Bishop had no reply to that, but before he could simply turn away, a loud pop sounded from somewhere out in the jungle. Another sound like it followed almost immediately.
Bishop spun on his heel and threw himself at an uncomprehending Felice, tackling her to the ground and covering her with his own body. Knight dove down by his side. With no way of knowing where the rounds would fall, there were only two practical courses of action in response to incoming mortar fire:
Get down, and pray.
Bishop listened for the distinctive shriek that would herald the arrival of the explosive ordnance. The longer the noise lasted, the more likely the shell would fall well off the mark. If they were lucky, the whistling noise would last several seconds. The shells would hit a hundred yards or more from their location, putting them well outside the radius of a lethal shrapnel storm. That would give them plenty of time to pick up and run before gun crews could adjust fire and drop two more shells into their tubes.
They weren’t lucky.
13
King crouched on the end of the ramp poised to hop down as soon as the ground was close enough. Hot jet exhaust, caught between the tarmac — which was still a good ten yards away — and Crescent II’s enormous turbofan thrusters, swirled around him and into the open cargo bay of the stealth transport. The exhaust was alternately trying to blast him back and suck him out. He glanced over at his sister and flashed her a grin.
Asya clung to the hydraulic cylinder on the opposite corner of the ramp, but she managed to loosen her death grip just long enough to flip him the bird.
Must be Rook’s influence, King mused.
Crescent II dipped low with a stomach shaking lurch, followed by a strong jolt as the deployed landing gear bounced on the pavement. The pilots weren’t going to land completely. There wasn’t time for that if they were to have a chance of getting back to the Kivu region to pick up Bishop and Knight. This was as close to the ground as they were going to get.
“Go!” King shouted, and then he leaped down from the ramp.
Asya dropped beside him, flexing her knees to absorb the impact with the ground and putting out one hand to steady herself. She made it look easy. King didn’t know Asya nearly as well as a brother should know a sister, but he felt a flash of familial pride. She reminded him a lot of Julie, the older sister he had grown up with and who had inspired him to join the Army in the first place. Over the years, his memories of Julie had faded and the sting of her tragic death in a military training accident had diminished to the point where he sometimes had trouble remembering that his two sisters were not the same person.
There was a loud roar as Crescent’s pilot cranked up the turbos and pushed the jet back up into the sky. King and Asya stayed crouched down to avoid being knocked over by the rush of air and waited until the storm abated. In a matter of seconds, the stealth plane appeared to shrink, and then the thrusters swiveled to cruising configuration. It took off like a rocket.
Only now did King take a moment to survey the landing zone, a large open area of tarmac adjacent to the runway of the N’Djili International Airport. The east terminal building lay off to their left, the gates currently occupied by three passenger jets. A line of green military vehicles, each with a crew of soldiers, separated them from the terminal. One of the trucks started forward, and King did not fail to note that the gunner in the center-mounted turret had his machine gun trained on Asya and himself.
“Easy does it,” King said. The admonition was directed at Asya, but he hoped the soldiers approaching them heeded it as well.
The vehicle stopped a few yards away and three men, all dressed in woodland camouflage fatigues and wearing red berets, got out. One of them, the only one not brandishing an AKS-74 semi-automatic carbine, strode forward. He had a broad smile, which was at odds with everything else in the picture, but King returned a grin and raised a hand in salute.
“Bon jour,” the man said, greeting King like an old friend. He gave an answering salute before continuing in French. “I am Brigadier General Jean-Claude Mabuki, commander of the Republican Guard. We’ve been expecting you.”
King had no trouble understanding the man, and probably could have carried on a conversation in a few of the languages commonly used in the African nation. During the course of his long journey through time, he had learned dozens of languages, and not just as a matter of survival. He had intentionally sought out opportunities to learn tongues that he knew were still widely used in the twenty-first century. French was a piece of cake.
King introduced them using only their callsigns. If Mabuki found this strange, he gave no indication. He looked them over and his smile slipped a notch. “Only two? I had hoped your country would be able to provide a larger force.”
“Officially, my country isn’t providing anything. We’re here unofficially.”
“Yes, I understand. Still, I’m not certain what you will be able to do to help us.”
“I’m not really certain either,” King admitted. “But if you can brief us on the situation, I’ll have a better idea.”
“Of course. Please, come with me. I will take you to meet with President Okoa.” He gestured to the vehicle. The soldiers accompanying him opened doors on either side, and once King, Asya and the general were seated, they closed the doors and climbed up onto the roof of the vehicle.
As they drove around the terminal building, Mabuki briefly summarized the state of his country. The events were mostly the same as what Boucher had reported, but Mabuki provided insights that the official report could not.
“General Velle has the Army on his side,” he explained. “They have been waiting for just such an opportunity to make their move.”
“Why did President Mulamba not remove him from power?” Asya asked in heavily accented, but nonetheless passable French.
Mabuki gave a patient smile. “Africa is a complicated place, my friends. The simple answer is that many of the senior officers are loyal to Velle. The only way to prevent Velle from leading a coup was to keep him in his position. Velle is strong, but his control of the Army is not absolute. And he does not control the Republican Guard. We are loyal to the President. But there are many other players in this game. Arms dealers, mercenaries, rebels. They are loyal to no one, and they support whomever will make them wealthy. And the people will support whomever can keep them safe.”
Mabuki elaborated further on the various factions that were contributing to the unrest as they made their way through the capital city, but King was only half-listening. It was a familiar story, and one that he had witnessed too many times to count. In the streets, he saw the signs of a populace gripped by fear of the unknowable future. There were soldiers everywhere, and military and police checkpoints every few blocks. Civilians carried on their daily activities, but there was a tension in their movements, as if one and all were prepared to bolt for cover at the first sign of trouble. It was a powder keg, and there was no way of knowing if the spark that would set it off had already been struck.
They arrived at the Palais de la Nation, the seat of power in the country, in name at least. The three story building was a sprawling structure that might have looked more like a college stadium than a government office, if not for the hundreds of soldiers milling about in the foreground. The walls were a flat and featureless white on what appeared to be concrete slab construction. A domed roof rose up from the middle of the structure. From the street it reminded King of the Legion of Doom headquarters from Saturday morning cartoons. Mabuki escorted them through a blue and yellow painted gate that separated the street from the brick walkway leading into the palace.