Defender (10 page)

"There's something else I need
to
show you."

"There it is, Steve. Down there!"

Mike Fredericks received a thumbs-up of acknowledgment from Steve Mason, the helicopter pilot, who cringed, as Fredericks habitually yelled into the headset mouthpiece, deafening them all. Morgan laughed as he looked through into the cockpit to see a grimacing Mason belt Fredericks' arm with a reproving tap to his own headset.

"You know, these things actually work, Mike," Mason said for the benefit of them all. "You loud bastard."

They laughed as Fredericks, realising his bad habit, leaned over, lifted the left side ear piece of Mason's headset and bellowed directly into his ear, "Sorry!"

Five minutes later, they were on the deck, clear of what appeared to be a vehicle crash site. Morgan and Fredericks sprang from their seats as soon as the chopper's tyres had bounced. Johnny grabbed three AK.Vi fs from the back, passing one each to Fredericks and Morgan, and keeping one for himself, jogged
to
a clearing on the edge of the wide, red dirt road, taking up a sentry position, facing north-east. Morgan offered a helping hand to a thoroughly bewildered Arena, but she deftly ignored him and struggled down from the cargo hold. As soon as she was off, Mason took the big chopper in a low hover across to a clearing and shut her down.

"What's this all about, Mike?" Morgan asked as they walked. His guard was up. He was glad to have the A.KM. "When we were coming in, I saw what looks like a transit van down the side of the hill. This bend, with the high ground and dense bush on the far side, is a perfect choke point in the road," Morgan noted with an experienced eye. "Ambush site?"

"Looks that way," agreed Fredericks. "When we were flying in to pick you both up earlier, Johnny spotted a vehicle that appeared to have gone off the road here. I got Steve
to
drop us in." Fredericks lowered his voice just for Morgan. "It's pretty gruesome, Alex. Couple of days, by the look. I believe it's the priest and a couple of nuns who ran a medical clinic out this way. They're all shot to shit and the animals have been at 'em. Definitely ambushed. Follow me down. We'll take a look." He gestured with a movement of his head toward the edge of a steep embankment. Turning to Arena he said, "Ari, I'm not sure how you feel about these things, but you may wanna stay up here with Steve and Johnny. It's not pretty."

"Thanks, but I think I'll come with you." Arena took a drink from a fresh water bottle. She'd already finished one on the chopper.

"Suit yourself. Just watch it as you come down. It gets pretty steep," cautioned Fredericks.

Morgan reached up to help Arena, but it was evident she didn't need or want his help. Seconds later, the debris of the jungle floor fell away from beneath her, Arena slipped a.nd fell with a thud, flat on her back. Morgan stepped over
to
her and without irony again offered his hand. This time, in need of a foothold, she took it. Fredericks led them down the embankment, which fell away at a deadly gradient into thick jungle. They were on the old connecting road that had once been the main route between the coast and the eastern highlands. While the high canopy of the jungle gave respite from the searing impact of the sun, down at ground level the air was still too hot to breathe, and their clothes were soaked with perspiration before they'd even moved 20 feet. They were about 30 kilometres from their destination, Pallarup - the Malfajiri headquarters of Alga Creek Mining and Chiltonford. The road had changed from bitumen to gravel, as it disappeared around a sharp corner into harsher, near impenetrable jungle.

The going was difficult for the entire 50 feet they had to descend to reach the vehicle and, although moving through thick secondary undergrowth was clearly a new experience for Arena, she was handling it.

'Tm sorry your first official duties couldn't have been under more agreeable circumstances," said Fredericks through laboured breaths, "but I believe this wreck might just tell us something about the rebels' intentions - if you know what I mean."

"Roger," replied Morgan, shaking his head as they finally arrived at the van's final resting place. "Bloody hell!"

"Oh, Jesus!" Arena exclaimed. She drew a hand immediately to her face to block the smell, gathering her shirt collar across her nose and mouth. "Is that the smell of the bodies?"

"Yeah,'' confirmed Fredericks. '"fraid so. It's been pretty warm over the past couple of days and, unfortunately, our friends are,'' he paused, "... on the turn."

Morgan eased past Fredericks and slid the last couple of feet down to the wreckage of the van. Both he and Fredericks began giving the area a thorough onceover. Arena self-consciously took another drink of water. The heat and stench were unbearable.

"What a mess!" said Morgan.

The wagon was on its side and clearly, by the amount of damage sustained, it had rolled all the way down the embankment before crashing to the position where it now lay. Normally fully laden with medical supplies, rations and the personal effects of the priest and nuns, the inside of the vehicle had been gutted; cleaned out by rebel soldiers, or possibly even local looters. Only the bodies remained. Despite her apprehensiveness, Arena joined them as they picked over the site, stopping occasionally to confer. There was an eerie silence as they all pondered the lay of the land, the perfectly chosen ambush site, and the innocence of the selfless, unsuspecting victims. The three of them variously moved about the site, looking off into the jungle, down at the wreckage, back to where the van had tumbled down the hill, each considering the enormity of the days, possibly even the hours that lay ahead.

Morgan was the first to break the quiet.

With an air of understanding and finality, he pushed himself back up through the scrub towards the road, and said, "Well, I guess we better get some shovels and bury these poor buggers."

"Good idea," Fredericks agreed. "Then we'll need to get back to Pallarup before dark so you can both meet everybody and we can start sorting out the evacuation plan. My guess is that we don't have much time at all before this country falls to Baptiste."

"I'd like to help, if I can." Arena offered. "Are you sure?" asked Morgan.

"I can handle it," she said, with a small emphatic nod of the head. Her tone was low, her features set. "Right then."

An hour later, they'd fulfilled their responsibilities to the dead and were back on the chopper.

Mason was a skilled pilot. Leaving the jungle behind, he flew with such effortlessness over the vast landscape, bathed in the blood red of the setting sun, that he might have been driving a car through a country town on an easy Saturday night. Fredericks took the opportunity to brief Morgan and Arena on who the key players were back in the mining town, and how they may, or may not, try to obstruct Morgan as he readied them all for the evacuation.

Pallarup would be Morgan's port of entry into the Chiltonford machine; it was there that the company had centered operations for the duration of their deployment in Malfajiri, supporting the massive Alga Creek Mining Corporation's remote African outpost. Morgan knew that when he finally arrived at Pallarup, he would likely be confronted by panic and confusion.

Other than Fredericks, who'
cl
been nothing but professional and clearly welcoming of a spare pair of hands, he'd yet
to
meet any of the Chiltonford crew or Alga Creek employees, so he decided to err on the side of caution and prepare for the worst.

The plan to kill President Namakobo was basic. It had to be.

While there had been planning, and it had been elaborate, it was by those who believed there would be time to organise, recruit and prepare. There were plenty of ways
to
assassinate the President, and among those loyal to Baptiste, many willing to do it.

A martyr dying a glorious death in a spectacular explosion, would send Namakobo to hell, the willing sacrificial lamb to his virgins, and the triumphant Baptiste
to
the Presidency. An assassin's bullet, with discipline, meticulous timing, and the precision of perfect flight, would catch the unsuspecting Namakobo right between the eyes without him ever having heard the shot. Or poison administered by a trusted aid or associate - a cold and intimate murder, akin
to
slipping a blade between the ribs of a brother, forcing the slender, silver steel in, and up to the hilt, watching the life withdraw from the eyes of the victim.

Such was the inveigling flavour of the great Baptiste's call to his willing, mindless flock. Incredibly, there was no shortage of sheep ready
to
pay the ultimate sacrifice for their fearless shepherd. Stupid bastards, thought Lundt amidst his latest musings on the blind fervor of Baptiste's followers. If only they knew.

Whilst the more senseless, extravagant options held great appeal for Baptiste - keen to capitalise on making Namakobo's death a glorious transition of power
to
the rightful leader - Lundt would not entertain them. It wasn't in his make-up to do so. He had endured countless hours of Baptiste's cocaine-induced exhortations and rants, foretelling Namakobo's death in visions. Of the hundreds he had heard, Lundt recalled Baptiste's fantasies of the president dying by a bomb, gun, or poison, as the most likely to succeed.

And so, as the time for planning a spectacular death had passed, and excess had fallen in place behind economy, Lundt issued his instructions.

There would be a primary and a backup. Both would be blunt.

Both would be ugly.

He wondered again about the two new arrivals from London. 

Whoever they were, they were too late to stop anything.

Alex Morgan looked at his watch, a battered old Tag Heuer he'd had since he was a Lieutenant. It was 3pm on his first day at Pallarup, the sun was scorching high in the sky and the place resembled a massive three ring circus being dismantled, ready for the road trip to the next town. But, in this case, the gear would be staying. Only the people were moving on. He took off his sunglasses, wiped the sweat from his eyes across the bottom of his t-shirt and turned back to help a couple of the expats and local staff who were struggling to dismantle a HF radio antennae that wasn't coming down without a fight.

Half an hour earlier, Morgan had wrapped up a few hours of training with the staff, running them through a series of arduous but necessary exercises to prepare for an emergency evacuation. Embarkation and disembarkation drills in and out of the helicopter were exhausting in their repetition but, for the mostly uninitiated group of civilians, absolutely critical if they were to be prepared to operate under pressure. When the time came to evacuate, Morgan had told them, it would arrive without notice and they would have no time to waste. He had ended the session with a final: "Everybody hold up your passports and personal information cards!"

He tugged his from the lanyard under his shirt and held it high above his head by way of example. Satisfied that they all had their own, he said. "From here on, they stay with you - and I mean 'on your person' - until you get home."

"Alex! Got a minute?" It was Fredericks, calling out from the cabin of one of the Chiltonford Land Rovers as it braked to a sudden halt in a cloud of red dust. He clambered out, heading straight to Morgan.

"Sure," Morgan responded with a grunt of exertion, as he managed to release a cable tie from a piton in the ground. The men around him let out a joint, much-relieved howl of approval. The obstinate cable tie had been the one point in dismantling the entire antennae assembly that had been halting progress.

"My guy in town tells me there's been a lot going on since we
flew up
here yesterday."

"What's happening?" asked Morgan. "Trouble already?"

"You could say that," Fredericks answered. "The Defence Minister was hacked to death at his home last night - he'd just finished dinner and, apparently, answered a loud banging on his front door. They used machetes and tomahawks."

"Jesus," Morgan hissed.

"Later, a couple of cops pulled over a car under their curfew 'stop and search' powers, and were shot for their troubles, point-blank in a street full of people. Nobody saw a thing." Fredericks' voice was low.

"Sounds like frayed nerves," said Morgan. "Rebel foot-soldiers waiting to get off the leash. Losing control."

"You got it," Fredericks nodded. "I reckon we've got less than 24 hours before this thing goes down."

"How reliable is your man?" asked Morgan.

"You don't have to worry about Adam Garrett," Fredericks answered bluntly. "Ex-Royal Marine, Sergeant Major. I've sent him ahead to liaise with the US Navy over the evacuation plan and to prepare our staging point at the hotel. He's a good man."

"OK. So, what else has he said?" Morgan went on, impressed but not surprised that Fredericks had defended his man.

"Well, over the past two days there's also been movement out of the city by more Malfajiri Army officers known to be loyal to Baptiste. They've been abandoning their military posts and heading to the hills to join the rebels."

"Subtle," Morgan said.

"That's not the worst of it," Fredericks replied ominously. "The rebels have been establishing forming up positions at strategic locations all over the country. Take a look at this."

Mike Fredericks extracted a well-used map of Malfajiri from the side pocket of his Canadian Army-issue combat pants. He dropped to one knee, Morgan following suit. Fredericks spread the map out on the ground and began directing Morgan's attention to key points marked upon the map's plastic cover.

"Well, there's some real experience behind this plan, that's for sure,"
Morgan said. "They're preparing to launch."