'A' for Argonaut (10 page)

“We know little about that renegade group. Just that they’re a ragtag group of vicious terrorists: Ninja Crocodile Militia. Officially, they call themselves the Christian Revolutionary Army of Cabinda, CRAC,” he ridiculed. “Some Christians! A cult.

“The Ninjas are in a protracted war with PFLEC. On the surface, their conflict is for control of arms, oil, and diamond smuggling in the region. That, however, is just part of the story. We intend to deal with that when the time comes. What Colonel Maran didn’t know was that the hostages were held by PFLEC, a former CIA client with a past history of fighting repression by the earlier Marxist government. Now they are an outlawed terrorist militia.”

Maran couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He knew PFLEC from prior missions. He knew they would never have taken U.S. hostages‌—‌or any innocent civilians. It wasn’t their style. Nevertheless, Baltimore droned on.

“PFLEC originally got its support with the full authority of the U.S. government through the CIA, operating covertly under E.O., ‘Executive Order,’ twelve-three-thirty-three. In fact, while I hate to say it, Maran’s mission, unwittingly or not, threatened not only those hostages but this country’s national security interests.”

“What did you intend to do about those hostages?” Fahnestock asked.

“We have sources there with influence. We were in a position to negotiate for their release,” Baltimore continued.

Fahnestock turned to Maran.

“So you were stuck in the middle, Colonel Maran. As a fellow warfighter, my heart goes out to you. Nevertheless, you disobeyed a direct order while engaged in combat. Though you might have wanted to save those hostages, fulfill your mission, your decision resulted in the loss of your entire team and half the American volunteer U.N. observers. Can you add any more light to these proceedings?”

“Yes, sir. I know PFLEC. I don’t believe it was they that took those hostages. That order to abandon them recalled to me the disgraceful way President Kennedy reneged on the Cuban exiles when he called back the bombers we had pledged to use to cover them at the Bay of Pigs in 1961. We did the same with our friends in Saigon and again with the Kurds in Iraq in the first Gulf War. That wasn’t going to happen if I had a say. I wasn’t about to abandon those hostages.”

“You disobeyed a direct order in a combat situation and led your men to their deaths,” Baltimore shouted, rising from his seat.

Fahnestock gaveled him down.

“Colonel Maran, I am compelled to ask you something before we end these proceedings. What were you thinking when you disobeyed General Baltimore’s order?”

“Sir,” Maran said, straightening his back to attention mode. “To quote President Valentine when she placed the medal of honor over the shoulders of Marine Sergeant Alabama Smythe for his disobedience in rescuing thirteen Marines and twenty-three Afghan soldiers in Afghanistan, ‘He was defying orders but doing what he thought was right.’”

Maran paused then sat. For the first time in his life, he felt nearly beaten. Though he had always prided himself on his self-sufficiency, he’d never felt so unsure. Now he was isolated, disowned, utterly alone. A leper to his own.

At the end of
the trial, Fahnestock wrote in his opinion that “America is a nation charged with a distinctive role in advancing the cause of liberty, equality, democracy, and prosperity in the world and has a mission on the historical stage as an agent of redemption. Truly ‘a shining city on a hill.’ In one sense, Colonel Maran’s courageous action exemplified that sentiment.”

He added: “There can be no more basic requirement of a legitimate judicial system than the need to reach a just result consistent with a system fine-tuned for efficient and swift disciplinary action within the military. While wrong-headed, Maran’s decision showed courage and commitment to uphold our ideals of American exceptionalism inasmuch as he almost lost his life defending those ideals.”

With the unanimous support of the panel, Maran was cleared of the most serious charges and granted his request for relief based on his honorable intentions during the rescue attempt. They stained his honor, however, with a “dismissal” from the Army, the equivalent for a commissioned officer to an enlisted man’s Dishonorable Discharge, but they didn’t send him to jail or worse, give him the death penalty. Both options had been on the table.

Ten

Presqu’ile de Banana, just south of Cabinda

A
mber and Boyko sat on a porch surveying the beauty before them. Boyko sipped a Marula cocktail garnished with a white orchid tinted with soft red tendrils that radiated from the protruding stamen and pistil. Amber polished off her second double shot of Absolut Peppar vodka. Now she was Boyko’s prisoner. The plantation overlooked the pristine beach in Presqu’ile de Banana, just south of Cabinda; it was just one among many villas he maintained in the world’s poshest playgrounds.

“I think I’ve proven my trustworthiness to you. When do I get to see my son?”

“Ah, Amber, my lovely,” Boyko slurred. He was on his fifth Marula. “Don’t be so anxious. We still have much work to do. We must get those stones to market soon. Plan demands it. You’ll deliver the stones. One last massive delivery. The final blow, then you’ll be back with your dear son, rich beyond your wildest imagination.”

She smiled into his face, her hand sliding across the table to touch him.

“Do I lie?” he grinned.

They got up, moved through the large balcony doors, through the enormous living room, down a long hall and into his bedroom. Amber took a seat in a Queen Anne armchair with her feet on a large ottoman made from elephant hide. She threw down another vodka, reached for her iPhone to tune out Boyko and her grim situation. She cranked up “Pump Up the Jam” by Ya Kid K, Leki’s sister.

The STU-III secure telephone
rang with a soft hum; a harsh ring would be out of place in such a peaceful hideaway. Boyko rolled away from Amber. She lay sprawled on the bed next to him. He picked up the phone.

“Alex, my friend. Always nice hear your voice,” Boyko said. He turned to Amber, awake now.

“Alex Pajak, my favorite American,” he whispered.

“Yadda, yadda, yadda,” Pajak snapped on the other end. Boyko’s hand cover didn’t do the trick. “You’re my favorite client too. Let’s cut the crap. So you need more oil.”

“Right,” Boyko answered. “We need a large shipment from the Cabinda offshore fields for the tanks and helicopters you’ve delivered to our clients.”

“You’ll go a long way before you find another source for M1A2 Abrams tanks and Apache helicopters, my friend. But you’re in luck. Angola is on board. President Bombe will have Global Oil deliver two-hundred-and-fifty thousand gallons to you.”

“The deal?” Boyko asked.

“Shoulder-launched Stinger missiles for his Angolan Army, more tanks, more helicopters.”

“He’ll never get enough,” Boyko said.

“That’s why
we’re
here,” Pajak added.

U.S. President Hope Valentine had promised Bombe an increase in foreign aid in the form of cash and military support to protect U.S. Cabindan oil platforms. Her promise was officially linked to a roadside ambush of the popular Togolese National Football Team traveling through Cabinda to the Africa Cup of Nations. The Angolan rebels known as the Front for the Liberation of the Enclave of Cabinda claimed responsibility. They were another group fighting for Cabindan independence unrelated to dos Sampas’ PFLEC. Bombe was angry that President Valentine wasn’t coming through with the new armaments fast enough. Pajak was filling the void through Boyko. And keeping Bombe happy.

Angola’s kleptocratic President, Dr. Carlos Eduardo Bombe was Washington’s latest African heartthrob. The tragedy known as “Angola’s Forgotten War,” was staggering: more than 800,000 civilians displaced, tens of thousands slaughtered, raped, or starved to death. Now Bombe called on the Americans to replace his old armada of Russian T-80 tanks, D-20 152mm howitzers, and beat up MI-24 Hind helicopters. But while he wooed President Valentine in his battle against PFLEC, it was Boyko who delivered.

Boyko put down his phone, poured another drink, and turned his attention to Amber, still slurring.

“Smartest man I’ve ever known,” he said. “Who else could engineer a kickback on vending machines in all the U.S. military bases around the world? The soldiers who run the scam get a cut of every dime that goes into those machines. The Khaki Mafia‌—‌fortunes stashed in Monaco and Dubai banks.

“President Valentine? She doesn’t have a clue that a billion dollars a year goes into Bombe’s secret Swiss bank accounts. She’s the biggest joke in political history.” Amber took his hand in hers. She smiled.

“Getting cute? I’m
vrot
!”

“You’re not drunk, just excited.”

He laughed, reached over, and squeezed her breasts with both hands.

“Nice
tets,
” he said, using Afrikaans vernacular. He was impressed by the Afrikaners’ tough history; when he was drunk, he often reverted to using their slang.

“Wise ass,” she replied, playing with him.

Boyko told Amber about Pajak. The mysterious American somehow had access to a vast horde of high-impact American military surplus: tanks, helicopters, personnel carriers, Humvees, guns, and ammunition. Bombe was one of Boyko’s best clients. He was paying hundreds of millions for the military merchandise with money he got from Washington and those oil companies who were operating drilling rigs off the coast of Cabinda. She already knew who was protecting those rigs.

“This is incredible!”

“Just business as usual. Political influence, most important kind. People are stupid when it comes to war and money. And isn’t
all
war about
money
?”

“You’ll have a
babbelas
in the morning, you keep drinking.” “Hangover” was one of the only Afrikaner words she knew.

“Plan A,” he grinned.

She had no idea what he was babbling about.

He said no more.

Boyko had moved Tony to his compound in Banana. Amber, her smuggling skills, and her connections in the diamond industry were now under his control. Tony, however, wasn’t just Boyko’s captive but his protégé. Unbeknownst to Amber, Boyko had been a college soccer star in Tbilisi, Georgia, Stalin’s birthplace when it was part of the Soviet Union. Impressed with the boy’s spirit, he had been training Tony in the sport. He had enrolled him to attend the only private school in the city that sported a soccer team.

Tony’s first attack, a
year earlier, had devastated Amber. She had no idea who his father was and couldn’t have cared less. Tony was her life. One minute, he was taking his first steps, waddling around the coffee table in their small apartment on Pointe Noire Road in Cabinda, the next he was raring to play soccer, or football, as they called it. They were alone in the apartment when the coughing started. He whooped uncontrollably for a half hour then began to struggle for breath, wheezing as he fought for air. She rushed him to Cabinda Pediatric Clinic, a public facility provided by Global Coast Oil. It was the only option she had in her war-ravaged neighborhood. She would never forget her panic. The doctors there saved her son’s life, but from then on it was one round of treatment after another, from constant measurement of his airflow with a peak flow meter to the nightly administration of a jet atomizer that shot medicated mist into Tony’s lungs. His difficulty breathing led to extreme shyness. It was so severe that when he was a small boy he used to hide behind her legs anytime a stranger approached. She finally had agreed to enroll him in a soccer camp when Boyko showed up. Tony’s condition flared up worse than ever.

“Your son is someone you can be proud of,” Boyko told Amber. “I’ll see to it that he gets proper care and all the medical treatment he needs.”

Amber could be a
dangerous foe. Anyone that got as far as she had as an illegal diamond dealer in that war-addicted neighborhood had to be tough as rhino hide. She had been schooled to know the game always goes to the most skilled player with the coolest head. Victory in the game would mean as much to her as life. “If you want the best fruit, you have to go out to the end of the limb,” her father taught her. She exuded danger. It only titillated Boyko further.

“Our contract is not so bad. You agree to deliver diamonds; Tony gets to play soccer in the best school in the region and he gets proper medical care. When our work is done, he comes home to you. You’re rich; live happily ever after.” Boyko took a swig from his tumbler of slivovitz.

“Life is what you make it, Grigol,” she smiled. “I could hate you. Or, I could consider this my lucky day. You hold the chips, which way do you think I’ll swing?”

A server, half-black, half-Indian entered. She wore a Chinese
cheongsam
. On the steaming plate, the fried carp sizzled under a pile of roasted elephant garlic cloves painted with red-hot chili powder. It was pungent enough to clear Amber’s nostrils.

“You’re a
fascinating
woman,” he said. “You should live in high style,” Boyko told her.

“I already do.”