I hate being owned, Makeda thought, as she lay, still awake, and staring at the ceiling. It's why I've always faked pleasure, and never let myself feel any of it I could avoid feeling. At least then, inside myself, I had control over myself, I owned that one small part of me.
So why let myself go this one time? Maybe I'm a foolish girl, but when Adam said he would free me if he could, and that it was my choice if we were to continue to bed . . . well . . . I suppose I believed him. No, I know I believe him. He's a good boy, a decent boy, a kind boy.
And he's also my only chance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Like myself, they have mixed the worship of
the God of love and the God of battles.
But unlike myself, they have adequate symbols
of this double devotion. The little cross on the
shoulder is the symbol of their Christian faith.
The uniform itself is the symbol of their devotion
to the God of battles. It is the uniform and not
the cross which impresses me and others.
-Reinhold Niebuhr,
"Leaves from the Notebook of a Tamed Cynic"
D-99, Airfield, Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp,
Amazonia, Brazil
Recruiting had been done in a rough pyramid, so to speak, with Stauer calling in a score of his own friends, for commanders and staff, and these each bringing in anything from a few to half a dozen to a couple of score, and these bringing in one or two or three or four each. A certain number, too, had been recruited by ransacking the databases of such corporations as Triple Canopy and MPRI, once Lox hacked into those.
Picking the chaplain Stauer had taken on as a personal job. Most chaplains he thought worthless, but there had been a couple . . .
The flight hadn't been that long, really, from Georgetown to an unknown and unnamed strip in Brazil's Amazon, just a few hours of mile after mile of green jungle and brown water.
On the other hand, flying in a tightly cramped aircraft with an unknown pilot, surrounded by nine big, burly and surly bastards that Chaplain (retired) James Wilson just knew had to be special operations types, was, at best, awkward and uncomfortable. There just wasn't a lot in common between green beanie and clerical collar, despite both having served in the same Army. They were almost all taller than his modest five feet, eight inches. They were all, even the ones he pegged as senior non-coms, much younger than his fifty-eight years. He had more hair than a couple of them, but his was steel gray while the eldest of theirs was at worst salt and pepper. They all looked like trained killers while he . . . Well . . . I look like a man of the cloth. Even without the collar I would.
Point of fact, really, they're a different army, Wilson thought. We just got paid, mostly, from the same accounts and wore, mostly, the same uniforms and answered, mostly, to the same legal system. Mostly.
And I suppose they're really not that surly, he thought, just really, really tired looking and, if smell in anything to go on, badly hungover.
In any case, neither chaplain nor team paid much attention to each other, beyond Welch having introduced himself as they boarded the plane. Of small talk, once aboard, though, there'd been none.
So Wilson spent the flight looking out the small window at the trees passing below. Not that they're all that far below, he mused. I wonder why the pilots are . . .
The thought was interrupted as the plane took a sudden, violent dip downward, causing Wilson's stomach to lurch upward. He barely contained his bile. The special operations types, most of whom had been dozing, awakened with sudden startled cries. Wilson gulped even while thinking, Nice to know they're human after all.
Stauer heard the Porter's engine, even muffled through the trees. He caught the briefest glimpse of it. And then the thing was diving for the deck, or-in this case-the freshly laid PSP.
The pilot pulled out, barely in time, Stauer thought. In what seemed mere moments he had touched down on the PSP, bouncing a few times before settling in to a rather nice landing roll. He reversed engines shortly thereafter, slowing quickly to a stop maybe sixty percent of the way down the field.
Nagy was right, Stauer thought. Cruz was being overly careful. But, then again, this was the best pilot Cruz came up with for the Porters. Maybe the others will need a bit more space. And, maybe too, we might have to fly a load or two out of here.
Harry Gordon, Gordo, had arranged for half a dozen little All Terrain Vehicles with dump truck platforms on back to be sent to the camp via the leased civilian riverine landing craft. The things were six-wheeled-though the wheels were covered with rubber treads-and amphibious. Each had a ton and a quarter winch. They drove pretty much like an M-113 armored personnel carrier, having two control sticks to steer and stop. Best of all, they were completely non-suspicious.
Of course, at twenty-six thousand dollars and change, each, they hadn't come cheap.
The ATVs had been there mostly for Nagy's sake, initially, but since he no longer really needed them they'd been parceled out among the other organizations, with two of them reserved to the air operations company. Those two were waiting when the Porter came to a stop. There wouldn't be room for the men, of course. They could walk. But there's no sense in making them carry all their shit while they do, Stauer thought. Not in this heat, anyway.
As the plane's hatch opened, Stauer adjusted the pull throttle, pressed the starter button, readjusted the throttle and took off to meet his incoming crew, grass and dirt spinning up behind him, until he reached the PSP of the airstrip. The things were a ball to drive, despite the pounding of the junctures where PSP section joined section. The propeller was changing from a blur to a visible set of blades as he stopped the ATV near the hatch.
Terry was first off, tossing an informal-to-the-point-of-ragged salute Stauerward. Stauer frowned until Terry made it more formal. "One or the other, Terry, would be fine," Stauer said. "Salute or not, as the spirit moves you. But making a sloppy, half-assed, ridiculous attempt at the thing is just stupid."
Terry nodded and said, "Sorry, boss. Won't happen again."
"All right," Stauer agreed with good grace. "And well done on springing Victor. You and your boys are part of Headquarters"-Stauer pointed down a rutted trail in the direction of the river-"so you billet in main camp. Sergeant Island's been expecting you. You can feed before you rack out. The sergeant major will be by to brief you and your men on camp routine and layout tomorrow morning, 0600. You're on your own ‘til then."
Welch nodded wearily, then turned back to the plane from which all of his men had now debarked. "Buckwheat," he passed on to his senior sergeant, "The vehicles can lead off. Mess in the camp, then rack out. Sergeant Major visits us in the morning, 0600."
"Roger, sir," Fulton said. He turned to the rest and ordered, "Column of twos . . . ForWARD . . . March."
"Sergeant Fulton has another mission, too, Terry," Stauer said as the others marched away.
"Recon of the objective?"
"Yes; that and pick up our local attachments. Him and Wahab. Leave in about two weeks. Buckwheat's the only one we've got with both the training and the color to blend in."
"I'm not sure color matters, boss," Terry said. "That place gets overrun with western journalists and other progressive sorts on a regular basis."