“Katherine, before the slave traders attacked and took you away, did you hear the rebels talking? Were you able to listen?”
“They didn’t say a great deal. Mr. Belasko. They were not very nice people.”
“I understand.”
“When the slave traders attacked, I heard one of the rebels say something about Colonel Chakra.”
Bolan glanced at her. “Do you remember?”
The girl nodded. “He said Colonel Chakra wouldn’t be happy if we were taken by the slave traders. Losing his bargaining chips would hurt him badly. What is a bargaining chip, Mr. Belasko?”
“Something Colonel Chakra might soon choke on, Katherine.”
“Oh,” the girl said, not understanding.
“Katherine, one other thing. I don’t want to upset you but…”
“Is it about Chembi?”
“The boy I found on the way in?”
Katherine nodded. She looked at Bolan with tears in her eyes. “It was so terrible. He wasn’t strong. He found it hard to keep up but those men wouldn’t listen. When he kept falling down they whipped him. Then one time he fell down and didn’t get up even when they shouted at him and hit him. Mr. Belasko, why are people so cruel?”
Bolan had no answer to that question. All he could do was reach out and put an arm around Katherine’s slim shoulders, holding her as she wept.
The downpour stayed with them. It made the going slow, possibly harder due to the extra weight the Hummer was carrying. Bolan drove steadily, aware of his responsibility to his passengers, and also his commitment to returning Joseph Karima’s children safely home to their father. It wasn’t something Bolan carried lightly. Nor did he allow it to deter him from the path he had chosen.
An hour after they had set off Katherine Karima tugged at Bolan’s sleeve. “There’s a man out there,” she said, and her matter-of-fact tone warned him she wasn’t fantasizing.
Bolan eased the Hummer to a stop, peering through the side window in the direction the girl was indicating. Initially he thought he was seeing things, then the tall figure moved, emerging from the mist and placing himself directly in front of the vehicle. There was something familiar about the man. Bolan climbed out of the Hummer, his Uzi held loosely at his side. He used his sleeve to wipe the rain from his eyes. After taking a closer look he relaxed.
The tall figure of Jomo’s Tempai friend, Ashansii, moved to meet him. The African raised his hand in greeting.
“Belasko.”
“Ashansii.”
The rain glistened on Ashansii’s black features as he looked over Bolan’s shoulder at the Hummer and the anxious faces pressed to the windows. He frowned, not understanding.
“Wait,” Bolan said, holding up both hands. He glanced over his shoulder. “Katherine. I need you.”
She came running from the Hummer to stand at Bolan’s side, staring up at the tall Ashansii.
“Can you talk with him? Understand him, I mean?”
Katherine spoke to Ashansii. He nodded and replied to her question.
“Yes,” she said. “What do you want me to ask him?”
“How did he get here?”
Ashansii listened to Katherine, then raised an arm and gesticulated excitedly.
“His people were moving their cattle toward the river. Looking for a place to rest them where there was water because the hot weather has dried up water holes.”
“Tell him that our good friend and warrior, Jomo, is dead. He was killed by the rebels.”
Katherine translated. The expression on Ashansii’s face was genuine. He looked at Bolan and spoke.
“He says Jomo was a true Tempai. He asks if you need help.”
Through Katherine, Bolan explained his situation and his need to have the girls moved somewhere safe. Ashansii offered the sanctuary of his band. They would take the girls to a place he knew. Somewhere that only the nomadic Tempai had knowledge of.
“They will be safe with me,” Ashansii said. “Are you going to avenge Jomo?”
“Yes. And bring this girl’s brother to safety.”
Bolan returned to the Hummer and picked up Jomo’s carbine. He also brought some extra magazines. “Do you know how to use this weapon?”
Ashansii nodded. “Just because I carry a spear does not mean I am not familiar with these guns.”
Bolan handed over the weapon. “Jomo would have been happy to know his gun is in the hands of his friend.”
Ashansii hesitated before he asked, “Did he die a warrior’s death?”
“His enemies fell before him. Ashansii, I owe my life to Jomo.”
“When you have killed Jomo’s enemies, come back to this place and I will look out for you. Now bring the children.”
Bolan took out one of the transceivers he had taken from the dead slavers. He showed it to Katherine. “I’m sure you know how to use this,” he said.
She looked the transceiver over, nodding.
Bolan set the frequency to match the one he was keeping.
“When I can I’ll contact you to let you know everything is okay. We can use these to find each other. Don’t use it until tomorrow. Only turn it on for a short time or you’ll drain the power pack. Bring the girls now.”
When Ashansii saw the marks of the shackles on the girls’ wrists he asked, “They were taken by slave traders?”
“Yes. There are others being taken to the coast. They will be placed on a ship and taken away.”
Ashansii spat on the ground. “Kill them. Let them see we don’t want them in our country.”
Katherine looked up at Bolan.
“Can’t I come with you, Mr. Belasko?”
“I need to move fast to catch them. They won’t stand by when I try to bring the captives and your brother back. It’s not a place you need to be. Go with Ashansii. His people will look after you until this is over.”
Bolan watched the group vanish in the gloom. He returned to the Hummer and moved off. With the girls gone he was able to concentrate fully on what lay ahead. There were no distractions. Nothing to draw his attention from the job at hand.
YUSEF AND HANNI TOOK their time inspecting the dead slavers. They picked up the tracks Bolan and the girls had left on their way to the parked Hummer.
“An hour,” Yusef said.
“More,” Hanni disagreed. “Two hours.”
Yusef activated the transceiver and contacted Sergeant Masson.
“The American found some of the slavers. They had stopped with a number of the captives. Waiting for someone perhaps. Belasko killed the four slavers and took the captives away in the Hummer. Maybe two hours ago.”
“Keep after him. He may have Karima’s children with him now. If you locate him don’t do anything that might put the children in danger. We need them alive.”
“We understand.”
Yusef switched off the transceiver and clipped it to his belt. He tapped Hanni on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
15
Simon Chakra twisted in his copilot’s seat and spoke to the radio operator of the SA-330 Puma helicopter, ordering him to make contact with Sergeant Masson and inform him they were on their way. Masson’s earlier contact, alerting Chakra that Belasko had already clashed with some of the slave traders and the signs were that he had freed a number of the captives, hadn’t gone down well. Chakra’s response, though expected, had been unsettling. Masson was left in no doubt that the military commander held him personally responsible.
The base helicopter had returned by this time. Chakra had ordered it refueled immediately. He had assembled his pilot and radio operator and the Puma had been back in the air within the hour.
His mind was alive with a multitude of thoughts. He knew he needed to calm down and not allow himself to become too wrapped up in the negative side of the problem. He needed to revise his plans, to deal with the current situation, resolve it and then bring everything back on track. Control was the watchword. He had to take control.
Hector Campos was
seated at the rear of the Puma, calmly watching events unfold. The Cuban had the ability to draw himself away from whatever confusion was created and analyze the situation carefully before he made a decision. When he did make his choice nothing seemed to be left to chance. Simon Chakra admitted his main fault was his lack of control sometimes. It was handy when it came to bawling out one of his men for making a mistake, but it hardly served himself when he had his own problems and felt he was losing command. Until his resolve to initiate the rebellion against Joseph Karima, Chakra’s main problems had been those involved in combat and logistics. He had a fine chain of command under him and it was easy to pass along responsibility to his subordinates. Times were different now. His covert activities included consorting with the main rebel force, negotiating help from the Cubans and dealing with the myriad matters that came out of all that.
The Cubans had been only too pleased to help. Africa was one of their main concerns, and fomenting unrest was something they reveled in. Hector Campos had been a strong ally the moment he became Chakra’s advisor. There had been the secret trips to Cuba, then the cash that had been offered to Chakra as a sweetener, ensuring that even if the rebellion didn’t go as well as planned, he would always have something to fall back on. He accepted the money, well aware that it was there to buy his loyalty; he had to smile when he thought about the cash, safe in his deposit account in the Cayman Islands. The Cubans might still be strong on the Marxist philosophy, but they had no embarrassment when it came to handing over what was nothing more than a good old-fashioned bribe. Cuba would have been quick to take account of the vast copper deposits Tempala held. Something they wouldn’t be averse to having a share of if Chakra’s coup succeeded.
Behind Chakra the radio operator said, “Colonel, sir, I have Sergeant Masson for you.”
Chakra took the microphone that was handed to him. He indicated to the operator that he wanted the exchange to be played over the speaker.
“Well, Sergeant? I hope this is better news than last time.”
“I had a call from the trackers about twenty minutes ago, Colonel. They’re finding it difficult to follow Belasko’s tracks because of the storm. Too much water. It’s simply washing away tracks before anyone can spot them.”
“Is that the best excuse you can come up with, Sergeant?”
“With respect, Colonel, it is not an excuse. This rain is coming down so hard it’s almost impossible to see more than twenty feet.”
“Have you forgotten, Sergeant, that I am flying through the storm myself? Don’t use the weather as a way of concealing your incompetence.”
“Listen to me, Colonel, you may well be my commanding officer, and I will follow you to the last man, but do not accuse me of incompetence. Court martial me if you want. Right now I don’t give a damn because I’m nearly up to my armpits in water and we can’t track Belasko in this weather.”
“I won’t be spoken to this way, Masson.”
“Then get yourself down on the ground, Colonel, and show me how to find Belasko in this storm. If you do I’ll charge myself with insubordination. If not then the hell with it.”
There was a click as Masson ended the transmission, leaving Chakra staring out through the rain-lashed screen of the helicopter, keeping his mouth closed because he had no idea what to say. There was a hush within the cabin. No one spoke for a while. Chakra handed the headset back to the radio operator, then turned to the front again. The operator quietly clicked off the speaker in case there were any more heated exchanges.
Chakra heard someone moving, then sensed someone standing behind his seat. He caught a whiff of the spicy aftershave Campos wore.
“He’s probably right, Simon,” Campos said quietly. “Take a look at that rain. Give the man his due. And if he dares speak to you the way he did I’d say he’s too good to lock up.”
Chakra cleared his throat. “The truth is, Hector, you’re right. But I’ll make him smart for talking to me like that in front of my men.”
“He probably didn’t realize you had the speaker on. Masson was talking to you man to man.”
“My God, Hector, you should become a politician.”
“Let’s face it, Simon, Castro can’t live forever.”
“Colonel,” the pilot interrupted. “It’s going to be dark in an hour. If this weather holds we could have problems if we don’t land soon.”
“Find a good spot and take us down. We can sleep in here and start out again at dawn. Belasko will be under the same conditions so he won’t be going too far tonight.”
THE STORM WAS SHOWING no signs of abating. The rain was sweeping in from the coast, a strong wind bringing the full power of the downpour. Twice Bolan had struggled to keep the Hummer moving. He realized he was putting himself at risk if he tried to keep going in these conditions. The same would apply to whoever might be on his trail. It looked as if the severe weather would curtail all movement through the night. The slave traders, despite their direct line for the coast, would have to make a temporary camp for the night and start off again at first light. Bolan hoped the storm would blow itself out by dawn.
He found a place where he could park just inside a wide spread of bush. The section he chose was on a rise, which would keep him comparatively safe from flooding. Bolan backed the vehicle into the bush and cut the motor. The thick growth reached almost level with the Hummer’s low roofline.
Bolan checked all his weapons before he settled down, the Uzi across his lap, and scanned the rain-washed terrain around him. From where he was he could see the sheets of rain bowling in across the landscape. The raw power of the rain, sluicing down out of the lowering gray sky, came crashing down on the land. He saw brush bending under the weight of the water. Trees were curving, their branches sagging until, in some cases, they snapped off under the pressure.
He dozed fitfully, his senses still active, ready to snap him back to full alert at any sign of danger. It was a way of recharging his batteries without letting himself become open to attack. The threat from the opposition was bound to come sooner or later. Bolan had no illusions on that score. Staying ahead of them wouldn’t last forever. The odds were against his being able to avoid them indefinitely. When it did happen he wanted to be ready, and part of being ready was the ability to be at full strength both mentally and physically.
The rain maintained its presence through the long hours, only starting to ease off in the pre-dawn. The downpour continued, but it lost a degree of intensity.
In the half light Bolan found himself looking at the radio transmitter built into the Hummer. He hadn’t done anything with the set since driving away from the base. Wary of having any communications picked up by the opposition, Bolan had voted to leave the radio switched off. His time had been occupied with making contact with the slave traders, so the radio hadn’t been uppermost in his mind. Now, with time slipping away and pursuit close behind, Bolan debated whether to risk giving away his location by making a transmission.
Bolan reached out and powered up the radio. He set it to receive only and worked his way through the dial, listening to the mix of voices coming through. He couldn’t risk contacting anyone in Tempala. The situation was too fragile for that. No matter whom he got through to, Bolan had no guarantees if the person was genuine or if he might be working for the Chakra/terrorist alliance. He needed to contact a party isolated from Tempala and its covert operations.
Bolan sat upright as he heard an American accent. He listened for a while to convince himself he was hearing correctly. Picking up the handset Bolan locked in the setting and flipped the switch to transmit.
AARON KURTZMAN acknowledged the incoming message and saved it. He picked up the telephone and put a call through to Hal Brognola.
“Hal, you’d better get over here pretty quickly. We just received a message from Striker, via the U.S. Navy. He needs some backup and you need to call the President.”
“This needs to be one to one, sir,” Brognola explained to the Man when he called
a few minutes later. “The situation in Tempala is on the edge. We don’t know who we can trust. You can get directly through to Joseph Karima. Pass along the information Striker has given us. At least it gives Karima a chance to pick his people and decide what to do.”
“I’ll do it now,” the President said. “When can you get here?”
“I’m leaving immediately, sir. And bringing all the data with me,” he stated before hanging up. Turning to Barbara Price “Give Jack a call,” he said. “Have him fire up a chopper. We’re leaving for Washington.”
JOSEPH KARIMA STARED at the rain sluicing down the window of his office. He was experiencing a strange mix of emotions. The main one concerned the news about his daughter. He found he couldn’t decide whether to be overjoyed at the rescue of one of his children or worried that he still didn’t have both of them back.
The revelation that Simon Chakra was one of the key players in the rebel movement, and had also been party to the kidnapping of his children, had shocked Karima. In his own words he hadn’t known whom to trust. Now reality was proving how correct he had been. Even so the revelation hurt. Over the years he had maintained his confidence in Chakra. Outwardly the man had done a superb job, bringing Tempala’s small military presence up to the mark. How long had he been working behind the scenes building his own force of loyal supporters alongside the rebel faction?
Karima didn’t dwell on the past mistakes. He needed to be strong now, the leader his people looked to. It was time for him to take control and assert himself. It might be bloody, and there was no guarantee he would survive. Whatever the outcome, Joseph Karima would not be found wanting.
Leaning forward he picked up his cell phone and called one of the speed-dial numbers. It was answered instantly.
“Raymond, I’m in my office. Can you get over here straight away? Thank you.”
When Nkoya arrived twenty minutes later, wet from running through the rain from his car, Karima was ready for him.
“Joseph? What is it?” the vice-president asked.
Karima embraced his old friend. “First I owe you an apology.”
Shadow Search Page 12