Mission of Honor (41 page)

“Say it again, Darrell,” Rodgers demanded. “Tell me again that I don’t care about them. That I didn’t care about Bass Moore or Charlie Squires or Sondra DeVonne and Walter Pupshaw and Pat Prementine and the other people I lost in Kashmir. I want to hear it when you’re not yelling. I want to hear it when you’re actually thinking about what’s coming from your mouth.”

McCaskey said nothing. When he had spoken, he was not thinking about the Striker members who had been killed over the years. He was only thinking about his wife.

“Say it again!” Rodgers yelled.

McCaskey could not. He would not. He looked down. All the emotion that had built up in the last day was gone. Unfortunately, he had let it loose on the wrong target. And at that moment, Darrell McCaskey knew who he was really mad at. It was not Mike Rodgers, and it was not Maria. He was mad at himself for the reason Rodgers had said. McCaskey should never have tried to get Maria to agree to give up her work.

“Mike, I’m sorry you took it that way,” McCaskey told him. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

Rodgers continued to look at him. The men were silent for a moment longer. Finally, Rodgers looked away. Once again, he turned and headed toward the office door.

“I’ll be back here after the Kline download,” Rodgers said softly. “Let me know when you’ve got something about the Japanese.”

“Sure,” McCaskey said. “Mike?”

Rodgers paused and looked back. “Yeah?”

“For what it’s worth, that isn’t what I meant,” McCaskey said. “I know how you feel.”

“I know what’s in your heart, pal,” Rodgers said. “It’s been a tough time for everyone. Right now, we’re both a part of your wife’s support system. Let’s see what we can do to make that work in the best way possible.”

Rodgers turned away and left the office. He did not look back at McCaskey. It seemed very, very quiet.

McCaskey made a fist and drove it into his open hand. The slap sounded like lightning. Which was appropriate. He had done what he had really come for. He had let out the pent-up energy. But he had dumped it on an old friendship. One that he feared would never be the same.

Maun, Botswana Friday, 10:09 P.M.

Except for the occasional bounce, it was silent in the cabin of the truck. Leon Seronga did not complain. The Spanish woman was staring ahead, and Njo Finn was silent. He was gripping the wheel tightly. After the encounter with Maria, the driver seemed glad to be in control of something.

The windows were open. The night air was not cool, but the strong wind felt good. A half hour before, Pavant had passed a six-pack of warm Cokes from the back of the truck. Seronga had offered one to Maria, but she had declined. Seronga was nursing his second can. Each sip of the warm beverage burned his mouth, but the caffeine was helping him to stay awake. There was an open map on Seronga’s lap. His left hand was resting on the map to keep it from blowing away. Seronga had drawn a circle with a seventy-five-mile radius. The Vodun base camp was located at the center.

The passage through the dark veldt had given Seronga time to think. And now that he thought about it, this was a very strange place for him to be. Not the plain but the war itself. Until now, Seronga had never felt that he was fighting a religious war. He believed he was fighting a war for Botswana. Yet he was beginning to wonder about that. He was starting to think that Dhamballa might be right, and he could be wrong. It was not a bad feeling, though. To the contrary. It was comforting to think that 10,000 years of spirit might be greater than the African continent and its civilizations.

Decades before, in the years of the quiet revolution to oust the British, the Brush Vipers did everything that was necessary to free Botswana. Back then, Seronga’s vision was clear. So were his methods. Above all, there was strength of purpose: the desire to be free. It was backed by strength of arms and the patience to use them only when necessary.

Seronga had felt those same stirrings of purpose when he first heard Dhamballa speak. Religion had not entered into it. The man’s words were about Africa and Africans. The truth was, Leon Seronga had no use for religion.

Since childhood, Africa had been his god. There was nothing to compare to the majesty of this land, the terrible beauty of the predators and the serenity of the prey. Or the moods of the place, which were unfathomable. Some days were epic and clear. They made life joyous. On others, depending upon the mood of the land, weather moved in with force or seductiveness. Sometimes rain and wind came from nowhere. Other times they were announced by gentle breezes and cool drizzle. There were baking droughts that lasted for weeks or horrendous floods that came so suddenly people drowned in their sleep. Then there were the nights. Sometimes, like tonight, the skies were so vast and vivid that a man felt as if he were weightless and airborne. Other nights were so close, so choking, that Seronga felt as if he were the only man on earth. On such nights even the crickets seemed as though they were on another world.

If the land had been his god, the lives and accomplishments of his people had been his religion. People invented other gods, he believed, because they feared death. For Seronga, death had always been a normal, accepted part of life. Since he was lucky enough to be part of Africa, he had to accept being part of that cycle. He had never resented it. He had never asked for extensions. Too much of life could be wasted on preparing for death.

Leon Seronga did not doubt the righteousness of what he was doing here. Even if he did not succeed, he would not question what he had done. But for the first time in his life, he wondered if he had been wrong about religion. He wondered if the Vodun gods were behind the spirit of Africa and his people.

Or maybe it is not wonder, he thought. Maybe there is hope.

For the first time in his life, Seronga felt a sense that things were out of balance. He felt like an outsider in his own land, in his own battle. There were Spanish soldiers in Maun. Priests from a diocese in South Africa. Observers in Rome. Allies in Belgium, France, and even China. More and more tourists on the roads and in the fields. Africa was no longer that pure physical entity he had once known. It was a park for the rich. A battleground for the ambitious. A source of souls and revenue for Rome. And he thought it had been minimized by the United States, when it became a cause for environmentalists and a laboratory for ethnologists. As if it needed aid and study to stay Africa.

But if Dhamballa was right, maybe Seronga had been finding Africa in the wrong place. Maybe the land and the people were just the manifestation of a greater identity.

Or maybe a veteran Brush Viper is just getting old and scared, Seronga had to admit.

That thought came with a little smile. He did not like to think of himself that way, but maybe it was time. Seronga had seen old lions stand in the brush and watch young members of the pride lead the hunts. He often wondered what those elder warriors were thinking. Did they not want to show how slow they had become? Were they too tired to get into the fray?

Or maybe it was something else, Seronga thought.

Maybe a voice inside the old lion was telling him to pick the time and place for a final hunt. There would be a better time for the warrior to become legend. Seronga wondered whether animals, like people, were powered by legends. And maybe those legends were the real essence of a people.

That was what led Seronga to wonder if Dhamballa might be right.

The gods of which Dhamballa spoke might be nothing more-or less-than ancient warriors who fell in combat and were immortalized in stories. After all, Seronga asked himself, what were gods but idealized beings? They were entities who could not be challenged or assailed, whose purpose was clear and perfect. Whether they were fancy or spirit did not matter.

By keeping these memories alive, the nature of a people could be sustained. Even if the land was conquered and the inhabitants enslaved and shipped to other continents, the stories could not be erased. The gods could not be destroyed.

“We’re almost there,” Finn said.

Seronga had constructed giants and eternities in his mind. The driver’s very real voice startled him.

“Thank you,” Seronga replied. He took a swallow of Coke. The tingle brought him back to the moment. He looked at the map.

The point they were approaching was within the reach of Dhamballa’s radio. Even if he had left the base camp, the route he would take would keep him within the circle. As the truck entered that circle, they would finally be able to contact Dhamballa.

Seronga was not sure what he would find when that happened. He did not know how Dhamballa had reacted to the assassination. He did not know how that would affect their next rally.

They passed a small, kidney-shaped lake. The stars shone back at themselves from its surface. A few minutes later, Seronga spotted the dark silhouette of Haddam Peak. The 2,000 foot mountain stood alone in the northeast. Seronga recognized the distinctive hooked tor blocking the stars. It was the last landmark on the map. The truck was entering the call radius. The Brush Viper opened the rusted glove compartment. He replaced the map and removed a slender, oblong, black radio. It was a Belgian Algemene-7 unit. Used by the federal intelligence and security agency Veiligheid van de Stoat, it was a secure point-to-point radio with a range of seventy-five miles. Dhamballa had the only receiver.

Seronga pressed the green Activate button on the bottom right of the unit. A red Speak button was to the right. A blue Terminate button was located to the left.

Seronga placed his thumb on the red button. He raised the hooded mouthpiece to his lips.

And stopped. He looked around.

“What’s that?” Seronga asked. 

Finn peered ahead. So did Maria.

“Where are you looking?” the driver asked.

“At one o’clock,” Seronga said. He used the radio to point to his right.

“I don’t see anything,” Finn said.

“I do,” Maria replied. “It’s a car. A Jeep.”

The woman was right. A small vehicle glinted faintly in the headlights of the truck. It was about one hundred yards away.

Finn slowed.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Seronga asked.

“Yes,” Maria said.

Seronga glared at her. “Stop the truck,” he said.

Finn crushed the brake. The truck stopped with effort, skidding slightly toward the passenger’s side. That left Seronga staring out his open window, directly at the Jeep.

Seronga put the radio in his lap. He slid his hand beside the seat and withdrew the gun. He did not let Maria see it. Not yet.

Pavant poked his head around. “What’s wrong?”

“Ahead,” Seronga said.

“I see them,” Pavant replied. “Do you want me to get the night-vision goggles and intercept?”

“Not yet,” Seronga said. He regarded Maria. “Who are they?”

“Two of my associates,” Maria replied.

“What do they want?” Seronga asked.

“They’re here to help.”

“To help who?” Seronga pressed. “You?”

“No. To help you and your people survive the night,” she replied. Her voice was chilling in its calm prediction of disaster.

Seronga looked ahead. The Jeep remained stationary.

“How did they know we were going to be here?” Seronga demanded. “Do you have a signaling device of some kind?”

“That isn’t important,” Maria replied.

“It is to me,” Seronga insisted.

“What matters is that there is an elite Spanish unit searching for your leader’s camp,” Maria told him. “These people may have news about them. I suggest we hear what they have to say.”

Seronga saw Finn running his hands anxiously along the wheel.

“It’s going to be all right, Njo,” Seronga said.

“I’d like to get out of the truck,” he said. “I need to get out.”

“It will be all right, I promise,” Maria assured him. “But you had best trust me quickly.”

Seronga raised the gun. He let Maria see it but did not put it on her. The woman was obviously a skilled fighter. In tight quarters like this, it would be easy for her to neutralize the weapon by moving close to Seronga. He also did not want to risk firing wild.

“We’ll all get out,” Seronga said. “We’ll go to the Jeep together. Pavant?”

“Yes?”

“Do you see anyone watching from the sides or back?” Seronga asked.

Pavant looked around. “No. There’s no place to hide,” he replied.

“All right. You stay where you are and cover us,” Seronga said. He cracked the door and eased out. His shoes crunched on the rocky terrain. “Let’s go,” he said to Maria.

The woman slid out beside him. Seronga stepped back. He allowed her to walk several yards ahead. Finn jumped out on the other side. Seronga was glad the driver did not have a gun. He was a good and loyal man, but he had never been in combat. He had not trained extensively for it. The damn thing was, Seronga had not expected to be in combat, either. This was supposed to be a peaceful revolution. A war of ideas, not bloodshed.

The three walked toward the Jeep. Seronga did not even think to doubt what the woman had told him, either about the Spanish soldiers or that the people in the Jeep wanted to help them. It was a remarkable individual to command that kind of trust having said so little.

Finn stayed close to Seronga, behind the woman? Seronga watched for signs of movement. He wondered if the occupants of the Jeep were as cool as their comrade.

He knew he was not. Although he did not show it the same way as Njo Finn, he was afraid. Not for himself but for the cause. At the same time, he had a thought that was also new to him. It was not so much a whisper of hope but a challenge.

If the Vodun gods existed, this would be a very good time for them to make themselves known.

Washington, B.C. Friday, 3:10 P.M.

“Chief, we’ve got some weird stuff going on.”

The call from Bob Herbert came while Paul Hood was checking in with the rest of the staff. There were other divisions of OpCenter that functioned independent of the core crisis management group. There was a small budget office, a human resources center, and a communications group that worked directly under Bob Herbert.