'A' for Argonaut (45 page)

It was signed by U.S. President Hope Valentine.

Connell went on. “Valentine played right into Baltimore’s hands, trusted him. Gave him the rope he asked her for without question.

“We got more information from the Storekeeer at DRAMS,” he said.

Martin took up on that. “Valentine always supported the idea of constructive engagement. The Storekeeper confessed to his relationship with a major arms dealer in the Congo, one Grigol Boyko. And he had a lot more to give us. Boyko’s game worked hand-in-glove with President Valentine’s ideological, peacenik political philosophy. She wanted to work with the Chinese on the aircraft technology sales as leverage to get them on board in propping up the Angolan government, even if that meant working with Grigol Boyko to achieve that end. It was just what Baltimore wanted. He was already selling U.S. arms to both factions in West Africa, the Angolan government and Boyko. They froze out dos Sampas and his band of PFLECs. Baltimore and Stash used Long Bow to supply the Angolans. But Baltimore was also supplying Boyko with heavy U.S. armaments on his own through his crooked friend at DRAMS. He pocketed the proceeds in blood diamonds.”

“Stash and Valentine were in the dark,” Connell said.

“Valentine played right into his hands,” he continued. “She was way over her head; unwittingly ended up backing the worst terrorists in all of Africa, aided and abetted by Baltimore. Following her creed that trade will inevitably lead to democracy, she gave him carte blanche to sell U.S. surplus weaponry to anyone willing to pay the freight. In the meantime, he managed, operating solo, to pull off the most massive arms scam in world history, passing our advanced weapons stockpile to every bad guy he could find to buy them, including al Qaeda and its ilk.”

“Free trade for free elections, her mantra,” Luster’s voice trembled.

“You have to listen to this, General,” Martin told his friend gently.

“How did it get so bad?”

Luster remembered the Soldier’s Code that had been imprinted in his mind from his first day at the Army Officers Basic Course to his temporary duty on DOD’s Commission to study the Marine Corps barracks terrorist attack in Beirut to his last assignment as Chief of the 1st Special Forces Detachment at Fort Bragg, when he vowed:

“As an American fighting man, I will never surrender of my free will‌—‌I will keep faith with my fellow prisoner…I will trust in my God and in the United States of America.”

“You and Maran and your team were victims,” Connell explained. “This thing started years ago when Baltimore got himself in a position to move into every U.S. PX in the world. He set up kickbacks with the Khaki Mafia, crooked sergeants who were running those stores before we closed them down and opened this investigation. He put his own vending machines into the PXs, kicked back one-percent of the action to the managing sergeants in charge. They split tens of millions of dollars every year. Cost taxpayers hundreds of millions and ultimately led to Baltimore’s arms-for-diamonds scam in partnership with Boyko. Baltimore gets rich; Boyko gets what he needs to sell to Bombe and other African dictators. Valentine thinks she’s doing God’s work.”

The room went silent. Martin watched. Connell shook his head. Bull Luster gulped two fingers of scotch.

“Baltimore?”

“A/K/A Alex Pajak.”

“Where’d you get this intel?”

“Baltimore’s wife.” They were neighbors of the Martins in Annandale, Virginia.

“That’s absurd!” Luster’s voice had lost the force of its timbre. “What would make her betray her husband? They had a perfect marriage.”

“Perfect before she caught him soliciting five-hundred-dollar-an-hour prossies.”

Martin got up to stretch his legs. “When she confronted him with the evidence on his computer, he dared her to do something about it. She did. She took the problem to me. She wants him behind bars for the rest of his life.”

“Oh, God,” Luster implored. His voice sounded like a death rattle in an empty pipeline.

“Right. Boyko’s Ninjas massacred the hostages, left phony evidence to set up dos Sampas. He knew the public outrage would give his friend Bombe all the ammunition he needed to demand more military weaponry from the West which would allow Bombe once and for all to come down on Boyko’s major nemesis, PFLEC.”

Luster strained for the right response. He felt the sickening quiver in his hands.

“Don’t feel bad,” Connell comforted. “None of us picked up on the link between Tolkachevsky, Dolitz, and the diamond scam, even though the pieces were right there, written in the public domain for anyone to put together.”

“Staggering. But Baltimore’s not a lone wolf. Where is he now?”

Fifty-Nine

Mbuji-Mayi

D
awn threatened, deep rose spreading through the sky. Maran had studied the internal plans of the complex and checked the lay of the land around it. With a final surveillance, he noted the single guardhouse entrance at the entrance gate; he already knew from the village mine workers when the watch changed. He planned their strike for fifteen minutes before the dawn rotation. It was then the watch would be most lax.

He used his satellite phone to call Sergei at the BANG! offices in Boston and tell him that Zero Hour was upon them. At stake now was everything.

His three-man team from dos Sampas’ PFLEC loaded their weapons into the SUV. Maran threw aboard a small duffel-shaped backpack. They jumped in; Maran took the wheel. Ahead lay the superstructure of the Mbuji-Mayi Hydroelectric Company five hundred yards off the river. The company utility truck would be outside the warehouse garage, prepared‌—‌waiting for them.

The road in was a pleasant surprise, paved and clear, lined on each side by overgrown woods and tangled vines. Two hundred yards from the entrance, Maran pulled the SUV under a stand of palm, banana, and baobab trees. He parked behind the trees and moved the team into a secluded clearing at the fence. He unrolled several sheets on the ground, ignoring the glistening dewdrops that beaded the strands of grass. In front of them lay Sergei’s blueprints of the MecaMines buildings and their electronic security systems downloaded from the archives of Security Technology & Design Magazine. In addition to the schemes of the complex’s closed circuit television, the access control gates, and electrical wiring system, the diagrams included skeleton sketches of the layout of the MecaMines command center, administrative offices, and Boyko’s personal villa residence.

The village MecaMines workers gathered around. Maran pointed out the vulnerabilities in the complex’s security. The papers verified the intel he had gathered, first from the villagers and Ngoye, then from his team. Now it was documented.

The download included photographs of Boyko’s villa.

“This house must have cost him millions!” one of Maran’s soldiers remarked.

“Boyko can afford it,” Maran smirked.

They packed up and moved up to the fence. He took a pair of bolt-cutters and cut through the chain-link around the perimeter. Armed with the help from Onekane, they found the warehouse and its garage with no trouble. The truck was parked between two gasoline pumps. The rear door to a storage area behind the front seat was unlocked. They climbed in and changed into the lineman coveralls and hard-hats that had been left for them by one of the village’s mine workers; as planned the keys were in the ignition.

Maran opened the driver’s door, paused, checked his watch and made sure all weapons had the silencers screwed on over their muzzles.

The sky over the treetops was beginning to turn with a soft blush.

He took off, yellow emergency lights flashing. It reminded him of the wild ambulance ride through the crowded streets of Boston.

At the entrance to the mining complex, Maran sweated out the success of their disguises. He did all he could do not to fidget in his seat while they waited to be waved through.

One of the village friendlies spoke in the local Bantu dialect to the security guard at the bulletproofed window. “Hey, yo. Shit happens, man. Called me out of bed, escort the electrician, restore the power. What’s goin’ on?”

“No idea. Power down, all stations,” the guard answered in a like dialect. He wore a knit Rasta cap with red, yellow, and green stripes. His lower lip sported a black soul patch.

Maran made a mental note to congratulate Sergei and the tiger team for their hacking success. They had falsified data from the “Smart Grid” supplying Mbuji-Mayi Hydroelectric Company to signal a shutdown due to a fraudulent reduction in immediate demand. The additional beauty of The Bird’s maneuver was its untraceability.

“That’s why we’re here,” Maran’s friendly said. He held his coded smart card up to the receiver. A red light flickered. A signal beeped.

The security guard raised the barricade, waved them in.

Maran pulled the utility truck with all its lights flashing up to the driveway that led through a winding lane to Boyko’s mansion.

In the meantime, at
exactly a half-hour before dawn, Tracha launched the assault-equipped Zodiak inflatable boat that was strapped on their assault craft and invaded the rear riverside exposure into the compound. He fired a PG-7VM anti-tank grenade from a Russian RPG-7 to blow up the main electrical transformer just downriver from the pier. Wearing night-vision goggles, he led his group on a full-scale assault of the pier facilities. As the concrete shack that housed the electrical terminal disintegrated into rubble, Tracha and his team roared alongside the shore in the raft, blasting full bore with their weapons at anything and everything. He steered the boat along the concrete pier and rammed it up onto the beach. The team dismounted. They rolled into position beneath the shrubbery that edged the riverfront in front of a group of warehouses. Resistance came from one sole guardhouse at the edge of the pier.

Tracha took it out with another Russian rocket grenade.

They waited until the smoke cleared and dashed by the warehouses, up the dusty road into the main compound. Tracha ignored a barking mutt that false-charged him. He ran through a vine-covered brick entryway in the parking lot to the warehouse security detail’s old Toyota Stout pickup truck. The men piled in. Tracha cranked it over and drove out the gate, down the road, toward the compound. No lights. Just outside the lot, something ran out of the jungle in front of them. Tracha hit the brakes. The truck slid across the gravel, just missing a telephone pole. The dust cleared and he strained to peer through his night-vision goggles. Not a post at all, a giraffe. Scarce as they were, there one was, unexplainable as so many things in the DRC. An old British Alvis Saracen armored personnel carrier appeared, advancing toward them. He dropped the men off, positioned them in the bush, turned the truck around and drove back the way they had come, joining the team in the bushes.

When the Saracen came alongside, the team opened fire at its tires in short bursts. The truck spun out of control‌—‌flipped, turning over and over, ending on its back in a weedy ditch. The men in the truck crawled out, unharmed. Tracha shouted an order in Lingala.

“Down! In fifteen seconds, open fire.”

The men in the front of the truck came forward with their arms raised.

“We are not armed!”

The three men on the back of the truck laid down their rifles.

“We are alone,” they said. “Security. From the base camp main watchtower. There is no one else there now.”

Like most salaried security guards working for questionable employers, these men feel no serious allegiance to Boyko or Vangaler
, Tracha thought.

He packed the men into the Toyota Stout pickup truck and left one of his own to guard the prisoners. Ten minutes later, he and the rest of dos Sampas’ Portuguese recruits stealthily climbed the bamboo-plank stairs of the main watchtower overlooking the compound’s command post.

Standing on the supporting platform outside the guard room, Tracha kicked in the entrance door and threw in two CS flash-bang/tear gas grenade combinations. When the guards came flying out in panic, rubbing their eyes, gasping for fresh air, Tracha and his team waited, weapons drawn. Training his Heckler submachine gun on the compound security guards, he had one of his men translate, persuading them to go home to their families.

As they left, he stood on the platform, overlooking the entire mining complex. In the distance, he could see the mine shaft towers and he could see the huge hole in the pristine forest where the huge open pit started the mine off a hundred years earlier. He spotted Maran waving to him from the command center.

He waved back, their signal to link up in front of Boyko’s manor in ten minutes. Leaving his team with instructions to watch for his signal to join them inside the villa, he adjusted his night-vision goggles and radio headset and ran across the landscaped area between the watchtower and the villa to join Maran.

Maran and his three-man
team from dos Sampas’ PFLEC slipped inside the command center.

It was empty.

Maran found the access control PIN codes for the entire complex in a three-digit combination safe lock that he cracked in five minutes with a Lockmaster’s autodialer he’d brought along. He punched in the sequence of PIN codes and hit the red control button to open the access control doors at Boyko’s palatial residence.