Читать книгу Trial By Fire - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

“What have you got for me, Bear?” Bolan asked. Kurtzman looked at his bank of monitors. One screen was devoted to the weather over Equatorial Africa. Three more coordinated satellite feeds as high-resolution imagery intelligence birds became available. Another screen was coordinated with signals intelligence satellites that were eavesdropping on the region. The largest screen, the one directly in front of Kurtzman, was dedicated to what he considered the “footwork” of the Computer Room—his own research and information processing.

“I have Julius Caesar Segawa.”

“Cute,” Bolan replied.

“Nothing cute about him.” Kurtzman looked at the only known photograph of the madman. With his knit cap, dreads and beard, Segawa could have passed for a reggae singer, except that reggae singers didn’t pose for portraits holding an automatic weapon while sitting on a pile of human heads. “We have very little confirmed on this guy, Striker, but what we do know is bad, and I mean bad.”

“This Caesar, he’s Lord’s Resistance Army?”

“Worse.”

“What does that mean?”

Kurtzman looked Segawa’s picture again. The Lord’s Resistance Army had been engaged in armed rebellion against the Ugandan government more or less since 1987. They believed in a heady blend of traditional African religion, spirit-medium mysticism and Apocalyptic Christianity. Kurtzman knew that the group certainly was not the first to use murder, abduction, rape, mutilation and sexual enslavement against civilian populations, but they had gone at it with an enthusiasm unseen in the twentieth century, and it is thought they had pioneered the use of child-soldiers in African conflicts.

“It seems Segawa got kicked out for going too far in his atrocities.”

“Isn’t that kind of like getting thrown out of a rock band for doing too many drugs, Bear?”

“Yeah, well, imagine if the lead singer started eating people.” Kurtzman smiled in spite of himself. “You yourself told me you have firsthand evidence of the cannibalism thing here on the ground.”

“I’ve seen firsthand that they eat hands. What else do we know?”

“Not much. Segawa split off and formed his own group called God’s Army. They haven’t had much success taking over the Lord’s Resistance Army, much less overthrowing the Ugandan government. They pulled a big fade into Congo a few years back and have been under the radar ever since. All I can find are second-and thirdhand horror stories about them that missionaries and aid workers have heard from refugees.”

“Anything pertinent?”

“He’s supposed to have some woman with him. A witch doctor. Rumor is people in the region are even more scared of her than him.” Kurtzman stared at the image of Segawa sitting on heads. “To be honest? I’m worried. I don’t think he’ll stop at just holding those kids for ransom. God only knows what he’ll do.”

“Any idea of their troop strength?”

“Depending who you listen to the Lord’s Resistance Army has an estimated strength of fifteen hundred to three thousand men at any given time. Caesar and his God’s Army are a splinter group and have been in the bush for several years. They’re strong enough to raid villages with impunity, but in recent years they’ve been strictly avoiding the militaries on both sides of the border as well as their former brethren. I’d say Caesar’s got to have at least one platoon. Possibly two.”

The math was ugly. Bolan and his little troop were outnumbered by at least five if not possibly ten to one. Bolan changed the subject. “Any clue on our shooters?”

“That is something of a poser. All we have to go on are the photos of the plane you sent and the location of the crash site itself. Walking it backward from the crash site, the air defense guys I spoke with figure Flight 499 was probably at cruising altitude. For a Challenger 604 max is about forty-one thousand feet. Flight 499 would have been well below that, and given the prevailing weather maybe half that or less, but certainly well out of range of anything shoulder-launched. Going by the pictures, put together the damage to the plane and the pilots’ ability to land it, our best guess is that 499 took a near miss by something using a proximity fuse. I’m thinking something vehicle-launched.”

“More likely towed,” Bolan surmised. “You got any probable launch sites?”

“Hard to imagine it was actually fired from the DRC. There just isn’t anything in your neck of the woods with that kind of range. Best bet would be a launch from the northeastern extreme of Uganda or the southern tip of Sudan, but they would have had to have been very close to 499’s flight path. We’re talking right under it. The other two things of interest are that the only air defense weapons the Ugandans have are obsolete Russian antiaircraft guns. But the Sudanese do have a few Russian SA-2 Guideline missile batteries. Those could have reached out and touched Flight 499.”

“But the few they have are all tasked with defending the capital and their air bases, they’re all out of range of Flight 499’s flight path, and even the yahoos in Khartoum aren’t dumb enough to start firing at commercial flights, particularly ones with a U.S. senator’s son aboard.”

“That’s how I see it, too, which leaves us with players we don’t know about misbehaving in the tri-border region. Though it’s hard to imagine any bad guys I can think of planning this operation. The logistics are too extreme to match the target.”

“It wasn’t planned. Our players were misbehaving as you said, but Flight 499 came up as a target of opportunity.” Bolan’s voice went cold. “And since we have unknown enemies playing with surface-to-air missiles in the area, I’m not going to get my resupply flight, am I?”

“Resupply is currently considered too dangerous. If the bad guys have access to medium range surface-to-air missiles, we must assume they have shoulder-launched weapons as well and may be moving into your area. How are your supplies?”

“On average everyone has four loaded magazines. We’ve got three pints of rice and some sandwich spread. After that we go directly to eating endangered animals.”

Kurtzman scrolled the files on the cadets and the flight attendant. “How are your people holding up?”

Bolan’s voice brightened. “Good, better than I’d expected. Pieter was right, they’re a good bunch of lads and sheilas.”

“So what is your current plan?”

“We keep heading west.”

“I don’t know if you can out march these guys, Striker.”

“I know.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to reach out and show Caesar the Ides of March are upon him. Striker out.”

BOLAN SCANNED THE SKIES as he clicked off. The daily downpour was just about due. “Rude! Hammer!” he called. “On me.”

Cadets Johnson and Rudipu ran up and snapped to attention front and center. “Sarge?” Johnson asked.

“Squad leader, rumor is you intend to be a Marine.”

“Yes, Sergeant. I hope to be Force Recon, like my father.”

Bolan held out his compass and his spare map. “You know how to use these?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“You’re going to take Niner Squad straight up that mountain. If you push hard, you should be able to summit before dark.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“You’re keeping a cold camp. I’ve had one of the bags of rice soaking in water since this morning in a plastic bag. Ace is carrying it, but he doesn’t know it yet. It should be edible by the time you hit the top. Don’t tell anybody, but Blondie has peanut butter and jelly. Tonight everyone in the squad gets a cup of rice and three tablespoons of the PB and J. Blondie will provision it out. Meat is carrying the second rice bag. You will put it in the plastic bag Ace is carrying and soak it overnight. If Rude and I are not back by morning, that and the other half of the peanut butter are breakfast and dinner. If we’re still not back, you soak bag number three and continue to head due west.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“You will not engage the enemy unless you are attacked. Escape and evade. If you come across a village, do not make contact. They may be hostile. Even if they aren’t, if they take you in, it could be a death sentence for them. Mark the position on the map and continue on.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Bolan handed Johnson one of the collected cell phones and five batteries. “I’ve put two presets at the top of the contact list. Number one is SARGE and number two is BEAR. Do not call out unless you’re being attacked or run into unforeseen difficulties. If I am not back by tomorrow, call preset SARGE. If I do not respond, call preset BEAR. Do not answer any incoming calls unless the Caller ID says SARGE or BEAR. If you receive a call from BEAR at any time and I’m not here, you do anything and everything the Bear tells you. Got it?”

“Copy that, Sarge.”

“You may hear gunfire. You’ll probably see smoke. Remember the enemy likes to spray and pray. Single shots are probably me or Rude.” Bolan looked into the earnest young cadet’s face and saw doubt and fear. It was Johnson’s first command, at age seventeen, in the jungles of Africa. “Hammer?”

“Sarge?”

Bolan knew from long experience that there was something about cold steel that braced backbones. “Have the men fix bayonets.”

Johnson snapped his steel in place. “Yes, Sergeant!” The cadet frowned. “How are you going to catch up?”

“You’ll be cutting the trail for us, Hammer.”

“But won’t the enemy find it, too?”

“Hammer, I’m counting on it.”

Johnson grinned. “Copy that!”

Bolan clapped Johnson on the shoulder. “You have your orders, Squad Leader. Inform the team and get them moving. I will rendezvous within twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

“Yes, Sergeant.” Johnson jogged back to the group. “Niner Squad! On me!”

Bolan turned to Rudipu as Johnson shouted in a decent imitation of a drill sergeant. “Fix bayonets!”

Bolan spoke quietly over steel clicking in place. “Rude, you’re with me.”

“Where’re we going, Sarge?”

“To check on Flight Officer Llewellyn.”

Rudipu considered that. “Really?”

“What, you don’t want to see his big send-off?”

“Of…course I do, Sergeant.”

“Good.”

“Sarge?”

“Yeah?”

“What does that mean?”

“You and I are a sniper-scout team,” Bolan replied. “We’re going to go establish the position of the enemy.”

“Oh, shit!”

“You with me, Rude? You can say no and I’ll get somebody else, but I’m still thinking you’re the best shot in Niner Squad. I’ll do the heavy lifting on this one, but every sniper team needs a spotter and a backup shooter.”

“Sarge? I don’t know if I’m cut out to be a sniper.”

“Enlighten me,” Bolan said.

“I mean, I love shooting, but I’m with Shelby.”

“Who?” Bolan asked.

Rudipu grinned. “I mean, Snake, Sergeant. She and I are both Air Force academy cadets. I want jets.”

“I noticed you want Miss von Kwakkenbos, too, Rude. Noticed you noticing someone cut off the top three buttons of her blouse with a machete whenever you thought no one is watching.”

Rudipu flushed scarlet, but he salvaged some dignity. “Well, I do like blondes, Sarge.”

“Who doesn’t?” Bolan liked the cadet’s attitude. “So does the enemy, and you do know what they’re going to do to her if they catch her?”

Rude looked down unhappily. “Yeah.”

“What they’ll do to Snake?”

“Yeah.”

“What they’ll do to you?”

“Sarge!” Rudipu was appalled.

“Rude, this isn’t quite the Ninth Circle of Hell, but you can see it from here. There are predators in these woods, four-legged and otherwise. And around here, someone like you is considered a light snack. You understand?”

The diminutive cadet looked down glumly. “Yeah.”

“But you have an advantage, Rude. Do you know what that is?”

Rudipu raised his Dragunov. “Precision rifle-fire?”

“That’s right, Rude. Precision rifle-fire.”

The cadet took a deep breath. “You’re right, Sarge. It’s time to cowboy up.”

“Time to marksman up, Rude.” Bolan turned and broke into a light jog. “Try to keep up.”

OBUA POINTED AT THE GLADE. “They have buried another one of their dead, Caesar.”

“The wounded one?” Segawa asked. “The copilot?”

“That would be my guess.” Obua nodded in obeisance to Caesar’s consort. “Mama Waldi.”

The woman was six feet tall. Though she had the breasts and hips of a fertility goddess, her limbs and waist stretched out like those of a famine victim. Her matted dreadlocks fell to her tailbone. Amulets and fetishes mounded her neck and shoulders. She carried a butcher knife on her belt, and in her hands she carried a hunga munga. The African throwing weapon looked like a cross between a hand sickle, a hatchet and a scythe, with a couple of extra knife blades for added effect. It was a weapon that Mama Waldi always sharpened but never cleaned. The edges of the pitted blades gleamed out of the dried gore caking them like quicksilver. Obua had seen Mama Waldi take off a fleeing man’s leg just below the knee with one throw. The woman had the flat black eyes of a shark, and she had filed her teeth to points to match. “I want ’em bones, Brother Obua, and all the brethren shall partake of the white bread of his flesh.”

Obua licked his lips. It had been some time since he had eaten the long pig done right. The pilot had been crucified and burned with gasoline. It had made his poor flesh a tough and acrid meal. Obua thought about the copilot a day and night in the ground with his juices running. That would be toothsome, meat-falling-off-the-bone fare. “As you say, Mama.”

“I want the little one. The girl.”

Segawa smiled. “And she shall be delivered to you, Mama.”

“Blue-eyed devil woman die in my fire and be our bread.”

Obua gave Segawa an alarmed look. The army leader put his hand on Mama Waldi’s shoulder. “Not before Brother Obua and the brethren have shown her paradise.”

Mama Waldi exposed her pointed teeth. “Then they shall know her flesh in sin and then partake of her flesh as the bread of forgiveness.”

“You are wise, Mama.” Segawa to where Obua had pointed. Four of the men were busily disinterring the copilot’s body with their machetes. “They bury him, brother? Knowing what we would do? Why would they waste the time?”

Obua shrugged. “They are Americans, pale, poor-relation Christians. They are…sentimental.”

“Where do you find them now, brother?”

“They make no effort to hide their tracks. They make for the mountains. They make for the Ugandan border.”

“Zion,” Mama Waldi intoned.

Segawa and Obua spoke in unison. “Holy Zion, the promised land.” Obua stared up into the misty mountaintops. “Someone has given them backbone. Given them courage.”

“These our mountains. These our forests.” Segawa looked at the trail their quarry had left. “They cannot outrun us.”

Mama Waldi gazed westward. “I wonder if the white children will turn and fight?”

A huge door-slamming sound answered the witch doctor’s question. Birds erupted out of the trees and monkeys screamed as pale orange fire pulsed at the gravesite. The men digging screamed and disappeared in white streamers of burning particulate. Fire crawled up the trees ringing the glade in a burn that moisture would not stop. Only one of the four diggers came out of the smoking curtain. Vusi was barely recognizable as a man. He screamed and flailed at the white phosphorus covering his body in swathes and burning his flesh to the bone.

Segawa drew his panga. He took a skipping run forward and wheeled his chopper like a bowler about to pitch a cricket ball. Vusi fell to his knees shrieking and burning. Segawa swung, and Vusi’s head flew from his shoulders. His body slumped bonelessly, and his head tumbled down the slope.

Kayizi broke out of the underbrush. He had taken a wide berth around the white phosphorus. He took one glance at Vusi’s decapitated corpse and got on with his message. “Caesar! Caesar!”

Segawa took a look at his panga. One of Vusi’s vertebrae had turned the edge of his weapon. Kayizi was one of the youngest of God’s Army. Segawa had turned him into a warrior. Mama Waldi had turned him into a man. Obua had turned him into a tracker. The young man could scent a shadow on a cloudy day. He was one of the most fanatic of the brethren. “Brother Kayizi.”

“The trail is clear, Caesar! Ten continue towards the mountain!”

“You count ten, brother?”

“With the pilot and copilot dead? I see all eight cadets, the flight attendant and the commando who leads them! They burn for the Ugandan border!”

Mama Waldi came to stand beside her man. “The American. The commando.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Mama Waldi’s black eyes narrowed. “You would think, a grenade on a body, a playground trick, one we have used ourselves many times.”

Segawa nodded. “Yes, Mama. We have.”

“Yet we fell for this trick, because we have pulled up their dead before.”

Segawa nodded once more. “Yes, Mama.”

“The American,” Obua scowled. “He reads us, he reads our ways and he has turned to fight.”

Mama Waldi ran a disturbingly large tongue over her filed teeth. “Good.”