Battleground sts-6

by Keith Douglass

  Ed DeWitt and Murdock talked to Stroh after the men left.

  "What's the chances of the President's men making a decision on this soon?" DeWitt asked.

  "Unlikely. Maybe in another day. Tomorrow sometime is my guess. Time difference is a big factor."

  "We'll keep hoping," Murdock said.

  1345 hours RX Military Headquarters Nairobi, Kenya

  Muhammad Maji studied the boundary fence of the large military facility north of Nairobi. He had spent two days watching the place, trying to find a way inside. He had to get in, find out where the general was, get out, and radio the information to the U.S. military offshore. Not a tough job, an impossible one.

  He had seen the guards at all three of the gates doubled within the past hour. There were interior guards walking the fences. The only way inside was through the gate in a vehicle. All he had to do was capture an army truck, kill the driver, take his clothes and ID, and drive in through the gate.

  Simple.

  Yes, and deadly if he failed somewhere down the line.

  He moved to a better position along the road that led to the main gate. It would be the busiest. The best chance to get in and out. Now for the vehicle. There were some copies of old American jeeps, rugged little rigs, and most of them held only a driver. How?

  He backtracked along the main route to the headquarters. Down a side street he spotted a bar where some lone soldier might stop to have a drink.

  As he came closer, he saw it might be what he needed. It was a small drinking spot that had two of the jeep-like Army rigs parked outside. Why not just hot-wire one of the rigs and drive away? No. If he tried that, surely the bumper numbers on the stolen rig would be called in, and he'd never be able to drive out the gate. Besides, he needed a uniform.

  He waited a half hour. Then a military man came out and headed for one of the rigs. He was a lieutenant, one with a swagger. Maji came out of the doorway and fell into step beside the officer. He was no larger than Maji.

  "What are you doing?" the officer asked.

  Maji showed him the .38-caliber snub-nosed revolver that was aimed at his side. "I'm going to borrow your transport. Hope you don't mind."

  At the rig Maji had the officer get in and drive. Maji was close beside him. They went down a side street and into a small cluster of brush and woods just outside of the town, but short of the military headquarters.

  Maji pushed the revolver into the man's side and fired. The round rammed through a lung and into the officer's heart, killing him instantly.

  Five minutes later, Maji had pulled the uniform off the man, donned it himself, hid the body under some brush, and with the officer's credentials and wallet drove toward the main gate. He would simply hold up his ID card the way he had seen many others do. Since he was an officer, he would be given less scrutiny. It seemed to him today that the guards were more concerned with people leaving the complex than entering it.

  He came up to the guard post, showed his ID card, and was waved on through before he could stop. He shifted the stick drive into second, and drove on into the headquarters. He did a quick tour of the area, driving most of the streets. The building that had the most guards was a three-story affair with no windows and .50-caliber machine guns mounted and manned at each corner.

  He stopped two soldiers walking by. They saluted, and he returned the salutes, then spoke to them in Swahili.

  "Men, where is the general's office? I have some dispatches for him from Mombasa, but I can't find out where he is."

  "Sir, it's there, right in front of you. The only entrance is on the other side. You'll need all sorts of clearances to get in there."

  "That I have," Maji said. He nodded at the men, and they scurried away. Maji drove around again. Better to keep moving. How did he know for sure the general was inside? He had to have precise information to send to the men on the American carrier.

  He drove to the far side, and saw the doors with six men guarding them and heavy machine guns mounted there as well. He drove down the street that let him see the headquarters, and parked.

  For two hours, he watched the big double doors. More than a dozen men came and went, but there was no activity to indicate that the general would be leaving. He always traveled with a three-car caravan with an armored car in front and one in back. Maji had observed that there was only one three-story building on the base. That much would be easy for the jets, but which area inside the block-square building was used by the general?

  He started the rig, and turned toward the headquarters. This time he drove all the way around it and found a service entrance on the rear side. He parked half a block away. There were no guards and no machine guns at this door.

  With his officer bars he could bluff his way in here. He looked at his stolen credentials. The officer was attached to an air wing flying from just north of the complex.

  Good enough. He drove closer to the entrance, then parked and left the rig, pocketing the keys. With remembered military precision, he strode up to the door and reached for the handle before a lackadaisical guard called out.

  "Sir, this is a restricted area."

  "I know that, soldier. I'm on a special investigating mission to check on security. What's your name?"

  The private looked worried, and gave him a name that probably wasn't his. Maji wrote it down in a notebook the officer had carried, nodded at the man, and walked on inside.

  He had no idea where he was or where he should go. The center of the building on the ground floor would be the safest. But would Maleceia do it that way? He was a showoff. Wouldn't he want something with some class and some splash?

  Ahead he saw a door that was marked "Janitorial Services." Yes, brilliant. They would know exactly where the general's offices were. He moved through the door with the hint of a swagger, and watched as two surprised sergeants looked up.

  "Sergeant, who's in charge here?"

  "Must be me. The captain is out of the area."

  "We've had complaints about the cleanup in the general's quarters and his office. Can I see the schedule of cleaning in those areas and who is responsible for that work?"

  "Schedule? No, Sir. I mean, we don't use no schedule. We just clean up the general's offices once a night, and then again during the day if he isn't using them. No schedule. We send men up there who we have available."

  "Sounds sloppy. We're talking about the same area?"

  "Yes, sir. His main office on the third floor front of the building with the big wall of windows, and then his apartment down on floor two with the seven rooms."

  Maji scowled for a moment. "Not sure just how I can tell the colonel about this. I'll use your name since your officer isn't here. Your name again, Sergeant?"

  He wrote it down. "That will be all. Carry on." Maji turned and strode out of the room. He'd learned his military behavior as a two-year Army man who had been discharged three years ago. Being a corporal in a rifle company back then was coming in handy.

  Did he have enough? He wondered as he got lost once, then found his way out the same rear service door he had come in. No one even noticed when he left the building. Security might be fine in the front, but here it was terrible.

  Maji walked to his car. He had everything he needed. When he looked at the jeep he had stolen parked half a block ahead, he saw two military police checking it. They looked around, then got back in their patrol rig and parked behind the jeep. It looked as if they were going to wait and see who came to claim the rig. How could it be reported stolen already? If so, his ID wouldn't be any good to get him out of the camp.

  If he tried it, and they caught him, he'd be shot on the spot. He needed another way to get off the base.

  Five minutes later, he had strolled down to where he could see the main gate. The double guards were still in place. Few cars or trucks left the base. He saw two come in and only two go out in half an hour. No one had been allowed to walk out through a special gate at one side. Several men who had tried to leave had been turne
d away. A general lock-down?

  How could he get off the base?

  He walked around again, then checked the dead man's wallet. It was stuffed with hundred-shilling notes, each worth about two dollars American. Might be worth a try.

  At the nearby officers' club, he had a beer and listened to the men talk. He found two who were heading for town. They said they had special passes to get through the gate. The captain excused himself, and went to the men's room. Maji went there a moment later.

  In the bathroom they were alone. Maji asked the captain about the pass.

  "Yeah, got one. Getting married in the morning. Even the general figured I should go in. Damn fine girl." The captain was half drunk.

  Maji chopped him twice in the side of the neck with the hard side of his hand, and the captain went down. Maji dragged the captain into a toilet stall, took the pass and the man's ID card, closed the door, and hurried out.

  Five minutes later, he flagged down a truck heading for the front gate and scowled at the driver.

  "You heading for town, Corporal?"

  "Yes, sir. Special duty."

  "I've got to get to town, and my transport broke down. No time to get a new one from the motor pool. I'll ride with you."

  At the gate, the driver showed his pass, and the man there waved them through without a second look at the lieutenant in the other seat. Being an officer, even if for a short time, did have its advantages.

  Maji dropped off the truck a mile from the base, walked to his car, and dug the SATCOM from the trunk. He was in a little-used area behind some warehouses.

  He keyed in the right frequency, and adjusted the antenna.

  "Rover, this is Quest One."

  There was a long silence from the speaker. He checked his dials and sent the same message again. This time the speaker came to life.

  "Quest One. Rover here, over."

  "Rover. Best bet three-story building, top floor front. Personal apartment second floor. Security doubly tight on the site."

  "That's a roger, Quest One. Take care."

  Just as the last word came from the speaker, the flat crack of an AK-47 sounded and Maji looked up in amazement, slammed backwards, and dropped the SATCOM microphone — The single round had jolted into his shoulder, and he clawed for the small revolver in his pants pocket.

  The AK-47 fired again, this time on full automatic, and six rounds bored into the Kenyan spy. Two hit the SATCOM, smashing it, and both the man and his radio died at the same instant.

  Two Kenyan Special Agents ran up and stared at the man on the ground. "You sure he's the one?"

  The other man nodded. "Oh, yes, he's the one. Let's see how much spy pay he has in his wallet. Our captain will be pleased that we have closed one more leak in our intelligence division."

  22

  Thursday, July 22

  0814 hours

  Oval Office

  Washington, D.C.

  President Wilson Anderson rolled back in his big leather chair, and scanned the four men and one woman facing him around his desk. These were the advisors he had learned he could rely upon. They had individual specialties, but could see the broad picture better than anyone else in D.C. He watched each one intently.

  Phillips served as National Security Advisor. Phillips was rock-solid in international affairs. He stood only five feet six inches tall. However, he had a surgical mind that bored into the heart of a problem and dissected it with unerring skill.

  Lambert J. Waldpole was his CIA director. Steady, a man who'd moved up through the ranks. He was a former field agent who had done his share of hand-to-hand killing in Europe during the Cold War. He was a top administrator who could evaluate the hell out of a situation even if he hated it. He stood six four, and carried 210 pounds like a small tight end.

  Mabel Thorndyke, the only woman in his cabinet, was the first woman Secretary of State. She was a brilliant foreign affairs strategist, a longtime diplomat who could negotiate with the best, and win. She had an unerring antenna for the downstream results of actions taken today. She was an inch shorter than Phillips, and a calming influence when things heated up.

  Greg Zweibel was his Chief of Staff, and carried more weight than some of the others at the table. Some called him the First Vice President, and the unelected Vice President. He was neat, a fashion-plate dresser, single, at the peak of his career after twenty years in rough-and-tumble national politics. He had a keen eye for the immediate effects of decisions.

  Hart Kilburn was the Secretary of Defense. A career soldier, he had come up fast, and held pivotal roles in the Gulf War. From there he had retired and turned down a bid for the presidency, preferring to work out of the spotlight until his appointment to Defense. He was a tactician who understood war, force, showing the flag, and how much pressure a task force of Navy ships and planes can bring to bear on a situation.

  President Anderson turned to Kilburn. "Hart, just what's the situation now in Kenya?"

  "Getting better. The Navy SEALs rescued our diplomats and staff there after the embassy was overrun by the rebels. Then they broke the one hundred sixty men out of that prison, and got them on hovercraft and then to the ships offshore. Now I hear they have liberated the frigate that had been captured.

  "My Naval commander in the area tells me that President Djonjo is gradually regaining control. He now has over fifty percent of the Army and Navy back under his control. He's cleaning out a pocket of resistance in Mombasa. Then he will control that vital port on the southern coast.

  "He hasn't said anything about wanting help in eliminating General Maleceia."

  "Mr. President," Waldpole said. "My CIA man with the fleet down there reported about an hour ago that President Djonjo was vitally interested in getting help to knock out Maleceia once and for all so they could bury him. Maleceia's holed up now in his headquarters north of Nairobi."

  George Zweibel turned to Waldpole. "Yes, but didn't he say that he was not too happy with the bombing and strafing runs by U.S. fighters?"

  "Yes, George, he said that," Waldpole replied. "However, he also said it was vital to knock out Maleceia so he would never upset peaceful democracy in Kenya again."

  "He wants us to kill Maleceia?" President Anderson asked.

  "That's the general idea, without having to use the word," Mrs. Thorndyke said. "He put it about as strongly as a politician can. Yes, he wants us to blast this colonel-general right into Hell."

  The President looked at Jared Phillips, who had been drawing a large black man on his pad. "Jared, what do you think?"

  "I'd guess that the President down there would love to get somebody, namely us, to blast General Maleceia into the nether regions so he would never have to worry about him again. From the point of view of worldwide opinion, it might not be the best move for us." He held up his hand as several others started to speak.

  "Just a minute, let me finish. Yes, we are regarded as world's enforcers. We went into Kenya for legitimate diplomatic and hostage-rescue reasons. For this the world is with us. Once we go a step further and try to wipe out the man responsible for the U.S. embarrassment, then most of the nations will say we're stepping over the line and getting involved in the internal affairs of Kenya."

  The men in the room looked at Mabel Thorndyke. She nodded and studied her notepad, and then her head came up, her eyes hard, her jaw slightly set.

  "Gentlemen, this one is tricky as all hell. If we do what we want to do, go in with a dozen planes and bomb that headquarters of Maleceia into kindling, we accomplish a good for Kenya, and maybe ourselves down the line. We also get a black eye in world public opinion. However a good steak soon reduces a black eye to a distorted memory. I'm not sure yet which way to go."

  "Do I have to remind you about Saddam Hussein?" Kilburn asked. "We had him by the cojones as Mrs. Thorndyke might say, and we let him get away. No, we invited him to keep on living. He's caused us trouble ever since. There's a good chance that he'll go on messing with us for as long as he stays in po
wer. Now this self-made general in Kenya is not as big a threat. By that I mean he controls no oil. However, he will continue to irritate us, and to cause all sorts of hell in Kenya, if we don't go in and take him out right now with a good bombing program on his HQ, and then send troops or the SEALs in to make sure that he's blasted straight into Hell."

  President Anderson held up both hands. "Okay, time out. I want all of you to go to your benches and think this through a little more. We've had input from everyone. Let's see what we can work out as a practical approach that will benefit us currently and that will be best for us downstream in Kenya and in the world." He grinned. "Hey, if this job was easy, I wouldn't need you folks."

  The five filed out, and went to the nearby conference room, where they found fresh coffee, rolls, and bottles of cold water.

  "Now we get down to work," Zweibel, the Chief of Staff, said.

  In his office, the President looked over his calender, canceled three appointments, and paced the room. By the time his advisors returned two hours later, he had a rough idea of what he wanted to do. He'd see if the suggestions of his cabinet people coincided.

  Zweibel led the people in, and kept standing when the others sat down.

  "Mr. President, we have worked out what we think is the best move for the United States. First we route our response to the President of Kenya through State. This will give it a more rounded and subtle approach.

  "Second, we think Mrs. Thorndyke herself should send the message and then phone President Djonjo.

  "Here's our suggestion. We should indicate to President Djonjo that it is his best interests to wipe out General Maleceia so he will not be a troublemaker in years to come. We suggest this be done with smart bombs or ship-launched missiles targeting the complex where the general has his offices.