by Vince Flynn
Chism sat and pulled his knees to his chest. Time to put on his big-boy pants and be the hero. When Liu woke up and he wasn’t there, she’d figure out pretty quickly what he’d done. Then she’d wait another day or so to ensure that the coast was clear and make a break for civilization.
What was he so worried about? Obviously, there were the stories about Auma’s sect. The cannibalism. The crucifixions. The castrations. And that was just the Cs. But Auma needed him. He wouldn’t be worth much with his balls sawed off, nailed to a cross, or half-eaten.
He was lucky, right?
He let out a long breath and closed his eyes. No rush. The sun had only set an hour or so ago. He could procrastinate a little longer. Enjoy the closeness of his friends and the illusion of safety that the cave provided.
Just a little longer…
* * *
Chism bolted awake, confused by what had suddenly forced him back to reality. It didn’t take long for him to figure it out, though.
A helicopter.
He rolled to his knees and peered through a gap in the branches, feeling a surge of adrenaline when he saw that it wasn’t a helicopter. It was at least five—flying low and playing their powerful lights over the canopy.
“David Chism,” a male voice said over a megaphone. “We’re dropping supply caches and maps on how to find them. Get to one and use the phone to call us. We’ll set up an extraction.”
He felt Liu lean against him from behind, trying to see through the same hole. “They’ve come to save us,” she said. “Mr. Ward sent them, yes? It has to be. Gideon Auma has no helicopters.”
The amplified American voice started up again, repeating the same recorded message.
“David?” Liu prompted.
He found himself unable to respond. The slow loss of hope over the last few days had dulled his fear to the point that it had become nothing more than a drone in the back of his mind. Now, with the possibility of rescue flying overhead, he was terrified.
* * *
Lieutenant Jeremiah Grant was on point, giving speed and stealth roughly equal consideration as he slipped through the dense forest. All pretense at being an eco-tour group had been abandoned and it was a significant relief. No more fawning over rare plants, zooming in on colorful birds, or oohing and aahing over local mammals. But most of all, no more listening to the loud and largely inaccurate nature lectures from their scumbag guide.
And now, finally, something was happening. The question was what?
One thing he knew for certain was that he and his team were being watched and had been since the moment they’d penetrated the jungle. He was fifty-fifty that their guide was somehow communicating with the people tracking them and eighty-twenty that they would eventually be targeted. If Auma’s men found David Chism—or more likely his corpse—then the American team wandering around the forest would become useless to them. And Auma’s reputation was to kill anything that didn’t directly benefit him. Even worse would be if Grant were the one to find Chism. At that point, they would find themselves standing between Gideon Auma and what he wanted.
Heads they win, tails we lose.
It was a sentiment he’d tried to get across a few times to a nameless, faceless man on the other end of his satellite phone. Every description of the futility of their situation, no matter how graphic, simple, or emphatic, fell on deaf ears. The response from the bored, bureaucratic-sounding son of a bitch was always the same: keep searching.
It had been the same story for thousands of years. The rich and powerful tossed poor slobs like him into the meat grinder whenever they found it convenient. Grant—and apparently his men—had thought Anthony Cook was different. But now it was clear that he was just another carefully crafted illusion.
A chopper—one of many crowding the normally empty skies—passed overhead, but Grant didn’t bother to look up. With the powerful spotlight shining down on the canopy it would be impossible to see any detail. A now familiar recorded voice rose over the thump of the blades.
“David Chism. We’re dropping supply caches and maps on how to find them. Get to one and use the phone to call us. We’ll set up an extraction.”
No shooting, though. Auma’s men were playing it cool. Probably calling back to their god for instructions.
Another five minutes brought Grant to what he’d been looking for. He stopped and crouched in the darkness before toggling his throat mike.
“I’m at the edge of the clearing.”
His men would fan out to provide cover while he searched the open area through a night vision scope. Nothing. But it was hard to know if that conclusion was real or just the result of the limitations of his optics. Not that it mattered. He didn’t have anywhere to be and eventually one of the choppers would provide an unintentional assist.
It took twenty minutes, but finally a helicopter streaked overhead, dropping four pink streamers that glimmered in the spotlight. Two disappeared into the jungle, one got hung up in a tree to the west, and the last dropped right in the center of the clearing. He focused on that one, doing his best to memorize its location as the darkness once again descended.
“I’m going in,” he said, easing into the grass on his belly.
His low position would make him virtually impossible to see, but that went both ways. Every minute or so, he was forced to lift his head and make a course correction. Not ideal, but an acceptable risk. Auma’s men weren’t known for being particularly well equipped—machetes and AKs mostly. Night vision gear or thermal scopes were probably out of their reach.
Probably.
Grant finally reached the streamer and pulled it toward him until he came to what was attached: a single sheet of laminated paper.
“Got it,” he said into his throat mike. “On my way back.”
The return trip went much quicker. Locating the streamer had been a challenge but finding tree cover in this part of Uganda was like finding hay in a haystack.
He settled in a few feet from the edge of the clearing and retrieved a tiny penlight from his pocket.
“Approaching from the east.”
The voice over his earpiece was recognizable as belonging to the man he’d made his second-in-command.
“Come.”
By the time he appeared, Grant was scanning the sheet under the dim red glow of his flashlight.
“Looks like our friendly neighborhood guide has taken off.”
“Big surprise,” Grant said.
“What’ve you got?”
“Looks like fifteen caches in total. These are detailed instructions on how to find them.”
His man let out an understandably frustrated breath. “There are only eight of us. Are you thinking you want to split up and try to cover some of them?”
Grant shook his head. “No way to find them. The directions were written in a way that only David Chism will be able to understand.”
He turned off the flashlight and grabbed his satphone, dialing from memory. Despite being 6 a.m. in Washington, the call was picked up on the second ring.
“Go ahead,” said the now familiar voice.
“We’ve got at least ten choppers overflying the area, using megaphones to try to communicate with David Chism. Do you know anything about it?”
There was a long pause. Grant pictured the man standing in the kitchen of his McMansion, foaming milk for his coffee. “It’s a mercenary operation. Not military.”
“Well, whoever they are, they’re a hell of a lot better equipped than we are and they seem to have a hell of a lot better plan. Auma’s men are still watching us and the guide you set us up with just disappeared. There’s nothing more we can do here. Request permission to pull out.”
Another long pause before the man spoke again. “Stand by for further instructions.”
The line went dead.
“Problems?” his man said.
Grant didn’t answer, contemplating his options. After a few seconds he concluded that there was only one. He wasn’t leadin
g his men to their deaths while a bunch of mercs watched from the clouds. And if that meant a court-martial, then he’d deal with it. But he doubted it’d come to that. For him to be court-martialed, someone would have to figure out who these bullshit orders were coming from. And Mr. Pumpkin Spice Latte didn’t sound like the type who handed out business cards.
“We’ve been told to pull out,” he lied. As long as his men thought they were following orders, they’d be safe from any repercussions. “Now let’s move.”
* * *
Chism froze as voices became audible, followed by the swish of people coming toward him through the trees. The language was recognizable, but indecipherable. Despite his time in Uganda, he learned only a few local words.
This couldn’t be where his luck finally ran out. He was too close. Maybe as little as an hour from saving his friends and landing safely at Nick Ward’s compound. Crouching silently, he tried to ignore the sensation of his heart trying to escape his chest.
The two men passed within a few feet but despite the sun having been up for a couple of hours they never suspected anything. It was the upside to the sea of plant life they were all trapped in. The downside was that it made finding what he was looking for damn near impossible.
He started moving again, now focusing upward instead of at the ground. The new strategy paid off. A bright pink streamer appeared, hanging about twenty feet up in a tree that looked climbable. He started up, carefully testing each branch before committing his full weight to it. Except for all the heavily armed psychotic cult members, it was just like when he was a kid.
The streamer took a few good yanks to free, but he was eventually rewarded with a single sheet of laminated paper. Despite his awkward position, he couldn’t help skimming it before starting back down. When he did, a faint smile spread across his face. Whoever had created the document was both very smart and very thorough.
Every cache had a separate set of instructions and he went through them, trying to find the closest. After a couple of minutes of reading and cross-referencing with the topo map on the back, he decided that cache 9 was the most promising.
From where you camped when you found the butterfly you think is a new species: there is an obvious square rock about two feet across embedded in the ground. With your heel in the middle of it, start walking one foot directly in front of the other in the direction you’d take the highway from your old office in Chicago to your house there. The distance in steps is the first and fourth digits of your Social Security number.…
13
“I JUST made another grand,” Coleman said.
At some point, he’d realized that he was making a thousand dollars a minute on this job and had taken to calling out his income at regular intervals.
Rapp searched blindly for the Coke next to his lawn chair, lacking the energy to turn his head. A rare heat wave had pushed temperatures into the low nineties and caused a cloud of humidity to rise from the jungle and settle on their camp. Despite the shade from a chopper to their right and the baby pool their feet were soaking in, it was suffocating. Nothing like the dry heat of the Middle East.
His hand finally brushed the icy can and he brought it to his lips.
“While you were looking for your drink, I just made another five hundred bucks,” Coleman pointed out gleefully.
Rapp didn’t respond. There was no doubt that working for Nicholas Ward had its benefits. The money pretty much grew on trees, obviously. More than that, though, he was smart, reasonable, and knew when to stay out of the way.
Maybe it was the perfect job to usher in the next phase of his life. Profitable. Strategically interesting. No shooting. He had to admit it. A little dabbling in the private sector going forward wouldn’t be the worst thing.
“What do you think?” Coleman asked after a long silence.
“About what?”
“Chism.”
“He’s dead. And even if he’s not, he’s in too bad a shape to follow those instructions.”
“He’d be motivated, though. And he’s a genius.”
“Yeah,” Rapp said noncommittally.
All of the caches were in place, each containing food, medical supplies, a couple of bottles of Gatorade, and water purification tablets. Most critical, though, was the satellite phone.
There were still a few choppers dropping maps at the boundary of what they’d calculated to be Chism’s maximum range, but that would be done by sunset. Afterward, it would be nothing but lawn chairs, coolers full of soft drinks, and a thousand dollars a minute.
“I’m having charcoal grills flown in later,” Coleman said. “And some meat. Do you have a preference?”
“Maybe a rib eye?”
“No problem. How long are you planning on staying?”
It was a good question. He’d agreed to the job for Irene’s sake, so he had to make an effort. But he also had a fledgling family and a couple of ten-thousand-dollar bikes waiting for him in Cape Town. Coleman was certainly capable of handling an operation like this on his own. It’s what he and his guys did.
“A couple more days. Then you can milk it for as long as Ward will keep writing checks.”
“If I can drag it out another couple of weeks, I might buy a place in Greece. You know, one of those white houses that hangs off a cliff and overlooks the ocean? I’ve always liked Greece. Good olives.”
After ten minutes of silence the phone lying in the dirt between them started to ring and they both looked down at it. The screen was flashing Cache 9.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Coleman muttered as Rapp picked up.
“Yeah?”
While it was vaguely possible that one of Auma’s men had stumbled upon a cache, the idea that they could make this call was far-fetched. The number included digits from Chism’s mother’s birthdate.
“This is David Chism. Who’s this?”
He honestly didn’t even sound that bad. A little breathless and hoarse, but that was about it.
“The guy who’s going to pull you out. Lie down on the ground, don’t move, and don’t make any noise. We’ll be over your position in…” He paused and glanced over at Coleman, who was holding up eight fingers. “Eight minutes.”
“What about my people?”
“What?”
“My people. They’re still alive but they’re not with me. One’s not going to make it much longer.”
“Shut up, David. You’re making too much noise. We’re on our way and once you’re safe, we’ll go back for the others.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“You’re not government. I’ve seen your helicopters. You’re mercenaries. And I’m your payday. If you want your money, you pick up all three of us at the same time.”
“Don’t be stupid, David. What incentive do I have to leave them out there? I get paid by the hour.”
“I’ll call you when I get back to them and give you instructions on how to get there.”
The phone went dead.
“What?” Coleman said.
Rapp shook his head and reached for another Coke. “Nothing’s ever easy.”
14
“WE’RE taking fire,” a voice said over Rapp’s headphones. “Permission to return it.”
“Only if it’s focused and absolutely necessary,” Rapp responded. “We have friendlies on the ground, and we don’t know exactly where they are.”
Their entire complement of choppers was in the air, skimming the trees over the search area and occasionally lowering lines to the ground. The idea was to make it impossible for Gideon Auma’s men to discern the real rescue from the decoys. Not a perfect plan, but the best they could implement under the circumstances.
Fred Mason was keeping their aircraft well above the canopy and out of range of any potential small arms fire. They had coordinates for their target, but the chances of being able to land were low. Apparently, David Chism was hunkered down in a shallow cave halfway up one of the seemingly endless mount
ains in the area.
“I think I see it,” Mason said over the comm. “Three prominent rocky bands, just like you said.” As they passed overhead, a human form emerged from a curtain of foliage hanging from a cliff face. Chism gazed up at them, waving his arms over his head a couple of times before disappearing again.
“How are we looking?” Rapp asked.
“I think the description was even more optimistic than we thought. Forget landing, I can’t even get close enough to drop you down without putting my rotors into the rock face.”
“I’m not interested in problems, Fred. Give me solutions.”
“We can toss a rope out. If you rappel about forty feet down it, I can probably swing you onto the ledge. When you hit, though, you’ll have to disengage fast as hell. Otherwise, you’ll get dragged back off.”
Rapp looked down at the loose, rocky slope that was his potential landing zone. “That’s a lot of ‘abouts’ and ‘probablys,’ Fred.”
“Relax. There’s definitely a nonzero chance you won’t die.”
“Great. Okay, swing around again. Let’s do this before someone starts shooting at us.”
Rapp slung a tired-looking AK-47 over his shoulder before connecting a rope to the belay device on his harness. Mason’s copilot came back to help him put on a ragged backpack and then used a marker to blacken a section of the rope.
“That’s about forty feet,” she said, slapping him encouragingly on the back before returning to the cockpit.
Rapp stared into the blinding sunlight for a few seconds, then put his boots on the edge of the open door and rappelled to the designated mark. After that, there wasn’t much he could do but dangle helplessly as the chopper began a collision course with the cliff. Fred Mason was unquestionably the best in the business. Hopefully, it would be enough.
When it seemed certain they were going to crash, the chopper reared back, sending Rapp swinging out from beneath it. He hit the ground harder than anticipated, dazing him badly enough that his fingers were incapable of disengaging the rappel device connecting him to the aircraft. He finally managed to release the brake but continued to be dragged toward the drop-off by the friction of the rope passing through the mechanism. It cracked like a whip when it finally cleared, the end contacting Rapp’s forearm and leaving a deep gash.