by Vince Flynn
“Yeah. Based on what you told me, I called and asked how much it would cost for them to drop everything and get on a plane. Then I said yes to whatever number they threw at me.”
“Money talks,” Rapp said as they closed in on a large tent near the center of the improvised complex.
“To men, yes. But equipment’s been harder. There’s just not that much in the area.”
“What about the Ugandan government?”
“Ward’s been working on them, but they don’t want military aircraft being seen this close to the DRC. So, they’re happy to run on at the mouth about how supportive they are of this rescue effort but when you try to turn that talk into action you hit a brick wall. It’s not the end of the world, though. We can get by with civilian aircraft. Some of it’s military surplus, so retrofitting weapons and armor isn’t too difficult. Particularly with Ward passing out blank checks.”
“What about this place? Is it secure?”
“We’re mostly counting on natural barriers, but they’re pretty significant. Getting people up the side of this mountain in enough numbers to attack us would be almost impossible. And even if they did manage it, we’d see them coming in plenty of time for a leisurely evacuation. The only way you’re going to hit this place is from the air, and Gideon Auma doesn’t have that capability. You know, other than the fact that they say he can fly and shoot fireballs out of his ass.”
They entered a tent full of communications gear and Coleman fished a couple of Cokes from a cooler before throwing one to Rapp.
“What are we hearing about the US team?”
Coleman dropped into a folding chair and put his feet on a table. “Nada. I’ve talked to my SEAL friends, Delta, you name it. No one knows anything about the operation. Are you sure your information’s good? I’m finding it a little hard to believe a bunch of guys I’ve never heard of just walked into the jungle a few days ago with no support.”
“I hear what you’re saying but I talked to Irene and she seems to think it’s real.”
Coleman frowned and ran a hand through his blond hair. “Okay, then it probably is. But it’d be nice to have a few more details. If we’ve got friendlies wandering around in our operating theater, better to know about it now than after we accidentally shoot them.”
“Have you talked to Dan Lombard about it?”
“The head of Africa Command? That’s your social strata, man. I’m just a simple sailor.”
Rapp pulled out his satellite phone and found the number he’d thought to program in before leaving the Cape.
“General Lombard’s office,” a woman on the other side announced.
“Is he in? This is Mitch Rapp.”
“One moment, please.”
Rapp polished off his Coke and tossed it in the direction of a trash can on the other side of the tent. It bounced off the rim and landed in the dirt.
“Mr. Rapp,” the woman said when she came back on. “The general has asked if he can call you right back. Is this a good number?”
The inflection she gave to the word good suggested she meant secure.
“Yeah. This one’s fine,” he said before disconnecting the call.
“Out?” Coleman asked.
Rapp shook his head. “I don’t think he wants to talk to me on an office phone.”
In less than five seconds, a ringtone sounded and Rapp picked up. “Danny. What the hell’s going on over there?”
“Nothing good. But there are whispers about a certain SEAL you know operating in Uganda.”
“Africa’s full of crazy rumors. What about you? Do you have anyone in Uganda?”
“No, I don’t.”
This time it was the emphasis on I that was telling.
“Who does?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Guess.”
There was a brief pause over the line. “Okay. This is what I’m hearing. Nine American soldiers went into the jungle three days ago with orders to find David Chism.”
“Delta?” Rapp asked.
“I don’t think so. I’ve made a few quiet inquiries and can’t find anyone in special forces who knows anything about this. Word is that all nine men were pulled from different units, but I don’t know which ones.”
“Who’s supporting them?”
“As near as I can tell, no one.”
“Bullshit, Danny. They’re not just standing around in the woods holding their dicks.”
“Look, here’s what I can tell you. I’m not supporting them. The Ugandans sure as hell aren’t supporting them. And, according to my source in military intelligence, they aren’t supporting them. Honestly, this thing stinks to high heaven of the Agency. But now you’re telling me it’s not.”
“Who sent them, then?”
“It sounds like the orders filtered down from on high. How high I can’t say.”
“Shit,” Rapp said quietly.
“That pretty much sums it up.”
“Can you give me a way to contact them?”
“Like I told you, I can’t even give you their names.”
“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”
“Don’t break my balls, Mitch. There are nine men who’ve been thrown to the wolves in my backyard. I’ve done everything I can to get involved and come up empty.”
“Okay, then tell me why? What’s the point of sending them in like this?”
“I don’t know. The truth is I don’t know anything anymore. It’s all politics. I can’t take a dump without a written decree from the Oval Office.”
“That’s been going on since we got into this business, Danny.”
“No. It’s different now, Mitch. And I don’t want any part of it. At the end of the month, I’m taking my retirement and heading for the beach. If you’re smart, you’ll do the same.”
10
THE WHITE HOUSE
WASHINGTON, DC
USA
“WOULD you care to tell me what’s happening in Uganda?”
The president didn’t look up from the document he was reading, nor offer Irene Kennedy a chair. In light of that, she remained standing, as did a very nervous-looking Mike Nash.
“Could you be more specific, sir?”
Anthony Cook threw the document on his blotter and fixed his gaze on her. “I’m not in the mood, Irene. Trust me.”
“Then let me assume you’re referring to the David Chism situation. The last time we spoke, you said that you’d give it some thought and that we shouldn’t get involved. We haven’t.”
“We haven’t?” he said incredulously. “I’m being told there’s a rescue operation being carried out and that Mitch Rapp is leading it. Not only did I say that I didn’t want America involved without my direct authorization, I specifically said I didn’t want him involved.”
Cook was extraordinarily well informed, Kennedy noted. Rapp’s operation was still in the early stages and was being carried out by private contractors in a remote corner of Uganda. Who had provided the president with such timely intelligence?
And then there was also the issue of the nine US soldiers who were rumored to have gone into the jungle four days ago. She had to be extremely cautious about looking into the matter and because of that wasn’t well informed on the subject. Did they know something she didn’t about Chism’s whereabouts? How were they being supported? What was the status of their mission? For that matter, were they even still alive?
“Mitch decides himself what he does and doesn’t do, sir. He hasn’t been on my payroll for some time. It’s my understanding that Nick hired Scott Coleman’s organization to search for his people. Mitch and Scott have known each other for a long time and Mitch is currently living in South Africa. I imagine that’s how he got involved.”
“I don’t pay you to imagine!” he shouted, slamming a hand down on the Resolute Desk.
“No,” she said, keeping her voice even. “But you do pay me to follow your orders And, in this case they were clear. If your position’s changed a
nd you’d like me to dig deeper, I’d be happy to.”
“So, you’re going to stand there and tell me that you had nothing to do with putting Nicholas Ward and Mitch Rapp together.”
Mike Nash interjected on her behalf. “Scott’s outfit is well known as being the best of the best, sir, and Nicholas Ward doesn’t work with second stringers. It makes perfect sense that he’d hire them, just like it makes perfect sense that Scott would call Mitch knowing that he was basically right down the street. In his position, I would have done the same thing.”
Nash’s words seemed to have a calming effect on Cook that Kennedy’s very much didn’t. The former Marine had a natural gift for handling politicians and that gift seemed especially effective on the current residents of the White House. Surprisingly effective, really.
“I want Rapp’s team out of there,” Cook said. “It’s been a week with no word from Chism or any of his people. Rapp’s too valuable to be chasing a dead man through the jungle.”
The concern for Rapp’s safety seemed overblown. Certainly, he’d survived much more dangerous missions than this one. Was it just ego? The fact that Cook felt as though he’d been defied? Was he concerned that the soldiers he’d sent would fail and a group of mercenaries would succeed? That seemed plausible—Anthony Cook was not a man who liked to appear weak—but still unlikely. He’d have figured out that he could plausibly blame the failure on Coleman’s team’s interference or just take credit for their success.
She was convinced that there was something she was missing. Something that was right in front of her that she was blind to. Maybe it would be worth pushing a little to see if Cook would provide a clue.
“Nick seems to have a lot of faith in David Chism’s resourcefulness and there’s no question that he’s operated in difficult environments in the past. The truth is that hiding in terrain that dense wouldn’t be all that difficult and there’s plenty of food and wat—”
“Enough!” the president said, cutting her off. “These aren’t Japanese soldiers who don’t know World War II ended. They’re three academics, one of whom is in his sixties. They’re not living in a hole, drinking rainwater, and snaring rodents. They’re dead, Irene. And Mitch and his people will be, too, if they get ambushed by Auma’s psychopaths or go down in some cobbled-together Ugandan helicopter. And then America’s lost the point of its spear. Pull them out. Now.”
Again, Nash tried to reduce the temperature of the room. “We’ll do what we can, Mr. President. But if SEAL Demolition and Salvage has signed a contract with Ward, it’s unlikely Scott’s going to walk away. He lives and dies by his reputation and leaving the richest man in the world hanging isn’t going to do much for it. Mitch is basically the same story. If Scott’s asked for his help and he’s agreed, he’s going to take that seriously.”
“More seriously than America’s national security?” Cook said, picking up the document he’d been reading earlier. “This isn’t up for discussion. I’m giving you an order. Get them out of there. Now.”
11
SOUTHWESTERN UGANDA
“SO, there’s no way we can get in touch with the US team you think is on the ground? They must have some kind of communications. Even if it’s a personal satphone.”
Rapp wasn’t sure who had spoken but recognized the accent as Dutch. The tent was packed—not just with Scott Coleman’s core team but with the other operators they’d managed to bring in. A few had been left on the perimeter but everyone else was here, heating up the confined space and permeating it with the stench of sweat.
“That operation is completely black—probably put together by the president and the head of the Joint Chiefs personally. We don’t even know who they are, and no one wants to push the issue.” Rapp scanned the faces around him. “And that brings me to a related subject. It’s my understanding the president wants us out of here. More than that, he’s pretty much ordered us out of here.”
Many of the men shrugged. A few laughed. Not surprising, since the majority weren’t American and had no reason to concern themselves with the wishes of Anthony Cook. Rapp turned his attention to Coleman. “Scott?”
“Are you saying he’s offering to buy out my contract with Ward?”
“Nobody’s told me about there being any money on the table.”
“Then I don’t work for him and he can kiss my ass.”
Based on their expressions, everyone on his team felt the same way.
“All right. Then let’s move on. If those soldiers are out there, Auma’s aware of it. He’ll be tracking their movements in case they know something about Chism that he doesn’t.”
“That puts us in a tough spot,” Coleman said. “If we start up a big operation on top of them, Auma might see them as having outlived their usefulness and attack.”
“I agree, but there’s nothing we can do about it at this point. If Chism and his people are alive, their clock is ticking.”
“So, the American force is on its own,” someone said.
Rapp nodded. “Chism’s our mission. If we find ourselves in a position to help the others, we’ll do it. But it’s a secondary consideration. Understood?”
Murmurs of assent.
“All right,” Rapp said. “That brings us to the question of how we’re going to do it.” He tapped a black circle on a map propped on an easel. “This is the hospital Chism theoretically escaped from. Because of difficult terrain and a best-case estimate of their capabilities, we think they’re inside this perimeter. If we disregard some of the steeper terrain that wouldn’t be navigable by them and keep in mind that they’d need to be reasonably close to a water source, that leaves the areas shaded in red. Not an insignificant amount of territory to cover, but also not half the country.”
“From a difficulty standpoint, though, you’ve got to multiply it by fifty,” Joe Maslick said. “I mean, we could walk within five feet of them and never know it if they weren’t making noise.”
“Agreed. We’re never going to find them. That’s why we need them to find us.”
“Am I wrong, or does it sound like you’ve got a plan?” Charlie Wicker said.
“I have a plan,” Rapp confirmed. “We’ve got a pretty solid profile on Chism and in the last couple days we’ve managed to send investigators to talk to his friends and family. One of the things we learned is that he’s an amateur naturalist and pretty good with a map and compass. We can use that.”
“How?” somebody asked.
“We’re bringing in more choppers and tonight we’re going to go out and bury caches in the areas where he could be hiding. Then we’re going to drop maps with instructions on how to find them.”
“I don’t think this plan will work,” a man near the open tent flap said. The ebony skin and accent suggested he wasn’t too far from home. Rapp didn’t know him personally, but Coleman had used him on a number of African operations and was a fan.
“Why?”
“You are right that a lot of the men who follow Gideon Auma aren’t going to speak English or know how to read. But he’s much smarter than people think and uses technology very well. He will have teams, and each will have a satellite phone. Even if they can’t read the maps, they will be able to take a picture and send it to someone who can. If Chism gets to one of your caches, they will be waiting for him.”
“We thought exactly the same thing. So, we used what we learned about him to write out instructions only he’ll understand.” Rapp stepped away from the map and once again examined the men crowded in around him. “Sunset’s in two hours. The choppers will start coming in an hour after that. Scott has your assignments. Any questions?”
Everyone just shook their heads.
12
CLOUDS had rolled over the stars, erasing the mountainous landscape and highlighting a few points of light emanating from distant villages. Behind the foliage screen Chism had built, the darkness was so deep as to become disorienting. Every time he tried to move around the cave, his balance failed him and an ir
rational fear that he’d gone blind surged.
On the somewhat brighter side, the empty void surrounding him had heightened his other senses. He could smell the direction of the wind through changes in the proportion of earth, rotting plant life, and mold. He could hear Matteo Ricci’s labored breathing and the more rhythmic respiration of Jing Liu. The night’s cold sank more deeply into him but not so much that he couldn’t feel the bugs that he no longer bothered to brush away.
Most of all, though, he felt thirst. They’d had no rain in days and trips to the stream to fill his pathetic water bottle needed to be carefully managed. Auma’s men were still out there. Silent now. Waiting for him to make a mistake.
By his count, they’d been there almost a week and a half. Pretty fucking impressive for three pampered scientists, but also concerning. If no rescue effort had been mounted by now, it seemed unlikely that one was forthcoming. Everyone would assume they were dead.
Ricci began a coughing fit and Chism felt his stomach tighten. The Italian wasn’t going to last much longer. There was no way to measure his fever, but it was high enough that he was no longer lucid. The infection was too strong for his body to fight off. Without antibiotics, his life was over.
Jing Liu, though, was a whole other story. With every day, she got even stronger, shaking off her privileged adulthood and returning to the impoverished child she’d once been. Her stomach seemed impervious to both their haphazard diet and the questionable water they were surviving on. She slept like a rock. And she was tireless in doing whatever she could for Ricci. Apparently, it was a role she’d played for her dying grandfather.
The bottom line was that, of the three of them, she’d almost certainly be the one who held out the longest. And that made turning himself over to Auma’s men seem smarter and smarter every day. There was no longer any question that she could make it to the road and bring back help for Ricci. All she needed was for Auma’s men to clear out.