African Dragon (9 page)

18.

Shen Xun-jun sat across from Nigel Ufume and pulled out his cigarettes. Although he couldn’t speak French, Shen Xun-jun’s English was excellent.

“We have a new challenge, Mr. Nigel,” said Shen Xun-jun.

“And what is that, general?” asked Nigel.

“Our shipment of heavy weapons will be arriving here by plane. We need to construct an airstrip big enough for large transports to land.”

“You have over six thousand men here. It doesn’t sound like too big a problem.”

Shen Xun-jun exhaled a blue smoke ring. “We will have our soldiers bring their families here. We will have ten thousand laborers here by the day after tomorrow. Even without tools, they will be able to provide a runway for our planes.”

Nigel reached for his own cigarettes. “What are they sending?”

“Not enough, I’m afraid,” said Shen Xun-jun. He was being uncommonly candid with his newest ally in the PAC rebellion. “The present government does not have much of an army, but they do have some light tanks and armored personnel carriers. We have no air support, no artillery, and a few thousand soldiers who can’t shoot very well. Unless we are able to take Kinshasa with total surprise, we will have a problem.”

Ufume exhaled his cigarette and leaned closer to the general. “If the PAC fails to take out President Kuwali and Prime Minister Gugunga we’re all dead men. The cabinet ministers are weak. They will flee or sign on with us, but Kuwali and Gugunga have loyal supporters. They must be killed the first day of fighting or everything we have worked for will fall apart.”

Shen Xun-jun sat back and crossed his legs, eyeing the Congo-born American. “Then I suggest you make sure it happens.”

Ufume scowled. “It will be difficult. I will need to move on the president’s residence at night. If one of your officers will lead another force at the same time and take out the prime minister, we can take the capital in one day. If we televise our new government the next morning with our army in the streets, Kuwali’s army will disappear instantly.”

The general pondered that and spoke quietly, “And you are sure that these Africans have no attack aircraft anymore? Our intelligence reports indicated MiGs.”

“Whatever aircraft they had are either scrapped or aren’t in flying condition. Not in almost five years. They have half a dozen transports and a few helicopters, but they are not armed. Our biggest problem will be their tanks, which are ancient, but still effective against light infantry. That’s why I need your officers to lead a few platoons against the prime minister’s residence at the same time I take out President Kuwali. With both the president and prime minister taken out, the army won’t move against a large force in Kinshasa—not even with tanks. They’ll fold.”

“You are betting our lives on that, Mr. Ufume.”

“Will you give me some of your officers to lead the other platoon?” asked Nigel, growing impatient. He was already growing tired of this Chinaman, and was second-guessing his ability to work with them once the government was changed.

The general looked into Nigel’s eyes and finally agreed. “I will have Major Wu lead the second attack platoon against the prime minister. He will bring Sergeant Major Han as his executive officer. You will coordinate with them at the appropriate time.” He drummed his fingers against the desk. “Beijing was very specific about not wanting Chinese participation in military action. My men will be advisors only, although they will be armed for self-defense.”

“I understand,” said Nigel.
In other words
, he thought to himself,
if anything goes south, they are outta’ here.

“And when will you want to begin military operations? These Congolese soldiers still need much training,” said the general.

“As soon as the weapons arrive, I would like to attack. The longer we wait, the more chance there is of American intervention. The UN will do nothing, but I’m sure the Americans are already here looking for me. And you,” added Nigel, to remind the general that they were in this together. “It won’t take the Americans long to find this compound. You can’t hide a few thousand soldiers from their satellites.”

The general smiled. “You speak like you are no longer an American,” he said, suspiciously.

“I stopped being an American the minute I decided to join the PAC revolution. I’m in up to my eyeballs now, general. I will either help my people rebuild this country and become a first world nation, or I will be dead right alongside
you
.”

The general looked surprised. “
Your
people, Mr. Ufume? You consider yourself a Congolese?”

Nigel scowled, annoyed at the man’s accent.

“I
am
Congolese, general. My parents went to America after I was born. But I am home now. There’s no excuse for what I see when I look around this country. The Americans say they support this government and the people—but nothing improves. Perhaps a communist government is what these people need. The current democracy is a joke. It’s corrupt and does nothing for these people.”

“Well, Mr. Ufume, China will be a good trading partner with the new People’s Republic. We will pay fairly for the raw materials we need, and with your help, the new government will rebuild this country’s infrastructure.”

Nigel laughed, and the general gave him a quizzical look.

“We will not be “rebuilding.” We will be starting from scratch. There is very little here worth keeping. We will build a modern nation. It is time for the mud huts to go away. There’s no excuse for not having running water that’s safe to drink, or electricity in every village.”

The general smiled as he thought about his own native China—the world’s largest superpower—that still had many villages that didn’t have electricity or running water. In fact, the issue of water pollution was reaching epidemic proportions all over China. Most of China’s rivers around the cities were so polluted, not only was the water unfit for drinking, but even for watering crops. Shen Xun-jun stood up and walked to a desk where he pulled out a topographical map that showed their compound.

“We will find the most level field and construct the landing strip according to the prevailing wind. These transport planes are very large and heavy and will require extra-long runways. They will also need the wind in their nose to take off.” The general rolled up the large map. “Come, Mr. Ufume. We will find a place for our new airport.

19.

Julia and Chris were still naked, curled up in the hot sun on one of the side benches of the dive boat. She was lying in front of him, using his arm as a headrest. They were both smiling and soaked with sweat.

“Twice in thirty minutes—how old did you say you were?” she asked playfully.

“I’m a SEAL. We train very hard,” he joked.

“Yes, key word ‘hard,’” she said still smiling. She rolled over and crawled on top of him, kissing him for a long time.

“Careful or I’m going to try for three,” he said.

“I dare you,” she said with a smile, and started kissing him again. She
was
a pretty darn good kisser. She felt him responding under her and started laughing out loud. “I think I’m going to lose the dare, huh?”

“I’m pretty sure,” he whispered as he started kissing her neck. “I’ve been looking at you without touching for over a week. I have to make up for lost time.”

She moaned softly as he kissed her neck and reached down to make sure she lost the dare.

Back at the fish farm, Mackey was in his mud house on the phone with Dexter Murphy back in Langley. They spoke via secure satellite uplink phone, and all things considered, the sound wasn’t bad.

“The Marines are off the coast of Tanzania, but they have no orders. They are currently being told to sit tight. They have helicopter transports, but it would take hours of ferrying them in to have an effective force in-country, which means they can’t be dumped in the middle of a hot spot. While President Kuwali has repeatedly asked for our help in putting the PAC out of business before anything happens, there have been no reports of violence yet, and so far there is no support for sending in the Marines. What are you hearing over there?”

“So far, nothing. We did a little recon and took a look at the PAC base. There appears to be a sizeable force there. Definitely too large a force for us to go toe to toe with unless we have the Marines,” said Mackey. “We’re still feeling our way around here. We’ll head out to some of the villages and see how active the PAC has been with recruiting. I’m not sure where public sentiment is around here. These places change governments like you change underwear.”

“No sign of Nigel?” asked Dex.

“Negative. We’ll start digging today and tomorrow. So far, we’ve been taking it slow, trying to look like fishermen and maybe make some friends at the next village. ‘Buwali.’”

“Okay, Mac. Be careful. The PAC may have ears everywhere. If anything changes on the political scene over here, I’ll let you know. I’ll wait to hear from you. Out.”

Mac ended the call and put the phone back into its small case in his pack. He walked outside and found Moose. “Where’s Cascaes?”

“He went north to take a look around. Took the boat with Julia.”

Mac and Moose looked at each other for a few seconds. Finally Mac cracked a smile. Moose leaned closer and spoke quietly, “Maybe I could take Theresa and check south later,” he said.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ. How are we supposed to stop a fucking revolution with half my team trying to get laid?” He laughed and shook his head. “Make sure you put gas in it when you’re done.”

Moose held back his grin. “You wanted something else?”

“Yeah, in between everyone getting laid, perhaps we can take a drive over to Buwali and meet our neighbors. I’d like Cascaes and Julia with me when I go. He bring a radio?”

Moose fought the urge to grin. “I don’t think so, sir.”

“Oh great, his highness doesn’t wish to be disturbed. When he gets back, have him get his ass over here.”

Chris dove into the lake, still naked, followed by Julia. They splashed around for a few minutes to cool off and take their “post-marathon” bath, then kissed for a while before climbing back up onto the boat.

“We better get back,” said Cascaes. “Mac is gonna be pissed. I wasn’t counting on being gone so long.”

“Just a quickie, huh? That all I’m good for?” Asked Julia as she punched his arm.

He laughed. “Only the first one was a quickie,” he answered as he pulled his shorts on. He revved up the outboard and headed back towards the fish farm at full speed. Julia sat towards the bow, allowing the wind to dry her hair. Chris watched her from the center console, still smiling, and decided he would have to marry that woman one of these days.

They slid into the dock, surprised to see Moose standing there waiting for them. Moose threw Julia a line and helped them tie off the boat as Chris killed the engine. Moose helped her off the boat then spoke quietly to Chris.

“Hey, Skipper, Mac wants you up at the hut ASAP. I think he’s a little pissed.”

Cascaes said, “Oh, great” under his breathe and hopped onto the dock.

Moose added, “And he said to bring Julia. I think you guys are heading out to meet the neighbors.”

Chris and Julia walked quickly up to the huts, where Mac was sitting outside drinking coffee. Mac looked at them, but refrained from lacing into them. Instead, he just said, “I’m glad you two are back. We’re going to take a drive to Buwali and I need your language skills, Julia. Grab sidearms and keep them concealed. As soon as you are good to go, we’re out of here. By truck, Buwali is at least twenty minutes.” Mac cupped his hands and screamed over to Jones and Koches, “Yo! Koches! Jones! On me!”

They dropped the firewood they were gathering and jogged over to Mac.

“What’s up, boss?” asked Koches, with Jones right behind him.

“Grab sidearms you can conceal and a sack of rice.” The sacks were thirty pounds each, and were left over from the Canadians. “We’re taking a drive to Buwali.”

The five of them met at the old pickup truck five minutes later. Julia’s hair was still damp, and both she and Cascaes had that “just-fucked-look.” Mac hopped behind the wheel and Cascaes rode shotgun—with a shotgun. Behind him, Julia sat next to Koches. Jones was seated in the back of the pickup on top of the large sack of rice.

Jones, the only black man on this trip, couldn’t help himself. “Yeah—don’t think I don’t see what’s goin’ on here, man. The brutha’ gotta’ sit in the back of the bus while the
man
sits up front!” He was joking, of course, and Mac honked his horn and yelled at him. “You’re just lucky I’m not making you jog alongside the truck!”

They drove north along a path in the foot-high dry grass. The path was probably a few hundred years old, worn into the ground by thousands of feet, some horses and wagons, and now cars. It was twenty-five minutes later, and a thousand years back in time, when they arrived at the village of Buwali. Theirs was the only vehicle in the entire village, except for an ancient pickup truck that sat in the center of the village with no tires, glass, seats, or anything else. It had been stripped over the years, and only its rusted frame was a reminder that it used to be an automobile of some kind.

By the time they stopped in the center of the village, almost everyone had followed them, and surrounded the car waving and smiling and speaking in French and their tribal language. Visitors to the village were a special event, and the children smiled and cheered. Mac and his crew got out of the truck and smiled and waved and said “bonjour” about a hundred times—about as much French as most of them could muster.

The village elders walked out to greet their visitors and gave hearty two-handed handshakes and formal welcomes. Julia spoke to them in her fluent French and they were very excited to hear that their friends from Canada would be operating the farm again. Mac told the elders that he had brought them a payment for some of the fish they had brought so far—a large sack of rice. This brought giant smiles from the three old men who patted their hands and arms and thanked them profusely.

Jones unloaded the huge sack, threw it over his shoulder and walked it to them. “Where do they want it?” he asked Julia, who translated into French. The elders led them to the center of the village, where a large cook-pot was suspended over a fire. While each family had their own food, they all did share some of it in the town center each day at their large evening meal. Julia spoke with them for a long time, and then the elders spoke to some of the children who ran off to get water from the lake. They would boil the water and make the rice, and then the fishermen would add some fish and some of the women would add some local vegetables, and pretty soon, there would be a giant pot of food for everyone to share.

Mac and his crew watched as the villagers worked together, singing and smiling, and evidently very happy for the rice and visitors. They smiled at the simplicity of this village life—everyone very content just to know where the next meal was coming from.

Mac whispered to Cascaes, “If the PAC came in here with food, clothes, and medicine; how hard would it be to bring the whole village into their fold?”

“I hear ya,” said Cascaes. “But seriously, do these people look like soldiers to you?”

“Put a Chinese Type-81 into their hands and they all look like soldiers to me,” said Mac. “But remember, I’m an old fucker—I was in small villages like this in Vietnam. The skin color was different, but it was the same shit. Smile by day, kill us at night.”

“That’s a pretty big leap,” said Cascaes.

“Yeah? Was it different in Iraq? Villagers smiling and waving during the day and planting IEDs at night when they were finished mortaring our base?

“Come on, Mac. Don’t get so cynical. Let’s go win some heart and minds.”

Julia interrupted their conversation. “The old man with the white beard is the chief. His name is Ma-fafe. He says you would honor them if you would eat with them. The rice was a pretty big deal.”

Mac looked at Cascaes. “I can almost feel the diarrhea already,” he said quietly.

“The water is right out of the lake, Mac. Seriously—we better pass,” said Cascaes quietly.

Mac looked at Julia and was quick on his feet. “Tell him we just ate, maybe next time. Ask him if we can talk somewhere.” Julia translated, and Chief Ma-fafe smiled and took his hand and led him to his small thatched hut. He sat on the woven mat floor with Julia and Cascaes and Mackey while Jones and Koches stayed outside and tried to communicate with the children, who found them most entertaining. Jones was trying his best to teach a small boy how to say “muthafucker,” which he found absolutely hilarious. Each time the child would repeat it, Jones would scream in fits of laughter, which only encouraged the boy to do it again. By the time Koches found Jones, Jones was on his back hysterical with a small boy standing over him saying “muthafucker” over and over again. It wasn’t long before Koches was on his knees laughing hysterically next to them.

Inside, Julia was translating for Mackey. She asked the chief how things were in the village, and the chief smiled and said the weather had been a blessing this year. There were good crops, plenty of fish, many cows and goats had been born this year, and the village had grown by twenty-two people. Evidently, population was one way to know how things were going. If more died than were born, things weren’t going so well.

The chief reiterated how happy he was to have them as neighbors again, and that his fishermen were the best in the world. Cascaes smiled and thought about the old man he used to call Pop—he was a helluva fisherman and might have taken issue with that claim. After they spoke for almost twenty minutes, Mac began asking more specific questions.

He asked the chief if he had ever heard of the PAC or People’s Army of Congo. The chief said no, and told them they were safe. The war had ended years ago, and he didn’t want them to get frightened and leave. Mackey took a picture of Nigel Ufume out of his pocket and showed it to the old man. Julia asked him if he knew this man. The chief smiled and said yes, it was his friend. Then the chief asked Mackey where the man called Ufume had gone. Mackey explained through Julia that he was hoping the
chief
would answer that question.

They spoke for a while longer, but it was apparent that this isolated village had no idea what the PAC was, and while Nigel had been here before a few times, he was gone now and the chief had no idea where. Either that, or the chief was a really good liar.