Countdown: The Liberators-ARC (8 page)

Labaan glanced out the window of the plane at the rows of military aircraft lining one side of the runway. French, he thought. The one European people which didn't give up its empire here. And, arguably, the controllers of the only "countries" in Africa that haven't decayed to complete ruin since decolonialization.

In his heart, Labaan knew that wasn't true. Were the "former" French colonies run a bit better than the norm? Yes, some of them, but there were a few decolonized African states that were doing well, for certain values of well. His own wasn't among them and that knowledge perhaps clouded his thinking on the subject. Conversely, the country they were in, quite despite-or perhaps because of-French tutelage, had the distinction of being rated as the most corrupt country in the world, some years, and never better than seventh from the bottom.

Of course "it's all the white's fault," Labaan thought. Isn't that what all the black studies people said at the university? Except it isn't. Though conquered once, Ethiopia was never really colonized. It's a mess. "The imperialists mixed up tribes and thus guaranteed conflict." Which would seem to be true except that Rwanda and Burundi have the same tribal mix they had before the Euros showed up. They're the very definition of a mess. And of my own "country," the less said the better.

I'm barely old enough to remember the euphoria of decolonialization, though I've heard enough about it. I wonder if there's a man or woman in Africa who wouldn't prefer things to go back the way they were under colonialism? What did that expat Canadian cynic say? Ah, yes, I remember: "By comparison with the sonofabitch system, colonialism is progressive and enlightened."

And at least back then we could all get together in peace, love, and harmony in hating the whites. Now we only have each other to hate and fear. And to steal from, of course.

There was a youngish white man, tall, muscular, tanned, blonde, and bearded, waiting for the Kenya Airways flight as the hatch opened. The white's sweat-stained shirt was unbuttoned halfway to his navel.

Labaan took one look and thought, God . . . no! Not one of them, not here?

"Dude," the white said, as Labaan reached the foot of the debarking steps, "the plane . . . it's bogus . . . it's broken."

God save me from Californians, Labaan thought. It wasn't enough to have to go to school with the mindless twits. Even here, without a surfable beach for over a thousand miles, they find me to blight my existence and insult their own language.

"And you are?" Labaan asked.

"Lance, dude."

Of course. Lance. "What's wrong with the plane, Lance?" he asked.

The California expat's real name was Roger. Since, however, he was acutely conscious of his origins, he went by "Lance." Lance threw his arms in the air and answered, "Man, I dunno. I'm still trying to figure it out."

I knew everything was going too well, Labaan thought, calmly. For the first time since beginning his mission he felt comfortable. This was Africa, after all, and things were not supposed to go well. Besides, God must have his little joke with us.

"How long to fix it?" Labaan asked.

"No clue, dude. Nobody here can do a fucking thing with it, and I mostly just fly 'em."

"Of course" Labaan sighed. He began rubbing his forehead against the headache that was beginning to build. There are maybe three hundred kilometers of paved road in this country, he thought, and most of them are not between here and our next stop. Fuck.

Hmmm . . . we could hire some camels and drivers. And that would take weeks . . . .maybe months. That would be too late. The local airline would be a bad option. We can hardly trust our prisoner not to make trouble and if I inject him again nobody would let him on their flight. Rent a van, truck, or bus? I shudder. Stay here until the plane is fixed?

Labaan took another look at Lance. A rental vehicle it is.

Labaan sipped a coffee in a small shop overlooking the buses. His compatriots were with him. So was Adam, who had been tranquilized but not given anything else beyond that. Abdi had liberally sprinkled the boy with some imported brandy, enough so that he reeked of it. Labaan watched as the drivers of the various conveyances busied themselves with fixing luggage to the roofs of their vehicles even though there were no paying customers yet.

"What is all that?" he asked his waiter.

The waiter laughed, broad white smile showing in a friendly black face. "The buses don't leave until they're full. So they put the fake luggage on to convince people that they're nearly full so that more people line up to get on their bus. In a strange way, it even works as those who are best at looking like they're ready to leave are most successful in getting people aboard so they can leave."

"I see. And yes, I see how that could work."

And I've no time to fuck around with this; I'll just rent the whole bus. The budget will cover that.

"Make sure the driver has the tank filled before you take off," the waiter warned. "Sometimes they'll deliberately run out of gas so they can take up a collection among the passengers."

Labaan thought the driver's demand for rental of the bus to be outrageous.

"You think so, sir?" said the driver. "Come with me."

The driver then led him to the nearest gasoline station. Labaan took one look at the cost of a liter of fuel and said, "I agree. Here to Abéché, at the price you quoted."

CHAPTER SEVEN

The villainy you teach me I will execute,

and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction.

-Shakespeare, "The Merchant of Venice,"

Act III, Scene I

D-123, San Antonio, Texas

It was very late. While some of the crew could be heard arguing quietly, or in the case of Kosciusko and Gordo, not all that quietly, most were asleep. Phillie could hear still others typing on keyboards. She was amazed that any of them were still on their feet. She heard footsteps and looked up as Boxer descended the staircase.

"Well," said Ralph, walking down the stairs, "Victor's going to be a problem."

Stauer, currently poring over a map with Wahab, looked up and asked, "Why's that?"

"He's been caught and is in a Myanmar jail. Lox and Bridges are working on a complete report of the situation."

"So much for Victor," Stauer said. "Now who replaces him?"

"Nobody," Boxer answered. "The only other one who both could have and would have, Israel Efimovich, is in an Italian jail. And that Yemeni I mentioned is too much of an unknown quantity."

"Well that sucks moose cock. Suggestions?" Wes asked.

"Spring one of them. I'd recommend Victor, in part because he's better at his job than Efimovich, in part because his operation is probably much more intact, and in part because a Myanmar jail has to be easier to spring him from than an Italian one. After all, the Italians have been practicing on the Mafia for decades."

Stauer nodded and turned to Phillie. "Hon," he said, "would you call Terry at the lodge and have him come here?"

"But it's so late . . . "

"Trust me, babe, that's not an issue."

"You're actually going to free Victor Inning from jail?" Wahab asked. As an African, he was more than ordinarily sensitive to the various wars fed by the likes of Inning and his competitors.

"You knew we were going to use him, Wahab," Stauer said. "What difference how we get him? I mean, does your chief want his son back or not?"

"Speaking of which," Ralph interjected, "I know how the boy left Boston. I think I do, anyway."

Both Stauer and Wahab were interested in that. "How?" the African asked. "And how do you know?"

"I did a query of queries," Boxer answered. "About six weeks ago someone at sea, on a ship christened the George Galloway, did a number of searches for kidnappings and disappearances reported in Boston. Can't think of any good reason for someone to do that who wasn't concerned expressly about kidnappings in Boston. The Galloway also left Boston the morning after the boy disappeared. It was next seen in Port Harcourt, Nigeria. After that, the trail goes cold, unless the boy's still aboard."

"I wonder what the crew could tell us?" Stauer mused.

"I doubt they'd tell us anything," Boxer answered.

Stauer gave a wicked grin. "Yes they would. It's only a matter of making sure they understand their real priorities. Can you track down where the ship is and where it's headed now?"

"Piece o' cake," Boxer answered.

"Phillie," Stauer called out, "tell Terry to bring his tame SEAL, too."

"Use four men to take down one ship with a crew of maybe twenty or twenty-five, when they've got no warning that we're coming?" the SEAL asked. He sneered "Piece o' cake."

The SEAL, more exactly the retired SEAL, Richard "Biggus Dickus" Thornton, had arms the size of Terry Welch's legs. And Terry's legs were not spindly. Even Stauer found the man's sheer bulk and obvious strength almost intimidating.

"But," Biggus added, "We'll have to hit it in or near a port, preferably as it's leaving, so I'll need the ship's schedule some time in advance. Also architectural drawings, arms, a way to get there, NVGs"-night vision goggles- "preferably PVS-21's-"

"I can get you PVS-7s," Gordo interjected, "or something just as good. But 21's just aren't to be had on the open market."

Biggus thought about that before agreeing, and then adding to his shopping list, "I'll need scuba gear for four, a boat, a padded extending ladder, a . . . "

"Just give me your list," Gordo said. "I'll see what I can do."

Bridges looked decidedly skeptical.

Ralph waved a finger. "Chief," he said to the SEAL, "don't be so sure how easy this will be. Bridges has traced back all of the Galloway's stops and routes for the last couple of years. I think they're not just a carrier for hire. I suspect they're AQ Navy, either owned or leased."

Al Qaeda Navy, so called, was a collection, some suspected a very large collection, of merchant vessels owned or crewed by that terrorist organization.

"Really," the SEAL's face was lit with a feral smile. "In that case, what was professional has just become personal." He faced Stauer and asked, "Sir, if I find, after boarding, that they are AQN can I terminate the lot of them?"

Over that Stauer didn't hesitate a moment. He had his own grudges. "Yes. Or anything else you can imagine."

"You know," Gordo said, "if we're going to off the crew we could save a few million by taking over the Galloway, rather than buying our own."

"It's tempting," Stauer conceded. "But I think it drives up our chances of being compromised. Better just to scuttle it at sea. If, that is, it really is AQN."

Kosciusko wandered over and said, "Forget using Galloway; it's not big enough for our purposes.

"Oh, well," said Gordo. "How will you know if it is AQN?" he asked of Biggus.

"I find a mosque on the ship," the SEAL answered, with a shrug, "that's no big deal in itself. But if I find a crapload of Al Qaeda literature, weapons over and above maybe two rifles and a pistol, anything remotely smelling of explosives or detonators, money much in excess of what a ship normally carries in the safe, a dungeon, complete with chains, code books, how-to make a suicide vest videos, CDs with Daniel Pearl's or Fabrizio Quatrocchi's heads being sawed off . . . "

Gordo held up his hands, palm out. "I get the picture, Chief."

"Slave girls being transported are also not uncommon indicators," Thornton finished.

Bridges, who had been silent for some time, took the opportunity to say, "Most of what you've asked for, Chief, even if Gordo can get it for you, you can't take it with you."

"Why the hell not?" Biggus Dickus asked.

"The Euros are often quite sensitive to things with military potential, even if they're not actual weapons. Night vision is one of those things, for example. And firearms are really touchy. Once you have something on a boat or plane it isn't that much of a problem; it's getting it from one to the other."

"Shit! I've always been used to travelling under orders, with whatever we need on hand. This is . . . different."

"We'll figure out something for you, Chief," Stauer said, then turned his attention to Welch. "Terry, yours is in most ways a tougher mission, even though we know where Victor's being held. How are you going to do it?"

Welch frowned. "We can get his lawyer to set up a hearing at which Victor will have to be present. That gives us a time certain he'll be outside of the jail and a probable or certain route. The problem will be getting him out of country after that."

"I don't want any Burmese police killed," Stauer said.

"Makes it tougher, of course," Terry said. "Not impossible, just tougher. It will also make getting him out of the country tougher. I'm going to need an airplane and a pilot, or, better, a helicopter and pilot, both to bring us in and to bring us out again."

"Mike Cruz isn't due in for another two days," Stauer said. "He's going to be our chief wing wiper."

"Marine chopper pilot with a Ranger Tab?" Welch asked.

"I didn't know you knew him, Terry?"

"I don't, Wes; I just heard about him. He'll do."

Stauer turned to Welch and Thornton in turn, then asked, "How many days until you can give me a plan we can go with?"

"Three days," Welch answered. Thornton weighed that for a minute before nodding agreement. "Sure, three days."

D-121, Corpus Christi, Texas

Seagulls whirled and swooped along the shore. A warm breeze came off the Gulf, carrying with it the not entirely unpleasant smell of the sea, which was to say, the smell of the shore. A number of people, a plurality of them neither white nor black, but brown, cavorted by that shore. A smaller number of people, most of them white and all of them older, watched from a café on land.

Mike Cruz-and it was "Mike," rather than "Miguel"-had arrived a bit early, the night before. Then he, Stauer, and a small cadre had driven the one hundred and fifty odd miles to this coastal city and port to explain the facts of life, of ships anyway, to the landlubbers, Stauer, Boxer, and Gordo. Cruz pointed across the bay to the USS Lexington and said, "That's really what you want."