by Mike Maden
“I’ll be posting all of my policy positions on my website, but all of my ideas for future legislation and policy initiatives can be summarized in the great words of President Kennedy: ‘Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.’ It’s not an original campaign theme, but it’s the most necessary one I can think of. It applies to every American citizen, but it should apply to our politicians, too. Me most of all.
“Thank you, and God bless America.”
Lane’s mother whooped with pride, and the rest of his family clapped.
“Better go grab that interview,” the camera operator said to the reporter. “He’s leaving.”
The reporter rolled her eyes and whispered, “Boring.”
The camera operator shrugged. “I kinda like what he said. He’s right, though. He hasn’t got a chance in hell.”
U.S. Senate Select Committee on Intelligence
Hart Senate Office Building, Room 412, Washington, D.C.
Senator Barbara Fiero was neither the chairman nor the highest-ranking majority member of the Senate’s intelligence committee, but she had arranged for this closed-door, classified intelligence briefing on al-Qaeda in Africa. She did it for her own personal benefit, but not her knowledge—she could’ve given the briefing herself to her octogenarian colleagues. What mattered is how she performed during the briefing and the relationships she could further cultivate afterward. How the meeting came to be scheduled, and others canceled or rearranged to accommodate this one, would never be discovered by the chairman or his staff, only that it had magically appeared on the digital calendars that dictated everyone’s schedule both on Capitol Hill and over at Langley these days.
Fiero always had objectives in mind when she attended these briefings. Today she had three.
Fiero always arrived early and left late for the closed-door meetings just for the chitchat. She’d found over the years that it was in those small, human moments that unsuspecting minds were changed and alliances formed. Just this morning she had stood in the soaring sunlit atrium of the Hart Building, exchanging pleasantries with today’s CIA briefing analyst, when she learned that his daughter was struggling to get into NYU’s graduate film school. “My husband is a member of the Dean’s Council for Tisch. I’m certain he can make a call on her behalf.”
“You’d do that for her?”
“It’s nothing, really.” And just like that, she turned a disbelieving smile into another indebted ally. Her life was seemingly filled with such coincidences.
Amazing coincidences. Almost unbelievable.
And those coincidences could always be turned into favors, favors Fiero collected like buffalo-head nickels, never to be spent, but always traded up when something more valuable came along.
Fiero was also funny and personable in a disarming way; the self-deprecating charm and razor-sharp intelligence behind her bright, alluring eyes attracted most men, even ones half her age. Not that her age mattered. She was fifty years old but had the body of a much younger woman, thanks to exercise, nutrition, and cosmetic surgery. Like most beautiful older women, she practiced the simple secrets of looking younger. The first, of course, was having the right parents—DNA went a long way. But perfect, blazingly white teeth (Lumineers), regular professional hair coloring to keep out the gray, and a simple but modern fashion sense made all the difference. At five-eleven she was strikingly tall, but she never used her size for intimidation. She was a master of the comforting touch and the firm but not-too-confident handshake, both equally necessary in the world of fragile male egos.
Fiero also carried an intoxicating aroma about her, the most aphrodisiacal scent of all: money. She was the richest woman in the Senate, with an officially self-disclosed net worth of between $7 and $180 million, thanks largely to her husband’s consortium of international investors. In reality, if one ignored the accounting gimmicks but included the deferred-compensation packages and offshore assets, she and her husband were worth triple the latter figure.
That kind of cash left a scented pheromone trail all over Wall Street and Washington that drew insatiable suitors to the queen’s hive, where deals, votes, and alliances were fervently consummated.
The irony, of course, was that wealthy people like Fiero never had to spend their own money. It was the lesser people desperately seeking their favor who wound up spending their own cash to win her patronage. People all over town were desperate to get into a relationship with Barbara Fiero, who everybody knew would win her party’s presidential nomination the following year.
“AQ in Africa has been relegated to the villages and hinterlands,” the CIA analyst summarized. “Particularly in Mali, where French and ECOWAS troops were able to push back rebel groups, including the MNLA, Ansar Dine, and AQ Sahara last year.”
“Weren’t those rebel groups fighting each other as well?” Fiero asked. Despite their mutual hatred of the corrupt Mali national government, the rebel groups were bitterly divided among themselves over political aims, ethnic rivalries, and religious doctrines.
“Yes they were, but in that struggle, each was also occupying strategic villages and towns in the resource-rich areas of the north which threatened the sovereignty of the weak national government. It was necessary for West African and French forces to intervene in order to stabilize the new government by pushing al-Qaeda Sahara out.”
“By ‘new government’ you mean the one which had overthrown the previous government because it couldn’t contain the Tuareg uprising, correct?” Fiero asked. She smiled coyly at her new CIA friend.
“Exactly, Senator. You certainly know your African politics.”
“Oh my gosh, the teacher’s pet is showing off again.” The old man harrumphing was Senator Wallis Smith, a staunch Republican ally of President Greyhill, which naturally made him an enemy of Fiero. The room ignored the snarky comment, but Fiero didn’t. She’d just been called out as smart by the ranking Republican in the room.
First objective accomplished.
“And how would you characterize the new Bamako government? I mean, the one that just replaced the one that replaced the one just before it.” She said it in such a comical, offhanded way that the entire room chuckled, even Smith. What Fiero was referring to was the messy succession of incompetent, corrupt Malian governments. The thoroughly corrupt Touré regime had been overthrown by a military junta in 2012 led by an unremarkable American-trained army officer who, in turn, relinquished his temporary government to a French-approved civilian who, in turn, stepped down six months ago in favor of the new president, Ali Kouyaté, who had known ties to the Chinese government.
“I would characterize the Kouyaté regime as somewhat more competent and somewhat less corrupt than all previous administrations, and therefore, probably the brightest hope for Malian stability over the next few years.”
“Why the brightest hope?”
“The French are exhausted, politically and economically. They have vested interests in the uranium mines in Niger, but little in Mali. They’re pulling back everywhere they can in Africa right now to consolidate their diminishing resources, including Mali. China, however, recently took an interest in Mali, and President Kouyaté enjoys Beijing’s favor, along with Beijing’s considerable resources.”
“That would seem to pose a problem, wouldn’t it?” Fiero said. “We don’t want China gaining another foothold in Africa.”
“Why not?” Smith interrupted. “Let the goddamn Chi-coms wrestle with that mess for a while. We could use some consolidating of our own.”
“They’re already all over Africa, Barbara. Maybe they’re too spread out. Let them get swallowed up in that godforsaken hellhole. No point in us jumping in after them.” Senator Anne Coates was a Democrat from Ohio. Her state had lost tens of thousands of manufacturing jobs to the Chinese over the last two decades. She was a commonsense moderate, not an ideologue, but she could always
be counted on to vote the straight Democratic party line when it mattered.
“I’m not certain why the Greyhill administration wants to cede vast portions of the globe to our biggest geopolitical competitor, particularly when it comes to strategic, resource-rich areas like the Sahara,” Fiero insisted. The heads of the chairman and the other neocons around the table nodded in agreement with her.
Second objective accomplished.
“What invaluable resources are you referring to? Sand? Who the hell needs sand?” The skin around Smith’s jowly neck flared red. Like his ally, President Greyhill, Smith was committed to the Myers Doctrine: no new American boots on the ground anywhere until America’s fiscal house was put back in order.
“Not just sand, Senator,” the CIA analyst said. He was actually the CIA’s Africa strategic-resource specialist, which was why Fiero wanted him to brief the committee. “We know there are significant uranium deposits in the region, particularly Niger, which both the French and Chinese have exploited, particularly the French in support of their extensive domestic nuclear reactor program. Unlike the Germans, who have committed to dismantling all of their nuclear reactors, the French remain committed to their nuclear industry. It not only produces seventy-five percent of their domestic electricity supply, but France is also a net exporter of electricity, which earns them over three billion euros per year.”
“We don’t need any Malian uranium, that’s for sure, or Niger yellowcake, for that matter.” Senator Bolt was a staunch antinuclear activist. His home state of Washington became alarmingly concerned about nuclear catastrophe after the Fukushima disaster. Environmental activists up and down the Pacific Coast were monitoring Fukushima’s Texas-sized debris field floating toward California, and feverishly testing local habitats for cesium and other fatal contaminants. Locals carried Geiger counters and posted their findings on YouTube. Officially, the federal government wasn’t concerned. Privately, Bolt was losing sleep over it. He was a leading member of a bipartisan antinuclear power caucus in Congress that had gained an upper hand after the Japanese catastrophe.
“No, but we do need REEs, and we’ve just learned that a Chinese mining outfit recently discovered a vast new deposit of them, particularly of lanthanum,” the analyst said. “By the way, that information is for your ears only. Highly classified.”
“The whole damn meeting’s classified,” Bolt complained. The old Vietnam antiwar protestor turned environmentalist had long argued against all closed-door government meetings, particularly of the intelligence committees. He’d first come to Capitol Hill as a staffer for Frank Church during his famous CIA hearings. He’d heard firsthand what kind of havoc was wrought by too much governmental secrecy.
“REEs?” Smith asked, incredulous. In the old cowboy’s mouth, the “EEs” was drawn out like a long pull of saltwater taffy. “What the hell are R . . . E . . . Es?” Smith turned in his chair and glowered at Fiero. “I suppose you know?”
Fiero smiled. The CIA analyst had just confirmed what she needed to know. Or, more accurately, what she already knew. Her secret source had informed her about the massive new REE deposit two days before.
Third objective accomplished.
“Rare earth elements, I believe,” Fiero said. “But I’m no expert.” She smiled at the analyst, her signal to him to fill in the details.
Fiero pretended to pay attention while the analyst droned on about REEs. She was already plotting her next move. Greyhill had no political incentive to invade Mali. She would have to give him one.
12
In the air
Southeastern Zimbabwe
5 May
Thanks to a phone call from Judy earlier, the Aviocar was fueled and prepped at the Maputo airport and waiting outside of its hangar when Pearce and Judy braked in a screeching halt in front of it. Fifteen minutes later, they were cleared by the tower and in the air. After leveling off at cruising altitude, Judy patched Pearce through to Margaret Myers at her home in Colorado.
“Troy? It’s Margaret. Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” he said, wincing. He rubbed his aching head. He and Myers hadn’t spoken since the day she’d resigned the presidency the year before. She had resumed her duties as CEO of her software company, and he assumed she was too busy to reach out to him. Pearce had been busy, too, but that wasn’t the reason he never tried to contact her.
Judy listened in on the conversation through her headphones.
“I’m sorry to have chased you down, but I didn’t know who else to turn to. I tried to pull some strings for Mike on my end, but I couldn’t make it work. I knew I could count on you.”
“What’s his status?” Pearce asked.
“He’s reported as wounded and in serious but stable condition. He needs immediate evacuation.”
“Who made the report?”
“Female, unknown. But I’m working on it.”
“Then how do you know this is the real deal?”
“Only two people in the world have my private cell number. Mike is one of them.” She didn’t need to remind Pearce that he was the other person with that number, even if he never used it.
“Could be a trap,” Pearce said. “Targeting you. Maybe they tortured him for the info. Maybe he’s already dead.”
“Maybe. You willing to let it go?”
“No.”
“Me neither. But I’m not the one putting my butt on the line. It’s not as if they would’ve expected me to personally fly in there. And they wouldn’t know who I’d send in to do the job—maybe the Marines. They made no demands, gave no conditions. Just said ‘Hurry.’ Doesn’t sound like much of a trap to me.”
“We’re not talking about brain surgeons. If some joker is looking to create an international incident, they’ve got the perfect megaphone with someone like you involved.”
“Even if it is a setup, I’m still willing to stick my neck out on this thing,” Myers said. “Obviously, so are you.”
“It’s Mikey we’re talking about. God knows how many times he pulled my bacon out of the fire.”
“I’m glad you’re the one on the ground out there, Troy. And I heard about your man Johnny.”
Troy hesitated, pushing away the memories. Didn’t want to talk about it. “You have a plan, I take it?”
“Pulling some things together for you now. Everything should be in place by the time you land in Niamey.”
“Mikey’s in Niger?” Pearce asked.
“Mali. But Niamey’s your jump-off point. It’s the best I can do on short notice.”
“What’s Early doing in Mali?”
“Not sure. The GPS coordinates on the cell phone that made the call came from the Kidal region. That’s Tuareg country.”
“The 2012 Mali civil war was about them, wasn’t it?” Pearce asked.
“It’s complicated, but yes. What time is it now on your end?”
Pearce lifted his bruised wrist to check his watch. His fists still ached from the fight in the bar. He wiped the dried blood off of the watch face. He just couldn’t leave it behind. It was the only thing he had left of Annie. Something she’d touched. Never should have bet it.
“Zero-three-zero-five, local.”
Judy tapped in Niamey, Niger, into the GPS navigator. “About fifteen, maybe sixteen hours flight time. Three refueling stops, too. Better add another three hours, minimum.”
Pearce frowned. Not good. That was a long time for a wounded man to wait for an exfil. But there was nothing to be done at this point. He hoped Early really was in stable condition.
“I’ll call you as things firm up on my end,” Myers said. “Good luck to both of you.”
In the air
Northwestern Zambia
Six hours and twelve hundred miles later, Judy tapped the fuel gauge. “Know any good gas stations around here?”
Pearce shook his
aching head. Sober, but hungover now. “No, but I have a Shell card if you find one.” He glanced out the window. The morning sun behind them bathed the savannah below in a sweet, golden light. “Postcard Africa,” Judy called it. A small town hugged the Zambezi River in the bottom of their windscreen.
“That’s Mwinilunga. Nice little place.”
“You know it?”
“I grew up in this part of the world, remember?”
“They got a Starbucks?”
“No, but I have a friend who lives about five miles north of here. He has an airstrip we can use. And by ‘airstrip’ I mean a stretch of flat ground and not too many trees nearby.”
“McDonald’s has pretty good coffee. Or Hardee’s. And they’ve got biscuits. Either of those will do.”
“Whit will have coffee, for sure. Probably a batch of antelope stew, too.”
“Sounds like a winner. I don’t suppose he has any fuel?”
“Whit runs the Aviation Mission Fellowship station. He should have plenty.”
“You know everybody around these parts,” Pearce said.
“The missionary community is pretty tight-knit, and missionary aviators even tighter.”
“You ever think about going back to that life?”
Judy ignored the question. “I checked your manifest. You’ve got a delivery to Fort Scorpio due in about an hour. What do you want to do about it?”
The Aviocar still contained the special-delivery packages for the “Recces,” the South African special forces. Johnny was supposed to run that training, too.
“Gonna have to disappoint them.”
“Buckle up. We’re heading down.”
Minutes later, Judy flared the nose and wings as she landed the boxy airplane. The Aviocar’s fixed tricycle landing gear absorbed the grassy field with hardly a bump. She taxied over to the hangar. Three ancient Cessna 172 Skyhawks were parked neatly in a row on the far side of the building. They were all painted in the mission’s famous Florida-orange paint scheme. Their old logo—a cross, a Bible, and a dove—had since been painted over and replaced with a simple AMF in black letters. It wasn’t just a marketing gimmick. Too many Islamic extremists had taken potshots at “infidel” planes in the last year to ignore the problem.