'A' for Argonaut (44 page)

“Soldiers. No matter who comes in they always rape, maim, and kill to get control. Everyone wants to run the mines. Vangaler‌—‌Ninjas. They’re the worst.”

One woman lifted her dress. Maran’s eyes looked away from the sight of the mutilation between her legs.

“Ninjas,” she said.

Maran blanched.

“It’s not unusual,” Manuel said.

“Let’s go,” Maran said. He rose from the table. The rest of the men got up. The women followed. They walked out and around the corner to a fish restaurant. Maran ordered
mabuke
for them, peppered river fish boiled in banana leaves with maize. The other patrons looked on curiously. The women had seconds.

Mounted in the corner, hanging from the ceiling, a television showed a reporter speaking to a man from Doctors Without Borders.

“The U.N. promised to bring AIDS meds. We haven’t seen any help yet. The problem gets worse by the day,” Manuel said. “The U.N. has done nothing to stop the corruption.”

“Vangaler,” the same girl scoffed. “Any meds get through, he sells them.”

Tracha drew Maran away from the table. They walked to a men’s room in the back. It stank like ammonia.

“Mack. We’re not sleeping with these women. They all, all these Angolans and Zims, got HIV.”

“Of course not. We’ve got to treat them right,” Maran said. “It’s time someone did. They deserve a little respect and, besides, we need all the intel we can get. When we’re back in the States we can do more for them.”

“Right on, brother,” Tracha said with a grin. They bumped fists.

When they returned to the table, the storekeeper had brought the women to another table. He talked, listened, and brought out a sheet of paper. The women gave him the name and address of the village leader, Onekane, and a few of his colleagues. Manuel brought the sheet over to Maran and confirmed. The whole group piled into the SUV. Maran gave them each a U.S. twenty and drove them home to the outskirts of the village. He told them to expect a raid from the Ninjas.

“They’ll be here tonight. Stay inside the house. We’ll be here to protect you,” Maran said.

He left them with dos Sampas’ soldiers.

Maran and Tracha crept
through the trees and shrubs behind the thatched huts. In the distance, laughter and music could be heard drifting out from the Tabernacle.

Maran whispered, “No one gets hurt.”

“In and out. Clean as a car wash.”

“Right.” Maran’s face was grim.

Over their heads, they wore the crocodile hoodies they had gotten from Ngoye. They were fitted with stretch fabric for stability and clamped to crocodile skin capes. The crocodile jaws hung out over their foreheads like bills on game caps‌—‌the telltale signature of the Ninjas. Camo grease paint covered their faces, masking Tracha’s white skin. They wore bandanas tied over their mouths and noses. Once he was directly behind the Tabernacle structure, Maran signalled to Tracha that he was ready.

“Ready,” Tracha signalled back.

“Now,” Maran yelled. They pulled the pins on two harmless MK141 flash-bang grenades, and threw them; Maran’s fell just in front of the open back door of the still-crowded bar, Tracha’s in front of the village chief’s hut. All around the square bright explosions lit up the village as dos Sampas’ team followed through and sailed incendiary grenades into the streets and light shrubbery. Instantly, a series of small fires shot sparks and smoke into the sky just behind the firehouse‌—‌diversionary‌—‌not an immediate threat. At the same time, they fired short bursts of automatic fire into the air.

Tracha fired a rocket-propelled anti-tank grenade from his own HK AG36 grenade launcher at a point twenty yards from the sole police car parked outside the tiny, antiquated police station. The blast blew a harmless hole in the ground. It sprayed the station house with palm fronds and dirt; it echoed through the village off the walls of a nearby cliff in the surrounding hills. Black smoke rose fifty feet in the air. There would be no police opposition.

Onekane lived in a small square at the end of Petit Marché. His home, like many of the others, was new, constructed from flimsy corrugated tin, a sop to community planning, painted government issue red. Maran crashed through the front door of the hut. Tracha followed, adjusting his mask. A man stood in the middle of his living room floor. He wore bright yellow pajamas with Casper the Ghost prints all over them. Two terrified young women stood behind him. Maran realized they must have been his wives. Three small screaming children stood next to them.

He separated the family as gently as he could, nudging the man out the front door. The flash-bangs had disintegrated into smoke and small fires. Maran was pleased. Although everyone was out of bed by now, the group of soldiers and village leaders were alone on the street. The men herded the leaders up the street into the forest to the SUV. One of dos Sampas’ Angolan soldiers sat in the driver’s seat. He revved the engine. All were jammed into the seats. They waited for Maran and Tracha.

Tracha ran down the street to the brick building that served as the village center. Maran ran from house to house around the square. Then they joined the team with their prisoners at the SUV.

Tracha, wearing his Ninja face paint and speaking Lingala, posing in character, told the prisoners, “This is just the beginning. When we finish, the Ninjas will rule the Province.” He tied them loosely and left them with the hot chocolate and whiskey.

When the “prisoners” were convinced that the raiders were gone, they had no trouble untying themselves. They passed around the whiskey and chocolate and then rousted Onekane. The ruse had worked magic. They were terrified. By the time they told Onekane what happened to them, he was equally on edge. No one of them considered the fact that no one was hurt or that there was virtually no property damage. Fear overcame their judgment and opened them to any offered help.

After no more than
four hours of sleep in their camp, Maran and his men slipped back into town to check on the results. The prisoners had escaped. The posters were up. The scene was set.

A crowd gathered in the square. People were pointing up at the MecaMines compound on the hill just beyond the village outskirts.

Maran and Tracha went to Onekane’s house. It didn’t take long to turn him into an ally. Maran promised to put a very final end to Boyko and Vangaler and their hated Ninjas who had terrorized them and taken their diamonds for years.

“When we’re finished, the mines will be yours,” Tracha told him. He handed Onekane a packet of cash to share with his friends; he drew a plan of the compound. Maran knew from Sergei’s blueprints that the information was on point. Onekane showed them where they would find Boyko. Maran came as close to praying as he ever had.

Would I have become a soldier if I knew it would lead to this? Where does honor end and evil begin? Death is the final arbiter. He who decides survives.

“Sometimes money is all the goodwill you need,” Tracha commented as they left.

Maran nodded. “Particularly when the choice is that or a beating. I still wish there were another way.”

War. Moral conflict. Outcomes. Focus. Amber. Tony. Shit!

“Anyway. Good thing no one knows what we’re doing.”

“One thing we don’t have to worry about,” Tracha said.

“What’s that?”

“No one’s leaking this one to the press.”

They returned to their camp in the SUV.

The morning came fast, but dawn hadn’t quite peeked yet above the trees. It was still dark. Tracha loaded his men and equipment aboard the Zodiak.

Fifty-Eight

Vienna, Virginia

T
his was only the second time Luster had visited the ultra-modern FINCEN building that housed equipment capable of monitoring every financial transaction in the world that goes through banks, casinos, brokerage firms, and non-bank financial institutions. Since its primary purpose was to fight money laundering, Congress had given it robust investigative and prosecutorial power.

With that on his mind, Luster mulled over his recent life. He wondered what he could have done to prevent Maran’s predicament. The more he thought about it, the more confusing it became.

Once in the front lobby of the FINCEN headquarters, he was escorted to Connell’s office once again.

Cole Martin was already there. He stuck out his hand to Luster, his face wrinkled in a sympathetic smile.

After the greetings, Luster stood, waiting for the shoe to drop.

“Let’s get right to the point, General,” Connell started. “We have information that you’ve been involved with Major General Baltimore in a dual-use technology deal with the Chinese government.”

“My involvement was to oppose it,” Luster responded, indignant. “Who told you that crap?”

“We’ll get to who told us later. What about it?” Martin answered.

“It’s nonsense. You’re talking about navigational equipment on board the aircraft that the balance-of-traders want us to sell to the Chinese.”

“So where do you come in?”

“I objected to that sale!” Luster shouted. “It’s recorded in the minutes of our last meeting on the subject. I‘ll see to it that you get a copy that will verify that fact.

“State tasked DOD for the sale to expand the market for Lockheed Martin as a way to keep costs down on our F-35 fifth generation fighter-bomber jets. France has been pushing their own tech-assist program with China and everywhere else. They’d sell the Eiffel Tower if they could find a way to rebuild it without union help. There’s also a congressional report objecting to it, based on my testimony before their Arms Committee.

“Valentine has it in for me. Hates the elite combat forces to begin with. When I objected to the Chinese sale, she moved me to the side, gave my authority at SAWC to Baltimore. I guess she felt that his prior service in the action forces made it look legit. That happened just as Maran took off for Cabinda. Valentine took me out of the loop then and there. Baltimore came out of Warfighter Support Enhancement. Got tight with Stash at J5 when Valentine named Stash Under-Secretary of Defense for Technology Acquisition and Disposal, a civilian job that requires backup with a uniformed officer from combat arms. That’s why Stash brought Baltimore in. Together they bought, sold, and serviced the entire U.S. Spec Ops arsenal which gave them major input into the tech transfer sales to our allies.”

“We can concede the suspicion against you on the China aircraft issue, but there is more that you have to hear, General. It is not pretty,” Connell sympathized.

“What you didn’t know…” Martin said. “…is that Baltimore and Hope Valentine have history. He supported her campaign through his Alexandria family and their connections. That’s why she gave him your job, putting Maran beyond your control.”

Luster could not contain himself. “Where are you taking this?” he demanded.

“Baltimore made the contact with General Li Shau Yung, China’s top dog in aircraft technology,” Connell answered. “He was Valentine’s man in fighting for that commercial jet contract for Lockheed Martin. Stash managed the approach between Baltimore and the President. The relationship provided perfect cover for Baltimore’s ultimate scheme: massive theft and illegal arms sales out of DRAMS.”

“Baltimore played the field like a maestro,” Luster said, shaking his head.

“You paid,” Martin added.

“With my job at SAWC. I was out of the loop.”

“Window dressing,” Martin sympathized.

“Thanks, I needed that,” Luster frowned.

“The President replaced you with Baltimore at SAWC, thinking she’d have more control over him,” Martin added.

Connell joined Martin in trying to soften the blow.

“How wrong she was.”

“Baltimore took advantage of you and the President with an elaborate plot that cost Maran’s men their lives, wrecked Maran’s health, and trashed his career.”

Luster’s muscular frame sagged.

“Baltimore was a genius when it came to manipulating people. Valentine’s innocent naïveté made her a perfect setup. She had no idea how she was being jiggered,” Martin joined.

“You planned Maran’s mission, sent Maran in to execute,” he added. “Baltimore had to act fast. He knew that if Maran had succeeded, he would have uncovered Baltimore’s entire diamond scam and his U.S. arms deal from DRAMS to Boyko. Baltimore had to stop Maran. But how could he do it without tipping his own hand? His solution was pure genius. He tipped off Boyko in Cabinda, sealing Maran’s fate whether he advanced or retreated. Baltimore, playing on her anti-violence sentiment, moved President Valentine to order Maran back. He used his suck-up aide to interpret the satellite intelligence his way, giving him all he needed to order him to withdraw, but it was a ruse, a clever death warrant for Maran,” Connell said.

“Maran’s nine lives foiled the plot,” Martin added.

“Look at this,” Connell said. He pushed a folder across the desk.

The general’s hands shook. He opened the file and pulled out a purple-bordered document.

“White House Decibel 20‌—‌Top Echelon.”

“Read.”

He read:

“Immediate Directive: Major General Randy Baltimore. The specific plan for paramilitary support, Taxi Home, for the special operations exile unit, TF-9909, is hereby cancelled. There will be no further military engagement of any kind by the United States in support of this unit. There will be discreet disengagement from all personnel and associations developed in connection with Taxi Home.”