Deadly Force

4

Vice President Marshall Adams slumped in the seat of the big Mercedes on the way from Air Force Two to the hotel and another welcoming ceremony, reception, and state dinner. His eyes drifted shut and his head fell almost to his chest. He could never remember being this tired before. Twelve African nations in fourteen days. For a while before landing, he’d been seeing double. He’d give a thousand dollars for a good twenty-four-hour break in which he had nothing to do but eat and sleep.

The limousine hit a pothole in the best highway in town and jolted the VP out of his reverie. Yes, duty, friends to make, cash money to give away in the form of foreign aid, new people to meet, new nations to honor. He loved his job as ambassador extraordinaire for the President, but this was almost too much. His usually immaculate appearance had been reduced to a slightly wrinkled and sat-in suit, he knew, but there wouldn’t be time to put on a fresh one before they got to the welcoming. Maybe before the reception. It had been a two-hour flight from the last country, whatever it was. The VP looked over at the man who sat in the limo with him.

“Wally, a thumbnail of this country again?”

Wally looked over at the VP. A moment ago he had been sleeping. “Yes, sir. Mauritania, an Islamic republic. The President is Maaouya Ould Sidi Ahmed Taya. He’s sixty-nine years old, in office since 1992. Population two and a half million. In size it’s larger than the state of Texas, but not as large as Alaska. Mostly arid except one sizeable river valley. Most of the nation extends into the Sahara Desert. Literacy rate is thirty-eight percent.”

“Thanks, Wally. More than I need to know. I understand we’re here for only six hours, then fly out just before dark. Where is the next stop?”

“Next we go to the relatively new nation of Sierra Bijimi, only a half-hour flight to the south.”

“Any big hoorah there tonight?”

“Nothing but a short welcome, then a whole evening and night of rest and regrouping.”

“Damn good, Wally. I could use a lot of both.”

Sierra City, Sierra Bijimi

It was just after nine P.M. that same day when Air Force Two, with Vice President of the United States Marshall Adams, settled onto the almost-too-short runway at Sierra City, and came to a stop next to a rolled-out red carpet.

“Wally?” the Vice President asked as he headed for the door.

“Sierra Bijimi, broke away from Central Bijimi in 1990. A republic, just below most of the Islamic nations. Ninety-seven percent African. Four million people. A small landlocked country. It has thirty-five-percent tillable land. The rest is dense jungle. Thom Kolda is President of a shaky democracy. A small country of four thousand, two hundred square miles. About twice the size of Delaware. Literacy rate is forty-seven percent.”

The aircraft door opened and Vice President Adams walked out on the steps to be greeted with a blaring band, a dozen floodlights, and a smiling group of black faces at the foot of the aluminum aircraft-access steps. “Here we go again,” he told himself. He waved and walked down the steps to be introduced to President Kolda.

Adams beat back a frown when he saw the nation’s President. He was short, fat, had a seriously large nose and pig eyes. His suit was rumpled and had stains on the front. The hand that came out to greet the Vice President felt soft and flabby.

“Good evening, Mr. President,” Adams said. “It’s good to visit your nation.”

Kolda said something in the strange Wolof language. An interpreter at his side responded immediately.

“President Kolda is delighted to meet you, Mr. Vice President Adams, and welcomes you to our nation. We have some entertainment for you and your security men.”

“Tell the President that’s wonderful, but I’m near exhaustion and need to get to my hotel.”

The interpreter shook his head. “I can’t tell him that. He insists that you come with him for the entertainment or he will be tremendously insulted.”

The Vice President sighed and looked at Wally, who nodded.

“Tell the President that I will enjoy going with him for the entertainment.”

Twenty minutes later a limo deposited Vice President Adams, Wally, and two Secret Service men at a small nightclub with a guard outside the door. There were fifty people waiting to get in. They hooted and yelled when the Sierra Bijimi President and his party and Vice President Adams and his three men walked in the door. They were taken at once around the side of the club, which had a band on the stage and tables filled with people.

They went through two doors and then up steps into a small amphitheater. It was nearly filled with men of all ages. Adams guessed there were about two hundred men there. He didn’t see a single woman in the audience. An usher took them down to the front row, where seats had been saved for them.

“What kind of a show goes on here?” Adams asked the interpreter, who sat between President Kolda and the Vice President.

“Show? Yes, a show. You will see shortly. It does not last long.”

A girl with large breasts bulging from a small bra top and wearing a short skirt served them drinks. There was no charge to the President’s party. President Kolda took three of the drinks and then fondled the girl’s breasts. She smiled as he did it. A moment later one of the President’s aides tucked a wad of bills inside the girl’s bra and she left quickly.

The Vice President looked around the area and realized that there was some kind of betting going on. Men moved up and down the aisles taking bets and giving out slips of paper, red or green. He asked Wally what it was.

“Got me, Mr. Vice President. Not a clue.” Wally asked the interpreter.

The man frowned and leaned away from Adams a moment. Then, with more resolve, he nodded. “Yes, they are gambling. I can arrange for you to make a bet if you wish.”

“What are they gambling on?” Adams asked.

The interpreter frowned and glanced at President Kolda. “You were not told?”

“Not a clue. What’s going on?”

“You bet red or green,” the interpreter said. “Red is the more risky bet, but odds are five to one. Green is safer, but only two to one.”

“That I understand,” the Vice President said. “But what are they betting on?”

Just then trumpets sounded, and everyone turned to stare at a runway with a red carpet on it that came down one side of the arena and ended at a golden chair that sat in the twenty-foot-wide circle stage.

A girl in a flowing robe of pure silk and wearing a crown of diamonds appeared at the top of the red carpet. She posed for the patrons for a moment. If the diamonds were real, they must be worth half a million dollars, Adams figured. He watched as the girl came down the red carpet to the cheers and applause of the group. The men were standing now, so Adams and his men stood as well. They watched the girl come to the stage, go around it once, smiling and waving at the men. Then she strutted to the golden chair. She looked at the men, who cheered more and more. At last she nodded, loosened a tie at her throat, and whipped off the robe. Under it she was naked.

She stood, posed as a model might. She was slender, well formed and not at all self-conscious about displaying her naked body. The music, which had been low-key during the entry, now picked up. The girl sat down in the chair and the stage began to rotate, giving every man there a good view of the woman. The betting along the aisles surged as men waved money at the bet takers. By that time the betting was at a frenzy pitch. Men shoved others aside to get to the bet takers. Money flowed. A fight broke out, which was quickly stopped. Men were shouting and screaming to get to the betting places. The music built again, then stopped suddenly. When the music ceased the betting evidently was over, Adams decided. The men in the aisles with the betting slips and the money vanished through doors that went under the stands.

Now two men marched down the red carpet to the stage as the music began again. A murmur of interest rushed through the crowd. One man wore a bright red suit and he carried a thin wooden box of highly polished wood. The man dressed all in green carried a smaller box. They showed the boxes to the men as the stage continued to rotate. Then a blast of trumpets ended the new music. The shouting and screaming from the men in the audience shut off at once, and in the sudden stillness Vice President Adams could hear the click of the latch as the red man opened the box he carried.

He lifted from the container a pearl-handled six-gun with a regular-looking barrel. There was a burst of trumpets and then silence again as the second man opened his box and took out a single silver bullet.

“Oh, no,” Adams moaned. The interpreter heard him and scowled.

“Mr. Vice President Adams. You agreed to come. It would be an insult beyond measure if you tried to walk out now. You must stay.”

The trumpets blared again, and the green man opened the weapon and inserted one round into the cylinder. Then he held the six-gun by the barrel and pushed the cylinder back in place. There was no way he could have put another bullet into the gun.

The hushed silence broke with applause and cheers as the red-dressed man handed the firearm to the woman on the stage. All this had happened Adams realized as the stage kept turning and turning.

“They wouldn’t do this for real,” Wally whispered into the Vice President’s ear. “It has to be a stunt. It will be all right, I’m sure.”

Adams shook his head. “I know this sort of thing happens in the Orient. I’ve never heard of it here. Oh, it’s going to happen, all right. With all that betting there would be a bloody riot if the event wasn’t concluded.”

The music blared again, and the girl took the revolver and spun the cylinder. She kept spinning it for a complete rotation of the stage. Again the music stopped. A gentle, sympathetic voice came over speakers, and the girl turned toward the red carpet listening. The voice crooned stronger and more hypnotic, and Adams wished desperately that he could understand the Wolof words.

Slowly the naked girl lifted the weapon and put the muzzle over her heart. Screams and yells erupted from the audience, then trailed off when she moved the gun. She held it easily in her right hand, lifted it, and put the muzzle against the side of her head. The voice continued as if directing her. The screams came from the audience. She moved the weapon again, staring hard at the black hole of the muzzle. Then she opened her mouth and pushed the barrel two inches inside.

Silence throbbed through the arena. The girl reached up with her left hand and spun the cylinder again. Then she closed her eyes. The voice came strongly, ending in a scream.

Adams couldn’t see the girl pull the trigger, but she must have. A second after the scream the weapon went off and the bullet exploded out of the back of the naked girl’s skull. Her head flopped over the back of the chair and the audience stared in agonizing silence. Then the screaming exploded in earnest as the bettors who had won charged the clerks, who had appeared around the stage, which had stopped rotating.

“We leave now,” the interpreter said. They stood, and were escorted quickly out a side stage-level door they hadn’t seen. Two men had to help President Kolda. Adams saw that the man was so drunk he couldn’t walk.

Wally touched the interpreter’s shoulder. “Take us to our hotel at once. The Vice President isn’t feeling well. Can you get us back to the hotel quickly?”

The interpreter smiled. “Is he ill, or is it just his soft-hearted feelings for the girl? Those girls get paid well. One pulled the trigger fifteen times and was never scratched. She retired with more than four million of your dollars. Some like the girl tonight lose the bet on their first try.” He nodded. “It is show business. Entertainment, no? Now I will get you back to your hotel.”

Twenty minutes later Vice President Adams sat heavily on the bed in the Presidential Suite in the Engaffe Hotel, the best in Sierra City, and tried to relax.

“I still can’t believe it. Those men bet whether she would live or die. She killed herself, and it was sanctioned by the highest elected official in this backward nation. There must have been three hundred people there screaming at the spectacle. That their President could know about such a terrible event is criminal. That he was there slopping down drink after drink and enjoying the thrill of seeing a young girl in a life-or-death exhibition is totally disgusting. How can we ever deal with these people again?”

Wally held a sheaf of papers he had picked up when they arrived at the hotel. He had started to speak, but let the Vice President have his say. Now he took his turn. “Some more bad news about President Kolda and his regime here. Our ambassador says that the country is in a shambles. That the President and every official the ambassador has investigated is hip deep in graft, corruption, and shows a cavalier abuse of power. One small item. Earlier this year we sent them twelve million dollars of hard currency, which was to be used to build houses and upgrade the buildings and farming technique in one area a half hour outside the capital with rich fertile land.

“The ambassador tells me that only one small building has been constructed and that the Farm Fund, as it was called, is down to a seven-thousand-dollar balance. Everyone is pointing fingers at everyone else.”

Vice President Adams shook his head. “Did you see how those animals were screaming for the girl to pull the trigger? They were death merchants, most hoping that she would live since it was a safer bet, but the rest were bellowing and braying for her blood.” He shook his head and washed his hands over his face. “Sweet Mother of God, I’ll never forget the expression on that girl’s face just before she pulled the trigger. I’ll never get it blasted out of my memory for as long as I live.”

He took another deep breath. “What more do we have to do with these people? I’d like to cut out right now and fly to the next stop, but I know we can’t do that.”

“We have that tour tomorrow. We should see where they didn’t spend the money on the farming area.”

“So we cut them off at the pockets,” the Vice President said.

“There’s not much we can do, Mr. Vice President, about getting the lost money back. It’s probably in some Swiss bank account. We can make them aware that we know they stole the money and that there won’t be a cent more coming their way until they do what they promised they would.”

“Sounds good to me, Wally. I’ve got to have a long hot shower and see if I can wash some of that filth off my back. I’ll never forget that poor girl’s face. She must have been on drugs. High on coke probably. Did that interpreter say one girl survived fifteen sessions like that? What a mental nightmare that must be, knowing that your odds are one out of six that you’re dead. Damn, how do they find women to do that? Maybe they get druggers who are down and out and almost dead on the streets. Yeah, that must be where they get the girls.” He looked at his watch. “Is it eleven o’clock already? What’s for tomorrow? That tour?”

“The ambassador has arranged for us to visit several centers here. A ballet school, an industrial arts complex, something else, and the farm center where our foreign aid money was squandered. The head man of the army, General Kiffa Assaba, warned me that there could be trouble in that outlying area. It’s only twenty miles from the edge of town, but he said there had been vicious rebel murderers in that section from time to time. He suggested another place to visit in town. I told him we have been given specific instructions to visit that farmland. If he’s worried about our safety, he should send trucks filled with armed troops ahead and behind our two-car convoy. There will be one car filled with newspaper and media people right behind our limo.”

“Good, Wally. I want to see where this twelve million was not spent. Later I’ll throw it up at him by asking President Kolda where our foreign aid money went and demand an answer. If he’s sobered up by then. I smelled alcohol on his breath when he first shook my hand at the airport. Man, was he sloshed tonight.”

The Vice President pulled off his shirt and stared at Wally. “Do you think there’s any real danger out there in the farming country, or is President Kolda just trying to protect his rear end?”

“Oh, a protection ploy for damn sure. He might find some way to detour us around the farm place yet. Danger? I’d bet there’s not a bad guy within fifty miles. It’s just his story to scare us off so we don’t find out for sure that he stole the aid money.”

The next morning an armed “honor” guard escorted the Vice President, the ambassador, and their party of six to the three venues they were set to visit. Adams showed the proper admiration and pleasure at the displays, and then settled into the backseat of the heavy Lincoln stretch limo for the ride out to the farm area.

General Assaba came just before they started. Vice President Adams saw that he was a small man, maybe five-five, slender, with a wolfish face and thick black hair. His large eyes seemed to bulge from his head over a short, sturdy nose. His body was in constant motion, and he often raised upward, standing on his toes for ten or fifteen seconds at a time. Adams guessed it was a nervous movement that the small man did unconsciously to give him a taller stature.

Like the President, General Assaba said he spoke no English, and a student interpreted for him.

“The general says he is seriously considering preventing you from making this trip to the Estalante farming area. He reminds you that it is highly dangerous.”

The Vice President nodded. “Ask the general how many men or women have been killed there in the past six months.”

The general frowned when the student asked the question in his native Wolof language. Assaba began calmly, but before he finished he shouted in anger, then turned and walked away.

“The general says that he is displeased that you want to take this trip. Diplomatically he can’t stop you, but at the same time that releases him from any responsibility for the safety of your party. He will send soldiers with you, but you are being foolish going into this dangerous area.”

Vice President Adams grinned. “Yeah, the old boy got his dander up, I’d say. We’re going, so let’s get moving.”

The honor guard changed now. The six soldiers in the jeep in front of the limo were combat-ready, with rifles, web belts, and jungle-print cammies. Six more men similarly outfitted rode in another vehicle behind the second civilian car, which held six members of the press who had been traveling with the Vice President.

The first few miles led them through the city of more than 200,000. Soon the buildings gave way to the strip of farmland along the river and its valley. Then the blacktopped highway ended and they rolled along a gravel road.

Vice President Adams wanted to lower the window to have a better look, but he knew it was an armored limo and the windows wouldn’t budge. He saw more signs of cultivation and an occasional group of buildings.

Another five miles and the convoy stopped. The driver, who had been with the Vice President since his days as governor of Michigan, turned.

“Mr. Vice President, there’s a problem ahead. Looks like a tree has fallen across the road.”

Almost at once the Vice President heard rifle fire jolt into the calm afternoon. The five people in the limo could see the soldiers leaping out of the jeep ahead of them. Two died before they made it. The other four died at the side of the road before they could find cover.

In the limo, they heard more fire coming from behind. Then there was an ominous silence. The two Secret Service men inside the limo had their Ingram submachine guns lifted from where they hung by cords around their necks.

“Easy, take it easy,” the Vice President said. “No rounds hit our vehicle. They seem to be targeting only the military.”

They waited a few minutes more. Then a figure appeared outside the door. The black man in civilian clothes held up both hands to show he was unarmed. He motioned for the door to be opened.

“Don’t go out there,” the lead Secret Service man said. “We’re safe in here, Mr. Vice President. The limo protects us.”

“He has no weapon,” Adams said. “He looks friendly. I’m going out.”

The second Secret Service man grabbed his arm. “No, sir. I’ll go see what he wants.” The man slid to the near door, opened it, and stepped out. His Ingram was hidden under his jacket. He left quickly and closed the door, which automatically locked.

Adams watched the two men through the window. Both looked calm, talking with no hand gestures. A minute later the Secret Service man signaled, and his partner inside the limo opened the door and the outside man stepped inside and closed the door.

“The man says his name is Mojombo Washington. He says he’s the leader of the Bijimi Loyalist Party fighting the corrupt central government. He wants to show you how they squandered and stole the money due to these poor farmers. He has no weapons. He said his men were careful to attack only the federal soldiers. No one in either our car or the press car was hurt in any way. He says he has no wish to harm any of our party. He just wants to plead his case against the government.”

Adams rubbed his jaw, then looked at his top advisor. Wally lifted his brows. “Sir, that’s what we came here to find out. This man sounds like he knows the facts we need to uncover.”

Vice President Adams nodded. “Seems to be the way to go. Let’s get out. Keep your weapons ready if we need them.” He hesitated, then waved at the Secret Service men. “Let’s get out of here and do some investigating.”

One Secret Service man went out first, followed by the Vice President and the other Secret Service man.

Mojombo Washington stood outside the limo. The Vice President saw that he was a medium-sized man, a head shorter than the VP, with curly black hair, wide-set eyes, and a flat nose. His smile lit up the landscape.

“Mr. Vice President Adams, so good to meet you. First a bit of business. Secret Service men, please lift your hands away from your Ingram submachine guns. I have expert marksmen who have you sighted in with three rifles on each of you. Any move toward your weapons and you will die instantly. I want no violence here. Lift your hands at once.”

The men dedicated to protecting their Vice President hesitated, then looked at the bodies of the soldiers dead on the roadway. A rifle snarled some distance away, and a bullet tore into the ground three feet from one of the Secret Service men. They both flinched, then looked at each other and slowly lifted their hands. Two armed men in cammies darted around the limo and checked inside. Then the driver was pulled out.

Mojombo smiled. “Yes, this is good. I wish to hurt no one from your nation, or the press. Now it’s time to leave. Mr. Vice President Adams, please step into the limo. We will be leaving, and the rest of your party will be taken back to the city. Don’t worry. We have no wish to harm you or your people in any way. Please, inside.”

Adams looked at his Secret Service men for advice, but they stared straight ahead. They had been outguessed, outmaneuvered, and outgunned.

The Vice President stepped into the limo, followed by Mojombo Washington. An African driver moved in behind the wheel, and he drove the big limo smoothly around the stalled jeep and past three bodies before it came back on the road and rolled forward.

The Vice President leaned back in the seat and studied the man next to him. An African who spoke English as well as he did. Obviously educated, a leader of some group. Highly selective in the violence he used, killing only the Army escort. No one in his group or any of the journalists was harmed. That spoke well for the young man. Young. The Vice President decided that this Mojombo Washington must be about thirty years old.

He turned to his captor. “Now, Mr. Washington, that you have kidnapped me, what ransom are you going to demand for my freedom?”

Mojombo looked at the man beside him and smiled. “Mr. Vice President Marshall Adams. You will learn that in time. But I assure you it is going to be a tremendously stiff price indeed.”