, too injured to move out of the way.

  Kosoko opened his eyes, running a hand along his scarred face. He gazed around the Ambassador’s rich brown mahogany desk, admiring the luxury of the finished wood. A picture of the Ambassador with his family drew his eye, and he smiled as he puffed on his cigar. It was the typical American family. He had seen these families in movies. One son, one daughter and a beautiful wife, sitting on a beach somewhere dressed in white. Cute daughter.

  He smiled inwardly as he remembered the day when he finally caught up with the officer who had wronged him. The man who brought shame upon him.

  It had been a moonless night, and bugs buzzed around the single floodlight outside the officer’s home. Kosoko had joined the military and risen to the rank of Colonel. A bribe in the right place could work wonders for a career.

  Kosoko and a squad of soldiers surrounded the police officer’s front door, and Kosoko kicked the door in himself. The officer pissed himself when Kosoko burst into the room with a squad of troopers at his back. To his superiors it was as an ‘antiterrorism’ operation.

  Kosoko knocked the man’s revolver out of his grasp. They quickly corralled the man’s screaming family in the one-room apartment. There was nowhere to hide; nowhere to flee to. The officer huddled his arms around his wife and daughter, holding one another sobbing.

  “Please, please let my family go. There’s money under the floorboard,” the police officer said, desperately gesturing toward the corner of the room.

  “Shhh.” Kosoko pressed a finger to his lips. He crouched down in front of the terrified family, addressing the father.

  “Do you remember me?” His lips curved upward in a cruel smile.

  Twenty years had taken a toll on the older officer turning his hair almost white.

  The aged officer stared up at him through his tears. “I, I, I don’t know. Please…”

  “Think harder.” Kosoko waved his sergeant forward holding a baseball bat.

  “I don’t know. Please let us go.”

  “I always loved American baseball.” Kosoko gave the bat a test swing.

  The man held his wife and daughter close as they wept.

  Kosoko knelt down in front of the officer. “Look closely, old man. I used to live in the East End, and you gave me this as a present.” Using the bat he touched his crushed face. He stood to his feet, slowly wagging his bat back and forth.

  “Baseball is such a beautiful game. So much strategy, and yet an entire game can change with just one swing of the bat.”

  He swung the bat downward onto the man’s knee, exploding his left kneecap with a loud pop. The man screamed, grabbing his destroyed joint.

  “Do you remember me?” Kosoko yelled, using the bat to lift the groveling man’s face.

  The man sobbed openly. “Yes, yes. The Pink Lounge. I’m so sorry. Please. Let my family go,” he cried, holding his ruined knee.

  Kosoko moved to the other side of the police officer. He held his bat close, reading the inscription. “A Clarksville Comet. Everyone must have one of these in America. I’ve never been to this Clarksville, but I imagine it’s an amazing place.”

  The man nodded furiously in agreement. “Yes, of course. Of course it is.”

  Kosoko smiled. “I’m glad you agree, but I don’t think it’s going to help, YOU,” Kosoko shouted as he brought the bat down onto the man’s other knee.

  The room filled with a sickening crunch as the polished wood impacted his knee, completely disabling him.

  “Now.” Kosoko paced forward and backward in front of the man. “You can beg for your life, but will you really want to live after this?”

  Kosoko reached down grabbing the officer’s wife by her thin wrist. The broken man instantly reached out, begging for her return. Kosoko looked her up and down, smelling her fear; the sweat glistening all over her body.

  “She is nice, huh?” His men laughed in the background.

  “You want some fun boys?”

  His men hooted and hollered from behind. Entertained men were loyal men.

  “Take her.” He shoved her into the eager arms of his sergeant, who handed her back to the men. Crouching down next to the officer, he smiled as he watched his men jockeying for position. They laughed and puffed on cigars as they took turns violating her like a piece of trash. They amused Kosoko.

  “She didn’t cry out much, did she? Suppose it doesn’t matter now does it.” The officer sobbed in response.

  Once the last man finished, Kosoko drew out his machete and dragged it across her throat. They left her bleeding out in the corner, gasping for air as her lungs filled with blood.

  Kosoko watched the officer’s face as he held his daughter for the last time. He mu
st know this is coming. The old man cried and whispered, “It will be okay. It will be okay.”

  Kosoko bent down, grabbing the man’s daughter by the hair. He ripped the girl from her father’s arms, shrieking. Kosoko held her in front of him, dangling her like a rag doll.

  “Please. I’ll do anything. Please don’t harm her. Take me. Kill me.” The officer pleaded with his eyes for mercy. “I have money,” he added, mumbling the words.

  “Do you think I came here for your pathetic stash? Your money means nothing to me.” He craved the sweet taste of revenge. He didn’t care about this girl; he cared about the power she held over her father. She was the love of his life. His only living legacy. His child.

  Kosoko pinned the girl down with one hand tearing her clothes off. She lay quiet, while the officer begged for him to spare her; to be allowed to die in her place.

  “No, no, please stop.”

  A short time later, Kosoko finished and zipped up his pants. “Now that I have ruined everything you love, you may die.”

  He granted her father’s request by hacking the man’s head off with his machete. Revenge tasted as sweet as honey to Kosoko.

  His eyes darted over to the secure phone in the Ambassador’s office. It sat plainly on his desk; a thick brick of a phone next to the regular one. The Americans had not reached out to him. All this time had passed and they hadn’t called him back. He felt it odd for them to be so unconcerned with their building and their precious people. The world had been conditioned to believe that an American life was valued so much higher than everyone else’s.

  How many people have I seen die during my lifetime? Fifty? A hundred? A thousand? How many people had died in civil war, tribal conflicts and cleansing since Congo’s independence? Four million, five million, maybe more. How many news stations covered a murder in my city? None.

  That would never happen in America, where every individual was worth so much. Yet he had captured their embassy and no one seemed to care. He had expected more from the ‘Land of Plenty.’ The Americans would have to be more careful or they would end up like the DRC: corrupt, poor and weak; at least for the majority of the Congolese.