Читать книгу Trial By Fire - Don Pendleton - Страница 9

Arua, Uganda

Alireza Rhage looked out of his office window across the sea of lights just outside Arua proper. The constellations of campfires were a cosmos of misery. The twinkling lights were the result of thousands of refugees burning whatever flammable garbage they could find. Arua was swollen with those who had fled the internecine fighting in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Sudan. The refugee camps were swiftly becoming suburban shantytowns rife with violence and despair.

They were fertile recruiting grounds.

Ostensibly Rhage was a businessman investing in Uganda’s northern tea cultivation. Years of corruption and warfare had turned that industry into a shadow of what it once was. In his year and a half as a tea exporter, agricultural attaché Rhage had never turned a dime of profit. That was of no consequence. In reality, Captain Rhage was an exporter, and what he exported had reaped untold dividends in blood and human misery.

Rhage turned to his personal secretary. “You say there has been no report of a crash, and Flight 499 never arrived at Wonderboom Airport in Pretoria?”

Sergeant Major Pakzad shook his head. “No, Captain.”

“Have there been any reported emergency landings?”

“There have been seven emergency landings by private planes reported in sub-Saharan Africa within Flight 499’s flight window, Captain, but none was reported by Flight 499.”

“Given the nature of the emergency, could they have landed under false identification?”

“That is possible, of course, but none of the emergency landings recorded in the last forty-eight hours were made within reasonable distance of Flight 499’s flight path.”

“Does it strike you as odd, Sergeant Major, that a private flight full of American military cadets, one of them the son of a United States senator, appears to have disappeared without a trace?”

Pakzad smiled with pride. “Well, Captain. We did shoot it down.”

Rhage smiled in return. It had been Sergeant Major Pakzad’s plan. He was a brilliant intelligence officer. He and his staff constantly processed information and devised scenarios. In the sergeant major’s fertile mind, Flight 499 and its passengers had gone from a nonactionable item of mild interest to an opportunity. “Yet, no international outcry. No rescue or salvage mission mounted that we know of. What does that tell you?”

“It says that perhaps the crash occurred in a place the United States cannot easily reach. A bad place, where they have no assets. So they are keeping the situation quiet.”

“Which implies that the cadets may be alive.”

“It is possible, given the nature of the emergency, the pilots did not get out a distress call. By the same token, it is possible that the United States has the power to suppress the situation. My best guess is that the plane crash-landed. If there are survivors they most likely used their cell phones to call for help, which we could not monitor or intercept. The United States has no realistic way to project force into the Congo, much less do so without creating an international incident. The northeastern corner of the DRC is one of the most violent, lawless places on Earth. The United States would not want to advertise they are missing people in the region. Any number of groups hostile to them could retrieve the survivors. A hostage situation involving U.S. military school cadets in Equatorial Africa would be a worst-case scenario for them.”

Rhage glanced at the tri-corner border region of Sudan, Uganda and the DRC. “The best they could immediately manage would be to drop in Special Forces operators.”

“Yes, but from where?” Pakzad pondered. “The United States? Divert them from operations in Afghanistan?”

“Nevertheless, I am taking this continuing silence to mean the Americans are up to something.”

“Very well, Captain. Let us assume the Americans have somehow dropped in a rescue team. That leaves them trying to walk out of the Congo. In that case, their best option would be to make for the Ugandan border.”

The corner of Rhage’s mouth quirked up. Pakzad’s plan was growing more momentous by the minute. “Straight toward us.”

“Yes, Captain, and if you are correct, then I suspect the CIA station in Kampala is quietly arranging a team to meet them.”

“I want you to quietly assemble a team of our own, and we will need native trackers who know the area.”

“Yes, Captain!” Pakzad smiled. “We shall herd the little ducks and then pluck them!”

“You are confident, Sergeant Major. You are aware of the fact that U.S. Special Forces operatives are the best in the world.”

“Yes, Captain. Yet I doubt they could have mustered a full Delta Force team, and they will be saddled with children.”

“Military students, Sergeant Major.”

“American teenagers,” Pakzad scoffed. “Soft cadets.”

Rhage smiled tolerantly. “Did you know that I attended academy in my youth?”

“No, Captain. I did not.”

“Oh, I will admit, the greater proportion of my youthful studies stressed the glory of the Revolution and utter loyalty. Nevertheless, it was at academy where I first learned to read a map, use a compass, route march, and fire and field strip an automatic rifle.”

“Yes, Captain. I understand,” Pakzad’s smile suddenly turned sly. It was a smile Rhage knew all too well, and it always meant something was afoot in the man’s mind. “Captain?”

“Yes, Sergeant Major.”

“I have an idea.”

“I look forward very much to hearing it.”

“I am reminded of the siege of Troy…”

THE CADETS SQUATTED in the morning mist and made a cold and meager breakfast of the individually wrapped cress-and-cucumber finger sandwiches that they’d despised during the flight, the few packs of peanuts and remaining odds and ends. The cadets had changed out of their dress uniforms and wore the T-shirts and shorts or casual pants they had packed for South Africa. Jovich eyed his tiny sandwich that consisted mostly of leaves. “Man, who is that guy, Rambo?”

Cadet Shelby ate the last honey-roasted peanut. “Sarge rocks.” She carefully opened the empty foil pack like a letter and licked the salt and dust from the inside.

Metard and King immediately followed her lead and began licking foil.

Jovich shoved his sandwich into his mouth and glanced around to see if the sergeant was lurking. “And what’s with the fraternity pledge names?”

Johnson licked mayonnaise off his fingers. “Actually, I kind of liked it when he went all Heartbreak Ridge on us.”

Eischen took a swallow from the last can of Coke and passed it on. His eyes narrowed slyly. “He’s taking a ragtag band of pubescent cadets and turning them into a well-oiled fighting machine.”

Several cadets laughed. Rudipu eyed the battered ladder-sight of his Kalashnikov dubiously. “Man, I sure hope so.”

Bolan appeared out of the mist with the plane’s emergency folding shovel in hand. “Grave detail. Fall in.”

The cadets stared as a unit. “Sarge?” Johnson asked.

“The first officer died around 4:00 a.m. last night. Follow me.”

The cadets stared around at one another glumly. They rose and followed Bolan a little way through the trees. The copilot lay in an open grave about five feet deep and just long and wide enough to fit his frame. Miss von Kwakkenbos knelt beside the grave weeping. The copilot lay with his arms crossed over his chest holding his uniform cap. He looked at peace.

“I dug his grave, but he was your first officer. He was part of your flight. Flight 499. I figured you might want to cover him. Maybe say something over him.”

Hudjak took the shovel from Bolan’s hand without a word. He stood over the grave for a moment and then looked back at Bolan. “Sarge?”

“Huge?”

“They’re just going to dig him up, and do him voodoo-style like they did the captain. Probably going to eat him.”

“You’re right, Huge.” Bolan nodded. “Can anyone tell me why that doesn’t matter?”

“Because there’s nothing we can do about it.” Shelby looked down at the dead copilot. “It doesn’t matter what they do. What matters is what we do, and we respect our fallen.”

Hudjak nodded and began shoveling.

The cadets watched silently as Flight 499’s first officer went beneath the ground. “Hey,” Metard said. “Huge.”

The young man didn’t look up from his work. “What do you want, Meatwad?”

“A turn.”

Hudjak straightened. He gave Metard a look and handed over the entrenching tool. One by one each cadet took a turn burying their flight officer. Rudipu spent long moments patting the grave flat and even.

Bolan nodded. “Anyone want to say anything?”

Rudipu smiled and wiped the sweat from his brow. “He called me Sprout.” A few of the cadets laughed quietly or smiled. Rudipu wiped tears from his face as he gazed upon the grave. “But he gave me a tour of the cockpit before we took off. He showed me his gun.”

Shelby sniffed and pushed at her face. “He called me Sheila. When I said I was Air Force, he said he liked lady pilots. I liked him.”

“He fought them.” Johnson stared long and hard at the grave. “Even with two broken legs. He fought them.”

Tears spilled down Cadet Eischen’s cheeks. “Even when we didn’t.”

The cadets lowered their heads.

Bolan spoke over the grave. “He was Pieter Llewellyn, Lieutenant. He flew 604s for the Royal Australian Air Force, Transport Wing. He was honorably discharged after two enlistments and became a private contractor, specializing in the African VIP hub. He fought that plane to the ground.” Bolan looked around at the survivors of Flight 499. “He said you were a likeable bunch of lads and sheilas. He said he’d brought you down, but it was up to me to keep you safe. He said take care of his Niners. He said take them home.”

The cadets nodded at Bolan, who shook his head. “I couldn’t promise him that.”

The squad stared.

“I can only promise you two things. I leave no one behind, and I’ll die before I let any of you get taken again.”

Profound silence filled the gravesite.

“Flight Officer Llewellyn,” Bolan intoned. “Niner Squad! Salute!”

The cadets saluted their fallen copilot with parade-ground precision.

“Fall out,” Bolan ordered. “Gear up. Line up for inspection in one minute.” The cadets and Von Kwakkenbos fell out and grabbed their kit. They were armed and in line in fifty seconds.

Bolan took Johnson’s AK. “How many of you have fired a gun?”

Rudipu, Metard, Eischen and Von Kwakkenbos raised their hands.

“How many have fired an AK?”

All hands dropped.

“This is a Kalashnikov.” Bolan swiftly ran through the manual of arms. “This is your selector lever.” He pushed the lever through the settings, “Safe. Rock ’n’ roll. Semiautomatic. These are your sights. They graduate from 100 to 800 meters. This is the fixed battle setting for all ranges up to 300 meters. This is your folding bayonet.” The squad members eyes widened as Bolan snapped out the foot-long, quadrangular spike. Bolan snapped it back and returned the weapon to Johnson.

“Set your sights to fixed battle setting. Set your selectors to semiauto. You will not change these settings without permission. Unless the enemy is directly engaging you, you will not fire without permission. Our ammo supply is extremely limited. Every shot has to count. Some of the weapons have folding stocks. You will keep them deployed at all times. You will not fix bayonets unless you are out of ammunition or I have ordered you to do so. Does everyone understand?”

“Yes, sergeant!” the squad said in unison.

“Huge.”

“Yes, Sergeant?”

“I have no time to train you. You’re going to have learn the joys of supporting fire on the fly.” Bolan pointed at the light machine gun Huge cradled. “Don’t go Rambo on me. Use your bipod. Get on and off the trigger fast. Short bursts.”

“Short bursts.” Huge nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.”

“Rude.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“So you’re a rifleman.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Bolan eyed the Dragunov sniper rifle Metard was holding. “Switch with Meat.”

Metard noted the “wad” suffix had been left off his name and smiled. “But Sarge, it’s bigger than he is.”

“He’s just going to have to grow into it,” Bolan said, as Rudipu took the Dragunov. The four-foot-long, nine and a half pound rifle nearly reached his chin. Bolan gave the cadet a meaningful look. “Fast.”

Bolan looked at several abandoned dress uniforms. “Uncle Sam still makes his full dress uniforms out of wool, Niners. You’re going to want those jackets and slacks when it gets cold.”

King glanced about as the morning mist turned to rainbowing steam in the morning sun. “Sarge?”

“Donger.”

“Where does it get cold around here?”

Bolan pointed directly west at the mist-shrouded peaks that lay between the Niner squad and the Ugandan border. “There.”