She carried the device on her back through the camp, to the tent where General Velle had established his command. Okoa was there, seated at a folding table, not bound but under constant supervision from two of her men and a handful of Velle’s soldiers. Favreau ignored the general—the man who would be president—and went instead to the man who, legally speaking at least, had the actual job.
“Mr. Okoa. Your country stands on the brink of civil war. Your leader, President Mulamba, has not returned, and there are rumors that he might be dead.” She had heard no such rumors, and had not heard from the team dispatched to intercept Mulamba in Belgium, but reasoned that if Mulamba were alive, she would have heard about it. “This is a crisis,” she went on, “and demands swift decisive action. You must sign an executive order, granting General Velle special emergency powers to restore order, until a new government can be created.”
Okoa slowly raised his head. He wore an expression of incredulity. “General Velle is the crisis.”
“Let us put aside pretenses. How we came to be here is irrelevant. What matters is how it ends.”
“Why do you need me to sign a piece of paper giving you what you have already taken?”
“For the sake of your people, Mr. Okoa. A formal decree is necessary for reconciliation to begin. General Velle has practical authority, but you must give him legitimate authority to restore the peace.”
Okoa stared at her for a moment through narrowed eyes. His blunt face seemed to tremble with barely restrained anger. He turned to Velle. “It will take more than a piece of paper to make your government legitimate.”
“Not in the eyes of the world,” said Favreau. “The African Union and the United Nations will recognize such a decree as legally binding. They will honor General Velle’s request for monetary assistance and peace-keeping troops, and of course, facilitate the development of the natural gas reserves, for the good of all.”
“Ah, so now we come to the heart of the matter.” Okoa kept his gaze fixed on Velle. “You don’t care what our people want. You desire only to please your foreign masters.” He filled the last words with such contempt that Velle’s face darkened, as if he had just been slapped.
Favreau smiled patiently to hide her annoyance. This was taking much longer than it should have. “Mr. Okoa, all of this posturing is irrelevant. You see this device that I am carrying? You know what it is, do you not? A one kiloton tactical nuclear device. If General Velle’s government is not formally recognized, here and abroad, then I will use this device to blow up the Kivu natural gas deposits. Tonight.”
Okoa’s gaped at her. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Isn’t it obvious? To win, of course.”
“But you would be destroying the very thing you are trying to possess.”
“The fear of losing something is a weakness. The nations of the West fear losing control of the natural resources of Africa more than they fear having to support the government of a military strongman. You, Mr. President, fear the pain and suffering that will come to your people, even more than you fear losing your own life. To protect them, I think you will sign this paper.”
Okoa’s eyes began moving rapidly, as if searching for some alternative to the awful choice Favreau had set before him. Then, he sagged in defeat. “I will sign. General Velle, you have a formidable ally. I wonder, does she also control you by threatening the thing you most fear to lose?”
Velle’s nostrils flared, but he did not reply. Instead, he slid a folder across the tabletop toward Okoa. Inside, on a sheet of paper, emblazoned with the presidential seal depicting an ivory tusk, a spear and the head of a leopard, was the executive order that would turn the Democratic Republic of the Congo into a dictatorship.
Favreau did not wait to see him sign the paper. This small victory had been relatively easy. Okoa had been able to look her in the eyes and see what she was willing to do. Marrs and the American government might not be so easily swayed.
She turned and left the tent, heading for the lakeshore.
50
Near Lake Kivu, Democratic Republic of the Congo
Ten figures swam silently through the dark waters of Lake Kivu, stealthily approaching the military camp.
The water felt cool, refreshingly so for Queen, who was still wearing a drysuit. During the long hike through the jungle, the insulated neoprene dive garment had felt a little like wearing a sauna, but with no changes of clothing available, their choice was either that, or as Rook had suggested, fighting naked. It was a tempting thought. The drysuit really was stifling, but the dark color helped her blend with the jungle shadows.
The nearby shore was lit by dim campfires, but in the display of her glasses, she could easily distinguish the Type 63 armored infantry vehicles that formed a semi-circle around the enemy position. The tracked vehicles looked like baby battle tanks, but were designed primarily to shuttle ground forces and provide fire support, courtesy of a 12.7 mm turret-mounted machine gun. Presently, the vehicles were sitting idle, their crews sprawled out on the flat exterior surfaces. Some tents had been erected inside the protective circle and a few soldiers roamed the encampment, but aside from token patrols, there was no security. In the center of the camp, unguarded, sat the Mil Mi-8.
While still thirty yards from shore, the group split into two. King would be leading Rook and four of the guardsmen in search of the bomb and President Okoa. Queen, Bishop and the remaining guardsmen had a different goal.
Knight was somewhere outside the camp, providing over-watch with his sniper rifle. Like the chess piece that was his namesake, he moved and fought indirectly, unconventionally and often decisively. That was what he did best. Or at least it had been. While the rest of the team were nearing the limits of physical and mental endurance, Knight had gone somewhere into the dark territory beyond those limits. His wasn’t just a wound to the flesh. Some soldiers lost the will to live after an injury like his. Queen had no doubt that he could hold it together long enough to finish this mission, but she didn’t allow herself to think about what would happen after that.
She scanned the shore, verifying that there were no enemy troops present, then motioned for the others to follow her in. They low crawled out of the water and crept forward to the edge of the camp. “We’re set,” she whispered.
“Roger,” came King’s voice. “Standby.”
She glanced up the shore and saw the blue icon that marked King moving into position. Stealth was critical. If everything went as planned, they would get in and do what needed to be done without alerting the enemy. That was, of course, the optimal outcome. If they were discovered and the incursion turned into a pitched battle, the parameters for success were a lot looser. They included the intentional detonation of the RA-115 device, which would kill all of them, but neutralize the greater threat to the innocent civilians living along the shores of Lake Kivu.
Several new yellow icons began appearing in Queen’s virtual display. From their two respective locations, King and Queen could now keep track of most of the enemy soldiers as they moved around the camp.
“Set,” King said, after a few seconds. “Let’s do this.”
Queen kept one hand on Asya’s silenced Uzi, which King had given her, and held her other up in a pre-arranged ‘get ready’ signal. The weapon was now synchronized to her glasses, and she used it to sight in on the Congolese soldier wandering past the helicopter. She fired and a few seconds later, he was gone. Her hand came down and she, Bishop and the two guardsmen picked up and hastened forward. They stopped beside a tent, waited a few seconds, then made the final push to the helicopter.
The Mil Mi-8 looked to Queen like an ordinary military chopper—a Huey or a Blackhawk—that had gotten the stretch limo treatment. Behind the typical bubble window cockpit, the cabin morphed into a long fuselage with a series of round porthole windows. The main rotor, jet turbine intakes and tail rotor boom all sat perched atop the main cabin.
Queen and the others ducked down below the righ
t-side landing gear pod and waited again. To get inside, they would need to reach the sliding door on the left side of the aircraft, which was much more exposed.
She crept to the rear of the craft and ducked under the tail assembly. There were just a few yellow icons moving here and there, but no enemy forces in the immediate vicinity. Now or never, she told herself, and stepped out into the open. She moved smoothly down the right side of the cabin and then swung herself up and into the interior.
There were two men inside, big, muscular Caucasians. The facial recognition software identified them as former soldiers and probable ESI mercenaries about a nanosecond before Queen put one silenced round in each man’s eye. She kept moving, sweeping through the cabin like an avenging angel. Maybe in a way, that was exactly what she was, exacting retribution for Joseph Mulamba’s death at the hands of men who belonged to the same murderous organization that had taken his life.
There was no one else in the helicopter.
Bishop came in a moment later, followed by the two guardsmen. The latter trained their Kalashnikovs on the open doorway. Bishop took a moment to check the bodies to make sure that they were as dead as they looked, then headed forward to the cockpit where Queen was waiting. He settled himself into the flight chair.
Everyone in the team had received some aircraft training, but Bishop was the only one of their number with actual time in the seat of a helicopter. Queen watched him study the controls. “You can fly this thing, right?”
His expression was typically unreadable but after looking around for a few seconds, he said, “I need your glasses.”
The request caught Queen off guard, but made perfect sense. Bishop was going to fly an unfamiliar aircraft, in enemy territory, in the dark. He should be the one with both night-vision and high-tech instantaneous computer access. But she had gotten used to the idea of having the glasses on, of being in constant contact with someone who could answer any question, of being able to see what no one else could see. She and Rook never would have survived the journey through the subterranean realm of the Ancients without them.
But I don’t want to give them up, she thought, and thinking that made her realize just how dependent she had become on the glasses. She nearly snarled at the small sign of weakness. She stripped the glasses off and handed them over, along with her synchronized q-phone. “I hope you’ll take better care of them than you did your last pair.”
As she moved back into the cabin to join the guardsman, she heard Bishop say, “We have the helo. Standing by.”
51
King scanned the open ground that separated him from the command tent. He had identified it as such during his initial survey of the camp, but he had no way of knowing if Favreau and General Velle were inside. If they were not, his plan for a stealthy surgical victory was finished. There would be no alternative but to fight.
He watched the tent for a full minute but no one came or went. When Bishop’s voice sounded in his head, reporting that the helicopter was secure, he knew he could wait no longer.
“Let’s go,” he told Rook.
They moved smoothly from the shadows and strode toward the tent. The guardsmen had removed their berets, and in the darkness, he hoped that anyone who happened to be looking in their direction would assume that they were just four more soldiers carrying out camp business. He and Rook could not blend in quite so easily, but they would be exposed for only a few seconds, and once they reached the command tent, it wouldn’t matter anymore.
One of the guardsmen stepped forward and drew back the flap of the tent, allowing King to move inside. As he crossed the threshold, several targets appeared in his virtual display. He brought the Uzi up and trained it on a figure tagged with red. It was General Velle.
It took a moment for the people in the tent to realize what was happening—more than enough time for Rook and the others to move inside. King kept his gun trained on Velle, but behind his glasses, his eyes were scanning the other targets. He identified two of the ESI mercenaries, both marked with red, and Gerard Okoa as well, but there was no sign of Favreau.
Damn it.
Comprehension dawned on Velle’s face, quickly transforming into anger, but before he could open his mouth, King moved forward, thrusting the business end of his Uzi into the general’s chest. “Tell your men to stand down.” King glimpsed movement off to his right, one of the mercenaries going for his weapon. King moved quickly, slipping around Velle’s bulk, putting the general between himself and everyone else.
The implied threat wasn’t enough to stop what happened next. The mercenary got his gun up, and then the tent erupted in violence, noise and smoke.
The mercenary was blasted off his feet by a burst from Rook’s Kalashnikov. The mortally wounded man’s finger had been in the trigger well of his MP5. A second thunderous report sounded and ragged holes appeared in the overhead canopy.
The guardsmen opened fire, gunning down the officers who had been standing to either side of Velle. The other mercenary ducked behind the table, seeking cover, and got off a shot that vaporized an unlucky guardsman, but Rook brought his rifle around and unloaded it in a sustained trigger pull. His bullets tore through the tabletop and stitched up the mercenary’s chest, dropping him before he could fire again.
The fight was over as quickly as it had begun, but King knew that the plan for a stealthy exit was now as dead as the men strewn about the tent. Over the ringing in his ears, he could hear shouts from outside.
Velle had jerked in surprise when the firing started, but the hard steel muzzle pressed to the base of his neck kept him rooted in place. Nevertheless, he remained defiant. “You are all dead men.”
“We’ll live or die together,” King said. “Your choice.”
When Velle did not respond, King gripped his collar and shepherded him through the carnage to the front of the tent. “Rook, open the door so that our friends outside can hear the General’s answer.”
Rook waited until King had Velle in position, and then drew back the flap slowly, keeping himself out of the line of fire. King nudged Velle forward until he was framed in the opening.
“Live or die?”
Just outside the tent, a ring of soldiers had gathered, their weapons at the ready. King could feel Velle quivering with rage, but after several tense seconds, he spoke. “Stand down.”
King didn’t wait to see if the command was heeded. He pulled Velle back inside and nodded to Rook, who let the tent flap fall back into place, hiding them from view.
“Smart decision,” King said. “Now, where’s Favreau?”
“I don’t know who you are,” Velle said, ignoring the question, “But if you put your guns down now, I will let you walk away.”
King swiped the Uzi’s suppressor across the back of Velle’s head, just hard enough to elicit a cry of surprise. “Favreau.”
“She is gone.” It was Okoa. “She left some time ago.”
“Left? Where did she go?”
Okoa shook his head. “I do not know. She had that bomb with her. She said she would destroy Lake Kivu.”
King felt his blood run cold. They were too late.
“She is bluffing,” Velle snarled. “It is a threat to force the United States to recognize my government, nothing more.”
“I do not think she was bluffing,” Okoa countered. “There is a madness inside her.”
“Where is she?” King pressed, giving Velle another meaningful tap with the Uzi.
“She would not do this,” the general persisted. “Destroy the very thing she desires, and kill herself at the same time? It is—” He stopped abruptly, as if recognizing the truth in Okoa’s words.
“Look who just figured it out,” Rook said.
Okoa, who had not moved from his chair during the entire incident, now rose to his feet and circled around to stand in front of Velle. “You know what this woman means to do. She does not care about you or what happens to our people.”
Velle stared back, his earlier anger givin
g way to uncertainty.
Okoa pressed the point home. “You know what will happen if she destroys the lake.”
The general swallowed nervously. He knew. “She has a boat. On the lake. She left…perhaps half an hour ago.”
On the lake. Half an hour. King’s mind turned over the information, calculating the dire possibilities. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to walk out of this tent like ducks in a row, and get on the helicopter. You’re going to tell your men to stand aside and let us pass, and then we’re going to find Favreau and stop her. Understood?”
“Wait,” Okoa said, holding up a hand. He kept his eyes locked with Velle’s. “Patrice, for better or worse, you are now the leader of our nation. I have given you that authority and I will not challenge you. The safety of our people is your responsibility now.”
“Why do you say this?”
“Let these people go. Let them save us all if they can. But the country must not lose another leader.” He turned to King. “I have signed an executive order granting General Velle emergency powers. He is the legitimate leader of the country, and I ask you, as a representative of the United States, to recognize his authority. Take the helicopter and do what must be done, but allow the General to leave.”
The request was as much a surprise to King as it was to Velle. “I don’t have time to screw around here. And I don’t recognize his authority.”
“Then recognize mine,” Okoa insisted. “Are you here to help us, or to force us to do your bidding?”
King saw the passionate sincerity in Okoa’s eyes. He released his hold on Velle’s collar and, without lowering the Uzi, stepped around to face the general. The big man’s eyes were still blazing with indignation.
Savage (Jack Sigler / Chess Team) Page 31