Covert Action

9 Danger Close

The American Embassy in Lusaka was a large complex on the corner of Independence Avenue and United Nations Avenue. In spite of the impressive address, it was still an armed compound, as were most American embassies in Africa. The morning was quickly warming, and a brief shower had momentarily purged the streets of the ever-present stench of sewage and decay. Across from the embassy at a sidewalk café, a waiter had just brought Judy Burks a pot of tea. Both of them were steaming. She had just come from the embassy, and had taken shelter at the café to wait out the rain and try to figure out what to do next. Per her instructions, she had presented herself at the embassy gate at ten o’clock that morning to see the ambassador. First she was made to stand outside for close to half an hour while the marine sentry hit on her. She was then thoroughly searched and finally, after signing in at the guest registry, allowed to enter the main building. There she waited for another half hour before an embassy staffer came to ask what she wanted. She presented her FBI shield and credentials and informed him that she was there on official business, and it was important that she meet with the ambassador as soon as possible.

“He has a frightfully busy schedule. Could you please tell me what this is about?” He was a first-tour Foreign Service officer who had graduated from Georgetown only the year before.

“I am here on Bureau business, and I have been given instructions to speak directly with the ambassador and the ambassador only. He should be expecting me.”

“Well, I don’t know about your instructions, Agent Burks,” the staffer said with a patient, there-there-little-girl attitude, “but we are instructed to screen all audiences with the ambassador, even official ones.”

“Please understand that I am here on official business. This is a classified matter,” she said tightly, “and one that involves national security.”

“I’m sorry, Agent Burks, but you will need to tell me exactly what this—”

“Excuse me, but as I have already told you, I am instructed to speak only with the ambassador. Does Ambassador Conrad even know that I’m here?”

The junior FSO sat up and regarded her coolly. “The ambassador is not in the habit of being notified about every single person—”

“Stop right there.” Suddenly she was on her feet. “I didn’t come halfway around the world to be hassled by the likes of you. I have a job to do, and you seem determined to keep me from doing it. In the meantime, Mr. Schoolcraft,” she said, squinting at his ID badge, “I suggest that you go back through your message traffic and look for my clearance. I’m authorized to speak only with the ambassador.” She rose and pulled on the bottom of her suit jacket as she took a deep breath. “I’ll be at the Intercontinental.” When you pull your head out of your ass, she almost added, but held back. She turned and headed for the door.

She took a cab from the café back to the Intercontinental and went straight to the bar, ordered a martini, and dialed Steven’s sat number. After a short wait, the ciphers clicked into place, and he came on the line. She explained what had happened at the embassy. Steven listened without comment.

“So what next?” she asked.

“Does the hotel where you are have a nice pool?”

“What!”

“I said, do they have a pool there at the hotel?”

“Well, yes, they do.”

“Good. Why don’t you take the day off and sit by the pool. Take in some sun and treat yourself to a cocktail.”

“Uh, I’m already working on the last one.”

“Good. Let me make a call or two, and why don’t you plan on returning to the embassy again tomorrow. Maybe things will turn out differently.”

“You think so?”

“Perhaps. We need to bring the ambassador into this, but whether it’s today, tomorrow, or the next day doesn’t really matter. Go enjoy yourself, and give it a try tomorrow.”

Judy rang off and turned her attention to her martini. She sipped cautiously at her drink, noticing that a man having lunch a few stools down was watching her. He wore a poorly tailored suit, and must have just come from the airport, as his bag was sitting on the tiled floor by his stool.

“What?” she said, a little too loudly, and he immediately went back to his lunch.

She took Steven’s advice and spent the day by the pool, reading magazines. The next morning at 10:00 A.M. sharp, she presented herself to the same marine lance corporal at the gatepost. She wore makeup, but it didn’t quite mask the raccoon look she had acquired from falling asleep in the sun by the pool with her sunglasses on. This time there was a sergeant alongside the corporal at the gate. Both snapped to attention, and each rendered her a parade-ground salute.

“Good morning, Miss Burks,” the senior marine offered. “I’m Gunnery Sergeant Hallasey, ma’am, and I’m to be your escort. If you will just come with me, my orders are to take you directly to Ambassador Conrad’s office. We’ll bypass the security and sign-in this morning. You’re good to go.”

She followed him inside and up to the second floor. Without hesitation or any word of announcement they strolled past Mr. Schoolcraft, intently working at his desk. He never looked up. The marine sergeant opened the heavy wooded door to Ambassador Donald Conrad’s office, allowing it to swing inward. He again snapped up a salute.

“You have a nice day, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” she replied, and added quietly, “It’s already looking better.”

The large black man who came around the desk was dressed in a crisp white shirt, red tie, dark pleated slacks, and polished black shoes. He was a fit, handsome, younger version of James Earl Jones — same deep, gravelly voice. Judy had envisioned an overweight political hack; this man was anything but that. The ambassador held out a chair for her in front of the desk. She formally handed him her credential. He studied it with measured care and handed it back to her.

“First of all, Miss Burks, let me apologize for yesterday. That said, I now understand that your visit was to be low-key, and that your business is with me alone. The message we received a few days ago announcing your arrival was of routine precedence and routed to one of the junior staff. I now gather that your business here is not purely routine.” He folded his hands on the desk, looking very ambassadorial. “Please understand, I run a good embassy here. It’s not London or Paris, or even Nairobi for that matter, but we do our job. And I might add that this is the first time I’ve been woken in the middle of the night and had my butt chewed by the Secretary of State.” He handed her an official card across the desk. “My private number is on the back. In the future, should any of my staff not be up to the task, call me directly, day or night. Now, what is it that I can do for you?”

“First, I should apologize for any inconvenience to you,” she began. “Given the closely held nature of the matter that brought me here, I have very few official points of contact up the chain of command. I am sorry it came to your attention in the manner that it did. I’m here to brief you on an issue that is, for want of a better word, a matter of courtesy. I can tell you only that which is required should you have to function as the president’s representative. The situation is this. We have become aware of a serious weapons-of-mass-destruction threat in neighboring Zimbabwe. As we speak, a small, covert paramilitary force is being launched from Zambia to investigate this threat and take action. I don’t want to seem overly dramatic, or oblique for that matter, but this force operates independently of the U.S. government. They have no official portfolio, but their involvement is a closely held and guarded understanding with our government. My relationship with this force is strictly that of a liaison officer.” That triggered a flashback to Garrett’s clandestine visit to her room the night before last, and she could feel a blush surfacing through her sunburn. She paused and cleared her throat. “It was decided at the very highest level that you and you alone were to be made aware of the situation, since the force is being infiltrated from Zambia, and controlled from here. As I understand it, if things go as planned, no one will even know that they were even here. However, if all does not go well, our government will officially deny any knowledge of the event. As I mentioned, I am here to extend a courtesy so that if something does go wrong, you can be properly surprised and privately not be caught unaware of the situation.” She paused for a moment. “Just between you and me, this kind of unconventional activity would not be taking place if there was not a significant risk to our national security. Past that, you just gotta have faith.”

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. “I’m not sure I have that kind of faith, Miss Burks,” Conrad replied, “but I do have my instructions. I assume the information that you have shared with me so far is the extent of what I am allowed to know?”

“That is correct, sir.”

Another silence. “Do you require anything more of me or the embassy and my staff?”

“No, sir. I will contact you again if I am directed to pass along any more information. You will hear from me by phone, or if there needs to be another face-to-face meeting, I’ll ask for another appointment. Hopefully, the next time we talk I will be informing you that this force has completed its mission and is no longer in Zambia.”

Ambassador Conrad slowly shook his head, deep in thought. “I have a thousand questions, Miss Burks.” He sighed and exhaled his concern through steepled fingers. “But I’ll only ask one. Can I at least provide you with an embassy car to return you to your hotel or wherever you may need to go?”

“No, thank you, sir,” she said, rising and offering him her hand. “I’ll catch a cab.”

That same afternoon, a file of fourteen men made their way up yet another escarpment of the Mavuradonha Mountains and down into yet another drainage. The Mavuradonha Range forms the backbone of Zimbabwe and is part of what is known as the Great Dyke, which runs along the same fault line as the Great Rift Valley. The file of men had long since left the lower reaches of the Mana Pools National Park area along the Zambezi and were now crossing some of the most rugged terrain in Africa. This was the easiest and hardest part of the journey. It was easy, in the sense that this mountainous part of the Mavuradonha Wilderness Area was totally uninhabited. Centuries ago it had been a part of the Bushman and Monomatapa empires, but now it was a restricted wilderness area. Aside from isolated ancient ruins, the only vestige of civilization was the Kopje Tops Lodge, a rustic bush lodge used by the few safari concessions that lead treks into the Mavuradonhas during the dry season. Now the lodge and the few outlying bush camps were deserted. But the going was hard. In some places it was hand-over-head scaling rock outcrops, and on climbing lines to descend from steep areas. On top of the ridgelines they halted briefly to plan their next descent, and at the bottom of the ravines they strung lines to safely cross the fast-moving streams. Every two hours, they paused for about twenty minutes. Two men remained awake while the others simply squatted on their heels, and with heads on folded arms across their knees, fell immediately asleep.

The file moved for the most part in a straight line toward the objective, as there were no man-made roads and few game trails. They walked on a compass bearing, periodically checking their position by GPS and on computer-generated topographical maps. The task of their point man was only to make the job of the others a little easier. A Ndorobo and a skilled tracker, he moved well in any terrain, and ranged out in front of the laboring column. Periodically he dropped back in to speak with Tomba, pointing to where a game trail might make the going a little easier for a short while or where there was a detour around a rocky outcropping. Occasionally they would flush a bushpig or a small pack of wild dogs, but the miombo woodland birds were always with them. They heard cheetah, but never saw one of the elusive cats. The only real danger was from the thorns of the acacia trees while moving at night. They only had forty miles of terrain to cross, but they had to walk twice that, dealing with the elevation gains and losses and negotiating their way around obstacles.

Each man in the fourteen-man patrol carried between fifty and sixty pounds of gear. In addition to rations, sleeping poncho, and personal weapons, they were all laden with ammunition. Since there was no local population, there was no need to dress like locals. They wore a combination of standard special operations combat dress, modified to carry their individual load across the mountains, and bush-fighter clothing of their own choosing. All wore leather gloves and had short machetes and garden pruning shears to get through the brush. Most wore Danner jungle boots, but a few, including the Ndorobo scout, wore velskoen, three-quarter boots with heavy hide soles, a favorite among bush fighters. At dawn of their second full day on the trail, they arrived on a ridge that peered into the mana or valley they were seeking. The Makondo Hotel rested in the lower reaches of this drainage. The travel would be easier as they descended into the valley. The force was now only three hours’ steady march from the target. AKR quickly set up an antenna and aimed it in the general direction of a geosynchronous satellite that patiently waited 22,000 miles above the earth. The antenna was needed for data transmission. He slipped on the earphone-boom mic appliance and hit the autodial on the Blackberry display. It was answered on the second ring.

“Owens, here,” came the reply, as clear as a number dialed in an urban area.

“Hello, Bill. It’s AKR; is Janet there?”

“Akheem. Good to hear your voice. Wait a sec, and I’ll get her.”

A few moments later her voice crackled over the headset. “Brisco here.”

“Janet, this is AKR. We just arrived at Point Bravo. GPS has us about two and a half miles from the objective. Tomba wants to rest his men for a few hours before we begin our approach.”

“How are the men holding up?”

“It was a walk in the park for them, but I’m a little tired. Tomba feels we will have the target in sight within a few hours of leaving here, but they will take that much time or more to cover the last four hundred meters. Depending on what we find as we approach the target, we will be ready for the assault just before first light tomorrow. Any more intelligence?”

“Nothing concrete,” she replied, “but the recent satellite passes show increased vehicular activity, and we have found two more weapons emplacements at grid D-11 and M-6. They should be plotted on your download. M-6 looks to be a machine gun dug in near and above the helo pad.”

“Understand D-11 and M-6. We’ll put them in the assault plan. When do you launch the bird?”

“About zero nine hundred your time, so it will be overhead late afternoon for the duration.”

“And the packages?”

“The packages are aboard.”

“Excellent. I’ll check in when we’ve established a forward observation post later today. Still enjoying the camping trip?”

She ignored his last question, but he noticed her voice had softened. “I’ll relay all this to Steven and Garrett. Be careful, and good luck to all.”

“Good-bye, Janet.”

“Good-bye, Akheem.”

That was the first time, he reflected as he restowed the antenna, that she had called him Akheem. Normally it was Kelly-Rogers, or something less endearing. Perhaps, he mused, a little time in the bush, even a bush camp, was softening some of her edges.

At dawn Alfred brought coffee, rolls, and fresh fruit to a small portable table near the riverbank. The sun was just peeking over the Mavuradonha Mountains, giving the Zambezi a touch of gold before its return to its normal light chocolate color. Dr. Elvis Rosenblatt arrived at the table fresh from eight hours of solid, uninterrupted sleep, scrubbed and freshly turned out in tan walking shorts and a clean bush jacket. Garrett had been up for over four hours and had probably slept no more than that the previous night. He was wearing what he had on the night before. In fact, he had slept poorly ever since Tomba, AKR, and the others had crossed the Zambezi and begun their trek into Zimbabwe. His need to be with the assault element had been so great that he had almost petitioned Steven to let one of the Africans stay with Rosenblatt, masquerading as his native guide. But he hadn’t. It made sense that he stay with Rosenblatt, and bring him to the party at the right time. Yet that was just a small part of it. The real reason was that his presence would undercut AKR’s role as the ground controller and Tomba’s role as assault leader. This band of Africans were proud of their ability to fight, and a white man in their midst would be an affront to that pride. It was a matter of trust. And finally, while they did not expect to encounter anyone in this uninhabited area, a white face would only raise questions. As Alfred withdrew, Garrett stood with his hands thrust deep into his cargo shorts, gazing out across the Zambezi, into the mountains.

“Will you come and sit down, for Christ’s sake? You’re making me nervous.”

Garrett turned from the river and slumped into a canvas chair. His eyes were red slits from the lack of sleep, and he hadn’t shaved in two days. Gratefully he poured himself a steaming cup of coffee.

“Y’know, you look like shit. If we’re supposed to be on a safari vacation, you’re blowing our cover, big-time.”

Garrett shrugged and then grinned. “You’re right. I guess I’m just not good at waiting while there is a team in the field.”

“What are they doing now, or is that still a secret?” Rosenblatt had been told little of the tactics of the operation, only that he would be brought in when the objective was physically secure and the issues before them were medical in nature.

“They should be in the mountains above the hotel complex about now. They will rest for a while, then make their way down to predetermined observation posts this afternoon. From there, they will move into position for the final assault, which is scheduled for just before dawn tomorrow.”

“You say those mountains are rugged?”

“Some of the most challenging terrain in Africa,” Garrett replied.

“There has to be a road into this place. Why didn’t they just sneak up the road at night? Probably a lot of guards, huh?”

“You can bet on it. Did you see the movie Lawrence of Arabia?” Rosenblatt nodded. “Lawrence and his desert tribes were heavily outnumbered and outgunned by the Turks at Aqaba, but they won a decisive victory. Know how they managed it?”

“They came in from behind them, from the desert?” Rosenblatt ventured.

“Exactly. The Turks thought they would attack from the sea — that no force could cross that desert. So they fortified the harbor defenses and left the back door open. It was the same for the British in Singapore; they relied on the jungles of Malaya to defend Singapore from the north. So the large British garrison surrendered to a much smaller Japanese force. Sixty thousand men, and they surrendered almost without a fight. So you see, surprise is everything. The men that will soon be creeping down that escarpment to the hotel will be outnumbered four to one. As far as we know, the security force there is not expecting an attack, but if they are, they will look for one along the access road — at least, that’s the theory. If we achieve surprise, we will do well. Surprise and a few other goodies we have in store for them.”

“These guys, the ones who are going to do this — they pretty good, are they?”

“The best.”

“Think they can do it without you?”

Garrett grinned again. “Oh, yeah. They don’t need me to be there half as much as I need me to be there. They’ll get along just fine.”

“Then why don’t you finish your coffee, have a crumpet, and go get yourself a shave and a shower, and find some clean clothes.”

“Is that the doctor’s advice?”

“That’s the doctor’s advice.”

Garrett drained his cup and grabbed a piece of fruit as he stood up and stretched. “I respect your medical opinion; I’ll do just that.”

When he returned a half hour later, he found Steven Fagan in his seat, with Benjamin squatting a few feet away in the shade. Benjamin was dressed as a laborer, and Steven had his CAPA identification card in a laminated carrier clipped to his shirt pocket. Garrett shook hands with Steven, waving him back into the seat as he dropped to his heels next to Benjamin, greeting him, to Benjamin’s surprise, in Bemba. Steven thoughtfully sipped his coffee, then turned his attention to the others. They were quite alone sitting along the bank of the river, yet he still addressed them in a guarded voice.

“The assault force made the mountain crossing without incident and are now about two and a half miles to the northwest of the hotel complex. They’ll rest the balance of the morning before moving into position for the final thrust. All indications are that they are undetected although there seems to be some stepped-up activity around the main hotel building itself. If all goes as planned, the bird will be here to pick you up about midnight. If they are detected, they will attack immediately, so you had best be ready to move by midafternoon, just in case. All else is in place. Dr. Rosenblatt, please be assured that we will not put you on the ground until the complex is secure.”

“I understand,” Rosenblatt said. “And the equipment is ready to go?”

Steven glanced at his watch. “The portable equipment is aboard the helicopter, which is now waiting at the Jeki airstrip. The backup gear you wanted will be standing by in case you need it. Hopefully you won’t; we’d like to get in and out of there as quickly as possible, but we won’t leave until you are finished with your investigation. From here, it will take about fifty-five minutes to get to the staging area. From there it will be another ten-minute flight to the objective. Any other questions?” There were none. “Good. Then we wait while the men on the ground do their job. But let me say again, Doctor, that we appreciate your part in all this. If this is what we believe it to be, then your work will be critical.” He looked around. “I trust you haven’t been inconvenienced by having to wait it out in this little safari camp? It seems to be a great deal more accommodating than our bush camp by the airstrip.”

Steven again wished them well, and he and Benjamin made their way back toward the battered pickup truck. He stopped by the Chiawa Camp office to pick up a handful of brochures before they drove back to the Jeki airstrip.

“Hello, fellow campers. May we join you?”

As they had done the previous mornings, Clark and Maria Gerhardt joined them early on to talk about the day’s activity. The Gerhardts were from the San Francisco Bay Area. This was their third safari to Africa, only this time they had brought their two sons, Nicholas and Miguel, along. They were the only other North Americans at Chiawa Camp. The Gerhardts, proficient photographers, found the two Canadian businessmen eager to learn game photography. The boys, nine and eleven, showed no interest in exotic wild animals and were content to chase about the camp, playing with the native children of the camp attendants.

“I hope we aren’t intruding,” Clark Gerhardt said. “We saw you had a visitor.”

“Not at all,” Garrett said. “Just a contractor from Toronto out here to help with the electrical power system. We Canadians keep a lookout for each other. Please, sit down.” Alfred had anticipated their arrival with a plate of fresh fruit and another carafe of coffee.

“Are we ready to go after that black rhino today?” Maria Gerhardt asked as she took a seat. “Our guide said they spotted several of them just across the Chonga River in the Game Management Area. If we can get a rhino, we’ll have done the big five.” The big five were elephant, lion, leopard, buffalo, and rhinoceros. “You fellows are bringing us luck. We’ve never done the big five on a single trip.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to go without us today,” Garrett said. “Greg is having some stomach problems. He was up most of last night with a case of the trots. I think we’ll stay in camp today.” Rosenblatt shot him a questionable look.

“So sorry to hear that,” she replied, turning her attention and sympathies to Rosenblatt, who was now doing his best to look like a diarrhea victim.

“Tough luck, old man,” Clark said empathetically. “It can take it out of you. I know from personal experience. You sure you won’t join us, John?” he said to Garrett. “Perhaps Alfred can see to him.”

“Thanks,” Garrett replied, “but I better stick around. He was pretty sick last night.”

The Gerhardts left with their guide later that morning, but not before Maria Gerhardt returned with a bottle of medicine. She would not be persuaded to leave until Elvis Rosenblatt, aka Greg Wood, had taken a spoonful of the dark, vile-tasting liquid while Garrett Walker, aka John Naye, looked on with benevolent approval.

For the past week, Guardian Systems International and the Joseph Simpson Jr. Foundation had been working on a jointly sponsored project. GSI had a short and successful history in adapting military drone aircraft for basic security work. They had contracts, bid well below their cost, to provide surveillance for large, high-security government facilities like the Idaho National Engineering and Environmental Laboratory and the Air Force secret test facility known as site 51 in southern Nevada. A single drone or unmanned aerial vehicle, UAV for short, could survey large tracts of land and sound an alarm if there were intruders on the property. These facilities were still patrolled by military units and contract security forces, but if the concept proved out, the drones could eventually replace costly vehicle patrols and electronic sensors.

Their work in Africa was a pilot program to see if drone aircraft could help with the tracking of game herds. In addition, sensors aboard the UAVs could collect a host of migratory and environmental data to help with wildlife and game management. Given the growing sophistication of these sensor packages, it was envisioned they might also be able to spot poachers and direct park rangers and army units to intercept these outlaws. Poachers with automatic weapons were still the biggest threat to the elephant and rhino populations in Africa. Each morning one of the two UAVs took off from Kilimanjaro International Airport and began to make a long, lazy figure eight over Kenya and Tanzania. Soon the air traffic controllers began to ignore the slow, high-flying aircraft. The drones were easily able to stay aloft for a full twenty-four hours. They used a blend of synthetic aperture radar and electro-optical sensors during the daylight and primarily relied on infrared imagery at night. The drones were, in the words of the attending technicians, maintenance pigs that required an hour of work for every hour in the air. But once in the air, they had proved highly reliable. By working in shifts, the ground crew was able to get one of their two drones airborne moments after the other landed.

The surveillance project was not cheap. Each Global Hawk UAV carried a price tag of $15 million. Along with the two supporting C-130Js at $70 million a copy, and the various support equipment, there was close to a quarter of a billion dollars tied up in the project. Several of the technicians tending the two Global Hawks had only two years earlier been tracking enemy tanks and SAM batteries during Operation Iraqi Freedom. These were men who were, in the words of the supervising GSI program manager, queer for the gear. It didn’t matter if they were tracking an Iraqi armored personnel column or a herd of giraffe. For them it was a grand video game. In the spring of 2003, these talented technicians and their sophisticated UAVs not only generated tactical targeting information but provided fast-look target assessment of designated weapons impact points to lower civilian casualties. The Global Hawks were essentially low-hanging satellites. They could provide dramatic pre- and poststrike imagery as well as serve as a reliable communications relay platform.

Early that morning, Cheetah was rolled out of the small hangar provided by courtesy of the Kenyan government and given her preflight checks and avionics inspections. (One of the technicians was a Northwestern graduate and had put a wildcat decal on the bulbous nose of the drone, hence the name.) On this particular morning, two cylindrical packages were fitted to the bird, one under each wing. Each had an infrared sensor in the nose and looked benign enough, yet a few of the techs gave one another knowing looks. They could only assume it was some black government program that GSI had taken on to defray some of the cost of this venture. Fine. They were being paid, and paid well, to track critters, and track critters they would. It wasn’t as exciting as killing tanks, but many, especially the younger ones, felt it was a better use of the technology. Right after Antelope landed, Cheetah began her takeoff roll and gently lifted into the air. The launch/recovery team watched as it climbed out of sight.

The UAV took a leisurely thirty minutes to reach 50,000 feet, well above any commercial traffic. Cheetah headed east to the edge of the Masai Mara before turning south and crossing the Serengeti Plain. From there it continued south toward the Selous Game Reservation in southern Tanzania and set up in a lazy orbit just 150 miles from the Indian Ocean. The data began to stream in as Cheetah got her bearings and began to look for game movement on the ground. Up to that point, it had all been routine. Suddenly, the data link from the UAV was broken, and most of Cheetah’s electronic suite went silent. The tech on duty immediately called the GSI project manager.

“What’s the problem?” he asked as he climbed into the semitrailer that served as their mission control headquarters.

“I don’t know,” the senior controller on duty said. “The secondary indicators say that all avionics and flight control systems are fine, but I’ve lost the sensor datalink and navigational presentation. Looks like it’s still flying a racetrack over the Selous Reservation, but I can’t be sure. It’s almost like Cheetah has taken it into her head to do what she wants to do and not tell us about it.” The other techs in the van listened but said nothing.

The project manager put his hand on the controller’s shoulder. These were very smart people; you could withhold information from them, but it was unwise to lie to them or to try to fool them.

“That’s an interesting way to look at it,” the project manager said in a conversational tone. “Let’s, for now, just work on the assumption that she, in fact, has some other business to tend to. Perhaps when she finishes, she’ll check back in with us. Just keep monitoring the systems and let me know if anything changes.”

“Should we alert the air traffic control system that we’re having a problem with the UAV?” a tech asked.

“I don’t think that will be necessary. Let’s just keep an eye on things. Perhaps Cheetah will come home when she’s finished.”

After the project manager left, the watch team cast knowing glances about and returned to their scopes. Two of them, sensing that it would be a long wait, began to play pinochle.

Cheetah was not a particularly small cat, with a wingspan of 116 feet and a length of 44 feet, but she was amazingly quiet — electronically speaking. Her outer skin was made of a composite absorption compound that might not elude a military search radar, or even a Western air traffic control radar, but this was Africa. A man in another van some eleven hundred miles southwest gave a new set of instructions to Cheetah, and she was only too happy to comply. The UAV climbed to her maximum altitude of 65,000 feet, crossed Lake Malawi into Zambia, and flew down the Muchinga Mountain Range, neatly bisecting the distance between Lubumbashi, Zaire, and the Malawi capital of Lilongwe. The controllers at those local airports saw nothing that caused them alarm. Staying well west of Lusaka and north of Harare, she descended to 40,000 feet and took station, unnoticed, over the Mavuradonha Mountains.

While the others rested, the Ndorobo scout made his way down the escarpment that led into the valley of the Makondo Hotel. He did not approach the structure, but observed from a rise above the hotel complex for a long while. His name, or the one he answered to, was Robert. His task was to find an easy, quiet route by which to bring the others down. Like most who had learned tracking from their fathers and uncles, Robert did not seem to need sleep, and when he did, fifteen minutes was as good as several hours. Most trackers knew the land but had difficulty in relating the ground they saw to the features on a map. Robert could do both. When he made his way back into the security perimeter of the little force, he went straight to Tomba, who greeted him in Masai; the Ndorobo language is almost extinct. AKR joined them.

“Our best line of march is to follow this stream drainage down from here,” Robert said in English as he ran his finger along a sharp break in the contour lines of the computer-generated map. “At this bend, the bed of the stream cuts to the right of the shallow plateau where the hotel is located. If we leave the streambed here and break into our attack groups, we can easily move close behind and to the side of the complex.”

“And you saw no security precautions along this line of approach?” AKR asked.

“No, Nkosi, but then per my instructions, I did not get too close. I was able to see the sentries along the road and observe some of them as they came and went into the small, flat building that seems to be their headquarters. From what I saw, it is my belief that they are guarding against a threat along the road — against a force that would approach along the road that serves this hotel.”

“We have learned of two additional gun emplacements, here and here,” Tomba said. “Could you see anything of them?”

Robert studied the map, mentally overlaying what he had seen from his perch above the hotel on the map laid out before them. “I saw only one. It was an RPD emplacement with a good field of fire to cover the helicopter pad. They have not taken the time to properly conceal it. I was not able to see the other one. Of the other three that are on the map, I saw only two. The one here is also an RPD, and the one near the guard post by the road is a fifty-caliber machine gun. And again, they are manned, but from what I could see, they are sloppy and inattentive to their duties. It seems,” he added without emotion, “that many of them are our old comrades. But as I have said, they are lax and not attending properly to their duties.”

“Thank you, Robert,” AKR said. “We are indeed fortunate to have a scout with such keen eyes and good judgment.”

Tomba thanked him in Masai and squeezed his arm. Robert withdrew to where his pack and weapon were resting; he had taken neither on his scouting mission. Tomba and AKR leaned over the map.

“It would seem that they are not on high alert, nor are they expecting us to approach from this direction,” Tomba said. “Unless there is a change, we may achieve total surprise.”

AKR nodded, studying the map. It appeared that the long march across the mountains had served them well. When he looked up at Tomba, he saw in his eyes a warrior’s fierceness that had not been there a few moments ago. He was a man who expected a fight, even welcomed it.

“Robert spoke of old comrades,” he said gently. “Will that be a problem?”

Tomba smiled. “We Africans, as you collectively call us, have always fought among ourselves — tribe against tribe, the people of one river valley against another. Since the colonial wars, it has often been brother against brother. Which is better — or worse? To choose the side on which you will fight, or to fight on the side on which you were born? We have made our choice. Those who guard the hotel have made theirs. That we may have at one time fought on the same side or shared a fire together is of no concern. The issue now will be how well you fight for the side you have chosen. Perhaps this is as close as we Africans get to democracy, at least in this lifetime.” He smiled, raising his M-4 rifle from between his knees. “We vote with this.”

“Then we prepare for battle,” AKR said, surprising himself at the emotion in his voice. He had always prided himself on being an Englishman and a professional military soldier. But here, with these men, he felt a strange sense of savagery, and in spite of himself, he found it pleasingly intoxicating. Akheem Kelly-Rogers was no stranger to combat, but he knew this was to be different. Still, amid this new, infectious near-lust for combat, he knew that technology and unit discipline would be key in overcoming the odds against them. How easy it would be, he admitted to himself, to simply give himself over to the fight — to allow himself to be carried forward on a rush of adrenaline. But that was not his role. He took a deep breath and mentally projected their small force around the hotel complex, positioned for the assault. Then he asked Tomba to assemble the men around the map.

“We are here,” he began, “and this is our objective. Robert has found a way to the target from our current location, a route that will take us there while masking our approach. Now, for the last time, we will go over our movement to the target and review our actions once we have broken into the assault groups.”

AKR spoke softly and clearly for close to twenty minutes. Then he asked a man from each of the assault teams, not necessarily the team leader, to outline his duties when the attack began. Looking around the circle of warriors, he knew that they were ready; they would carry out the mission, or they would die trying — or both. After a radio check with their personal transceivers, the men shrugged into their packs and checked their weapons. Then Tomba called them in close.

“My brothers, we have worked and trained together, and Nkosi Akheem has given us the tools to succeed. Remember what we have learned and use these things well. But do not forget that when the battle is upon us, the victory will belong to those warriors with the greatest hearts. When that time comes, remember your training and fight hard. Then it will be victory or death, my brothers.”

“Victory or death,” they echoed as one, with quiet determination. And as one, they turned and looked to AKR.

“Victory or death,” he repeated, his voice charged with emotion. “It is a privilege to go into battle with warriors such as you. Together, we will win the day. Thank you for counting me as one of your own. I am deeply honored.”

Tomba nodded to Robert, and he led them down from the escarpment toward the Makondo Hotel.

Late that afternoon, François Meno found Helmut Klan in the bar, a small box in a plain brown paper wrapping under his arm. It seemed, Meno noted, that his colleagues on the clinical staff began drinking a little earlier each day. Klan was having a schnapps at a quiet table in the corner with Hans Lauda. These Krauts stick together, Meno thought. He didn’t entirely trust them. That Lauda was put in charge of the medical team had at first angered him, but given the administrative duties of the team leader, Meno had been content to assume the role of primary researcher. Klan was a bureaucrat and Lauda, at best, a medical cheerleader. He, Meno, was responsible for the development of the pathogen, and they all knew it. And after all, there would be no credit given for this effort in the medical journals. The money was important, but Meno still felt cheated by the lack of recognition. No matter, the Frenchman reasoned. After the pandemic he developed had ravaged North America — perhaps the world — then he, the brilliant François Meno, would come to the rescue. Meanwhile he would have to deal with these German cretins, Klan and Lauda.

“Ah, François,” Klan said as he approached. “Please join us. Hans here was just telling me that we will soon be ready to ship our product.”

Our product, indeed, Meno thought. “More than ready, Helmut.” He tossed an eight-by-ten-by-six-inch package on the table. “Here it is. There are fifteen hypodermic syringes filled with toxin and ready for injection — a few extras in case some of them are mishandled. They are standard dosages of two milliliters for ease of administration. Not nearly that much is required, since the pathogen is, by design, quite contagious. Only a few microbes is enough to create an infection.” The two men sat staring at it. Meno chuckled at them. “There you have it, meine Herren, all in a shock-resistant container.”

He took up the package and tossed it to Klan, who juggled it, almost spilling his drink, before wrestling it to his lap. The surprised and rattled project director took the package and gently returned it to the table.

“That’s — that’s wonderful, François. So it’s finished; it’s all here?”

Meno permitted himself a condescending smile. “That’s right, gentlemen. The civilized world’s worst nightmare, all in that single small container.”

“Marvelous,” Lauda said, “simply marvelous. You are to be congratulated. Without your effort and skill, this would not have been possible. Shall we call it the Meno Pox?” Lauda knew Meno needed to be stroked, and he was not without a sense of humor.

“Charming thought, Hans, but I think not. No, it is done; I am done, and I want no more to do with it. I will need a few hours to clean out the lab spaces and to pack my things. I will be ready to leave this godforsaken place by tomorrow afternoon.” He looked at Klan. “Now that you have your epidemic, I assume we are free to leave?”

“Of course. I will see to the arrangements, but we will probably not be able to get you out of here until the morning after tomorrow. First,” Klan said, nodding to the package on the table, “I must deal with this. Those who pay us are anxiously awaiting delivery.”

Suddenly Lauda, who was on his second schnapps, began to clang on the side of his glass with a knife. “Your attention,” he said as he pushed himself to his feet. “May I have your attention, please. Achtung, for those of you from the fatherland.” He raised his glass. “It seems our project is complete; our mission here in the Heart of Darkness, finished. Please raise your glass to a successful effort and to our imminent return to civilization. Gentlemen, a toast.”

“Here, here!”

“To success!”

“To going home!”

There was a round of clinking glasses, and several of those in white coats made for the bar to recharge their drinks. François Meno merely rose and excused himself. He had a single bottle remaining from the case of Petrus 1996 Pomerol Bordeaux he had brought with him when they arrived almost six weeks ago. Tonight he would enjoy it in the privacy of his room while he packed his things. But before that, there were still a few matters he must attend to in the lab.

After a second round of toasts, Helmut Klan sat looking at the box for several moments. He rose and tucked it under his arm. There was still time to get it out that evening, and have it aboard the last flight out of Harare. But that meant trusting it to the roads at night. Or he could send it out the following morning. Either way, the sooner it got to its destination, the sooner they would be paid. Back in his room, he placed a call to the mysterious Maurice Baudo. Baudo told him to get the package to the airport in Harare as soon as possible, taking all precautions for its safe arrival. Helmut Klan was given explicit instructions on how and where someone from the lab was to meet with the courier who would be receiving the precious cargo.

In his Rome apartment, Pavel Zelinkow breathed a sigh of relief. It was 7:00 P.M., an hour behind Harare and all of Zimbabwe. All that remained now was to make a good delivery. When the product was in Riyadh, he would have fulfilled his commission, and he’d be done with this risky business. He poured himself a cognac and dialed a number in Harare. It was answered on the second ring. He gave the man instructions in Arabic and had him repeat them back. He had personally chosen this man for this particular job. He was not an experienced courier, but for his purposes that was to the good. Cell phone intercepts by Western intelligence agencies had led to the capture or killing of a great many terrorists. So the terrorists, primarily Al Qaeda and their operatives, had taken to using couriers. Now those same intelligence agencies had begun targeting known couriers. Zelinkow’s man was a Saudi businessman, driven by his faith to put his services at the disposal of Al Qaeda. He traveled frequently in his work, but had never been used in an operational capacity. He was a perfect choice.

Zelinkow swirled the cognac in his glass a moment, savoring its aroma. He took a measured sip — excellent. Then he called Claude Renaud. The man had obviously been drinking, but when Renaud heard the voice of Georges Frémaux, he became instantly alert. Frémaux had Renaud repeat his instructions as well.

The rule of the Nyati was that they drank only beer when not on duty, but since it was his rule, he felt he could break it, and this evening he felt he needed something stronger. Claude Renaud stepped outside into the cool mountain air and took a flask from his pocket. It was gin, and he drank greedily. It was like dropping a burning coal into the pit of his stomach, but after the initial sensation, it seemed to steady him. He glanced around the hotel complex; all was quiet. The African night, like the dawn, came quickly. A faint afterglow still silhouetted the mountain to the west. There were lights burning in the main building, and the generators hummed as they kept a steady flow of power to the facility. Looking down the road, he could just make out the outline of the guard shack and the glimmer of a cigarette. Normally he would have stormed down and disciplined the offender; smoking while on guard duty was not allowed. But not tonight. It would be their last night here. The job was over, save for one final task that they were to complete tomorrow afternoon. He took one last look at the dark ridge of mountains that walled off the hotel from the valley that opened below and to the southwest. Then he pocketed his flask and went back inside the spa building.

At the bar he opened a beer and motioned for his white team leaders to join him. They all knew the project would soon be over, and while the pay was good, they were anxious to leave. Like Renaud, they didn’t know exactly what was going on inside the main hotel building, but they knew it was not good. These were hard men, but dragging people from their homes and subjecting them to medical experimentation was an unsavory business, even for them. And the whites knew that the blacks liked it even less than they did. Well, Renaud thought, the blacks will have their chance to make it right.

“I want the bar closed in an hour,” Renaud told his team leaders. “The job here is finished; we leave tomorrow afternoon. I want the lorries and transports packed out at first light. We’ll be on the move just after midday. From here we’ll go back to the training camp and demobilize. Everyone will be paid off there, and we’ll begin the repatriation from the camp.”

“What about the others?” one of his lieutenants said, jerking his head toward the hotel.

“They’re not our concern. Other arrangements are being made for them.” The lieutenant shrugged. “Now, if you’ll all get something in your glass, we’ll have a drink on it. Tomorrow we’ll be away from here and out of it. Gentlemen, you’ve done well. To you, the Renaud Scouts.”

The others mumbled an agreement and drank with their leader. There was nothing else to do. The blacks, while they had been told nothing, sensed that this was their last night in garrison and quietly passed out bottles of beer. The whites at the bar gradually left their leader and found their men. While they would never mingle with blacks in Capetown or Johannesburg, they were brothers while in the field, and the whites sought out their black teammates, almost in preference to other whites.

Renaud was again by himself. He desperately wanted another gulp of gin, but he resisted and poured himself a second beer. The instructions from Mr. Georges Frémaux had been clear. Before they left, they were to kill everyone in the hotel and burn it to the ground with the corpses inside. He smiled ruefully. It would be just like the old days, when the colonial powers and the Communists fought for control of southern Africa. Kill and burn, burn and kill. Frémaux had been very specific about not looting, but who would know? After all, the boys had earned it. Renaud pushed himself from the bar and headed for his quarters in the wing of the hotel reserved for himself and his men. He promised himself another tote of gin once he had packed out his kit.

At first, Robert led them down toward the Makondo Hotel at a brisk walk. When they closed to within a mile of the objective, he began to move at a much more cautious pace. He ranged out in front of the file, moving fifty to a hundred meters ahead while the others waited. Once well out in front, he would freeze like a gundog on point, using all his senses to look for danger or something out of place. When he was satisfied, he thumbed the transmit key on the pistol grip of his rifle.

“You may move,” he whispered into his boom mic.

“Moving,” came Tomba’s voice in his earpiece.

When the Africans came to the Kona training facility, they were already soldiers and competent bush fighters. Tomba had selected them for their experience and courage. But they were weak on teamwork and technology. Under AKR’s tutelage and Tomba’s firm hand, the teamwork came rather quickly, but most of the men were several generations behind in technology. At first there were problems with change — the transition from AK-47s to the M-4 rifles. Then they had to learn to use the M-4 rifle and attached M-203 grenade launcher as a weapons system. Most were good combat shooters and proficient at close-in fighting, but their long-range shooting skills needed work. They were good at setting ambushes, but they had to be taught fire-and-movement tactics, and the selective use of force and firepower. And there were a number of other technologies, most of them common to American special operations soldiers, they had to master. The complex assault plan drawn up by Tomba and AKR would challenge their newly learned skills. Fortunately, much of the advanced technology was highly user-friendly.

Just before dark, they reached a position four hundred meters from and just above the perimeter of the complex. There the men dissolved into four groups of three, with Tomba and AKR forming a fifth, two-man control element. They faded into the bush and waited in total silence for close to fifteen minutes — time enough for everyone to become accustomed to the sounds and smells near the hotel. Tomba called his four team leaders in close. He unfolded a map and orientated it in relation to the actual complex before them. The map glowed under the red hooded lens of his penlight.

“Here we are, and here are the buildings before us. Each of you has your assignment. Are there any questions?” No one spoke. “Good. And you know your route from here to your positions for the assault?” Tomba looked each of the four men in the eye as he nodded his assent. “Very well, we are ready. Trust your instincts, but listen to your radio; if contacted, do exactly as you are instructed, just as we did in training on Kona. We are warriors, so let us now be about the business of warriors.” He held their eyes a moment, then said quietly, “Awusipe namhla isinkwa.”

“Awusipe namhla isinkwa,” they murmured in return. It was a Zulu prayer for victory in battle—“Give us the day.”

The four three-man teams melted into the bush and began to move toward their objectives. True to their training and breeding, they moved like incense through bamboo, making no sound and leaving the ground over which they traveled undisturbed. After they were gone, AKR keyed his radio.

“Home Base, this is AKR, over.”

“Go ahead, AKR,” came Janet Brisco’s immediate response.

“Janet, AKR. Teams are away. Dodds should have them on the plot now, over.”

“Understand teams away, stand by.”

A moment later, Dodds LeMaster’s voice came over AKR’s headset. “Dodds here. I have you and the four teams. They should be on your presentation as well, over.”

AKR and Tomba crowded behind the notebook computer connected to a tiny six-inch wire-whip antenna. With the UAV overhead, there was no reason to look for a satellite. The picture was sharp and identical to the one LeMaster had before him on the large plasma monitor in the van. Their restriction was only the size of the presentation. Both the van and the men in the field had a real-time overhead presentation of the hotel complex, courtesy of Cheetah, silently prowling the sky some 25,000 feet over their heads. Overlaid on this real-time image was a computer-generated schematic of the facility. The known defensive gun emplacements and guard posts were marked on the schematic. There were five blips, one red and four yellow. The red blip was their location, and the four yellow ones marked the transponders carried by each of the four teams. Thanks to Dodds LeMaster’s modification of the surveillance program, while Cheetah circled above, the image remained stable and orientated to their position on the ground.

“We have a good picture, Dodds. How about a close-up of our posit?”

“Coming down,” Dodds replied.

The picture began to zoom down on their location as their red blip began to grow in size and fade in intensity. While Tomba stared in amazement, AKR looked up and waved. There he was on the Global Hawk candid camera.

“It is magic,” Tomba whispered.

“No,” AKR said with a grin, “it’s just our own personal video-games geek.”

“I heard that,” came a sharp voice over both their headsets, but it was laced with good humor. The image on the screen zoomed back out to include the yellow blips that were slowly moving around the perimeter of the Makondo complex. “What else can I do for you?”

“Keep an eye on the teams while we move into position. Let us know if anything develops. AKR out.”

“Good hunting, AKR. Dodds out.”

While Tomba led AKR closer to the hotel, Dodds LeMaster remained glued to his scope — zooming in, zooming out, searching the ground in front of the teams as they moved into position. Only once did he interfere.

“Senagal, this is Control, over.”

“Uh, this is Mohammed Senagal, over.” The voice was clear, but there was hesitation in it.

“Senegal, this is Control. Hold where you are. There is a roving sentry moving across your line of travel, left to right, ten o’clock to two o’clock. You should see him soon, over.”

A dubious Mohammed Senagal and his two men froze and waited. Soon an armed man came into view fifteen meters away, crossing their line of travel and disappearing along the perimeter of the complex.

“Senagal, Control. The way ahead appears clear. Proceed as you were, over.”

“This is Senegal. We are moving again. Thank you, Control.”

The three bush fighters exchanged a brief, incredulous look. They had rehearsed this at the Kona training facility, but only half believed this kind of thing was possible. They were beginning to be convinced, even the taciturn Mohammed Senagal.

“I can’t believe you’re still having a problem. This medicine was given to us by a Kikuyu tribal healer; he said it was made from fermented wildebeest parts. It’s always worked for us before. Maybe you should try a little more.” Maria Gerhardt stood poised over Elvis Rosenblatt, bottle and spoon in hand.

“Wildebeest parts, you say. Perhaps just one more dose,” Garrett offered, trying to suppress a smile.

“I think we might hold off for a bit,” Rosenblatt said, looking pointedly at Garrett. “This could be more serious than I thought. Perhaps it’s time to take our friend up on his offer for the use of the helicopter — before I get any worse. Yeah, I think it’s about that time.”

“Helicopter?” Maria asked, capping her medicine bottle and setting it aside.

“That’s right,” Garrett replied. “The gentleman who was here this morning said, if he wasn’t better by this evening, to call him. He has a helicopter at his disposal and offered to fly Greg out. Maybe we should go ahead and take him up on it.”

“You think?” Rosenblatt said, his voice laced with sarcasm.

“Well, it’s that, or more of Maria’s medicine.” Rosenblatt’s eyes narrowed. He came up on one elbow, and Garrett put a hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy, Greg. I’ll call him right now.”

It was well after dark when the Jet Ranger set down gently on the Chiawa Camp helo pad. John Naye and Clark Gerhardt helped a moaning Greg Wood into the cabin of the helo. The camp director had followed them anxiously to the pad. A sick guest was cause for concern — not for the health of the guest, but for the reputation of the camp. Alfred handed up their bags, and Garrett secured them in the rear of the cabin. The helicopter lifted into the night air and eased itself out over the Zambezi. The pilot ran along the riverbank to the west until he was several miles from the camp, but instead of turning north for Lusaka, he rolled the Jet Ranger on its left side and turned south across the dark river into Zimbabwe.

Clark and Maria Gerhardt stood on the pad for a while after the helo had left. “I can’t understand it, Clark. The medicine has always worked before. And he was such a healthy-looking man.”

Clark shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe he was just sick of Africa and wanted to get out of here. There are some people who are like that, you know. Boys asleep?” She nodded. “Then, c’mon, the moon won’t be up for a while, and the stars are at their best. Let’s go have a whiskey by the river. Tomorrow we’ll get our rhino.”

All the teams were in place when a quarter moon rose high enough to peer over the rim of the mountain ridge to the southeast and into the valley. It was just after midnight. Accepted special operations doctrine called for a thorough reconnaissance of an objective before conducting an assault. Thanks to the technology IFOR had at its disposal, the recon of the objective was done as the assault teams made their approach. Cheetah provided an eye in the sky that could monitor ground activity with amazing clarity. Dodds LeMaster maneuvered the drone over and around the Makondo complex to get diagonal as well as overhead looks at various emplacements around the facility. Depending on natural and artificial lighting conditions around the complex, Cheetah used a blend of optical, radar, and infrared sensors to gather specific target data. En route to their positions, the assault teams had each placed two or three remote video cameras along their route and, under AKR’s guidance, aimed them to cover various aspects of the complex. Once in place, the small mini-cams could be selectively interrogated, and the images displayed to AKR or flashed back to the two control vans where Dodds LeMaster, Janet Brisco, and Bill Owens had a near-total surveillance of the Makondo Hotel grounds. They visually patrolled the grounds, passing all movements to the men on the ground who waited at their assigned positions. One man in each of the four three-man assault teams had been assigned a combat support role. Two of them would serve as snipers, while the other two were armed with shoulder-fired rocket launchers. Their various perches had been selected to provide overlapping fields.

Tomba and AKR had positioned themselves on the rise right behind the main building. From this point they had a clear view of the guard post at the main entrance gate, the hotel building, and the principal outbuilding, which was the spa complex. Tomba searched the area from their vantage point with night vision goggles — or NVGs. AKR, well concealed in the brush, was glued to the computer screen as he interrogated the various mini-cams and periodically checked Cheetah’s presentation. Along with the four deployed teams, they and the others waited, watching the movement patterns of the guards on duty and looking for anything that might be useful for the assault. They would continue to gather information right up to the moment of the attack.

“AKR, this is Dodds, over.”

“Go ahead, Dodds.”

“From what we’ve been able to observe, the guards coming on duty and going off duty go into either the west wing of the hotel or the spa building. We know from previously monitored activity that the spa building is probably their off-duty hangout. And we’ve felt all along that the west wing serves as barracks. Can you confirm this? Over.”

“Roger, Dodds. Wait, out.”

Tomba had heard the same transmission, and the two men exchanged glances. Neither could see what was going on inside the wing from their location, although they did see several of the guards entering and leaving. Tomba slipped off his pack.

“Let me approach for a closer look,” he whispered. “I will be back in a few moments”

Before AKR could respond, Tomba had vanished into the brush in front of them. All AKR could do was alert Dodds and the other men on the ground that one of their number was on the move inside the perimeter of the complex. A half hour later, Tomba returned as silently and as abruptly as he had left.

“I was able to slip inside unnoticed and see into the ground-floor hallway,” he said as he shrugged into his pack. “This is the part of the hotel where the soldiers are billeted. And from what I could see, they are preparing to leave. I was able to see several rucksacks in the hall outside of the rooms and a pile of sleeping bags. This is a force that is preparing to be on the move soon. If we wish to catch them here, we may not have too much longer.”

AKR considered this a moment and glanced at his watch; it was just after 2:00 A.M. The original plan was for them to attack just before dawn, when the sentries were least alert and they would have some filtered daylight to inspect the camp. The extra time that day had been allowed for the force to make their way to their assigned assault positions. They were now already in place. And there was always the unlikely chance that a sentry would run across one of the assault teams, and that in itself would precipitate an attack. If they were preparing to leave, at dawn more of the guard force would be up and about. Little could be gained by waiting, AKR reasoned. He keyed his radio.

“This is AKR. You with us, Janet?”

“Right here, Akheem. What do you have?”

“Looks like the security force is preparing to leave. They probably won’t move until first light, but we can’t be sure. Recommend that we attack as soon as Garrett is ready to move, over.”

“Understand you want to attack ASAP. Give me a minute. Brisco, out.”

Janet Brisco was seated behind her console in the van with an infrared presentation of the Makondo Hotel filling the large flat-plasma screen before her. Steven stood behind her, watching and listening on the net, but he said nothing. He was in charge of the operation, but he had delegated tactical responsibility to Janet Brisco; it was her show. Without taking her eyes from the screen, she shifted frequencies and keyed her radio. Like Dodds LeMaster and Bill Owens in the other van, she wore a headset with a mic boom that swung down from one of the earpieces.

“Gopher Two Seven, this is Control. How do you hear me? Over.”

A little more than thirty miles to the southeast on the high Zimbabwean plain, a Jet Ranger sat quietly in a clearing on the veld. The two pilots pumped the last of the jet fuel from two fifty-five-gallon drums, prepositioned there the night before, into the tanks of the helicopter to top them off. The aircraft had the legs to make the journey unrefueled, but by topping off, they could, if need be, fly clear of Zambian or Zimbabwean airspace into Tanzania or South Africa. While the pilots attended to the fueling, Garrett Walker and Elvis Rosenblatt climbed into black rubber-and-vinyl suits designed to protect them in a hazardous chemical or biological environment, equipped with state-of-the-art charcoal and ionic filtration systems. The suits were lightweight and only mildly restrictive, but very warm.

“How come these are black?” Rosenblatt asked. “Normally these are bright yellow.”

“Because our guys have been told it’s okay to shoot at yellow,” Garrett replied, “but not black.”

“Oh, good idea.”

Garrett and Rosenblatt now looked like astronauts with their full-body suits, holding their helmets under their arms. After a final check of each other, they sat on the open deck of the helo compartment with their legs hanging over. Both men had earpieces with microphones held in place with elastic headbands. The pilots, finished with their refueling, had climbed back into their seats up front. Both had NVGs fitted to their flight helmets, and if they thought it strange that they had just gassed up in the middle of Africa with two moon men in the back, they didn’t show it. Like most GSI pilots, they were former military special operations crewmen, and they relished a bit of tight flying as much as the men waiting around the Makondo Hotel relished a good firefight.

Janet’s voice crackled in Garrett’s earpiece. “This is Gopher Two Seven,” he replied, “Garrett here, Janet. Go ahead.”

“Garrett, AKR wants to move up the attack, as there are signs that the guard force may be preparing to pull out. I concur. Are you ready?”

Garrett cut the two men up front into the circuit. “You guys ready to rock and roll?” One of the pilots turned to look back at Garrett and gave him a thumbs-up, as did Rosenblatt. “We’re ready and standing by when needed. Tell AKR and Tomba to kick some ass.”

“Understand you are ready. Stand by, and I’ll keep you advised. Brisco out.”

Garrett looked at Rosenblatt and shrugged. It wouldn’t be long now, but they could still do nothing but sit and wait. Garrett and Rosenblatt did so impatiently and in silence. The two pilots up front debated the need for a realistic salary cap in major-league baseball and the merits of the designated-hitter rule. Experienced special operations pilots were practiced at waiting while events on the ground ran their course.

Janet Brisco looked over her shoulder to where Steven Fagan sat on a stool. Before him was a large screen that displayed the Makondo complex along with the five blips representing the men standing by for the order to attack. Like Garrett, Steven would have liked to be a little closer to the action. He had initially thought of going along on the helo, but he was not needed there. Steven Fagan’s job was to keep a careful watch as events unfolded. He was the mission commander. Janet would run the tactical picture, AKR would coordinate the ground assault, and Tomba would lead it. Garrett, when he arrived, would see that their medical expert took stock of the situation. If something went wrong or a strategic determination had to be made, it would be a critical decision, and Fagan alone would make it. He made eye contact with Janet and imperceptibly nodded his head.

“Akheem, this is Brisco, over.”

“AKR here, Janet, go ahead.”

“Green light, I say again, green light, over.”

“Understand green light. Tallyho. Dodds, you there?”

“Right here, AKR.”

“Okay, make your drop. As planned, give me a countdown to impact.”

In the next van from Janet and Steven, Dodds LeMaster made a few calculations on a slide rule. Some dated technologies, like vintage carpentry hand tools, were still useful and pleasurable. “I will make the drop in about ten minutes and give you a countdown from there, over.”

“Roger, Dodds, understand ten minutes to drop and count down.”

“Akheem, Brisco, over.”

“Right here, Janet.”

She hesitated a second, then keyed her transmit button. “Garrett says for you and Tomba to kick some ass.”

“Did he now. We’ll see what we can do. Thanks to all; AKR, out.”