“Mr. Okoa. Your country stands on the brink of civil war. Your leader, President Mulamba, has not returned, and there are rumors that he might be dead.” She had heard no such rumors, and had not heard from the team dispatched to intercept Mulamba in Belgium, but reasoned that if Mulamba were alive, she would have heard about it. “This is a crisis,” she went on, “and demands swift decisive action. You must sign an executive order, granting General Velle special emergency powers to restore order, until a new government can be created.”
Okoa slowly raised his head. He wore an expression of incredulity. “General Velle is the crisis.”
“Let us put aside pretenses. How we came to be here is irrelevant. What matters is how it ends.”
“Why do you need me to sign a piece of paper giving you what you have already taken?”
“For the sake of your people, Mr. Okoa. A formal decree is necessary for reconciliation to begin. General Velle has practical authority, but you must give him legitimate authority to restore the peace.”
Okoa stared at her for a moment through narrowed eyes. His blunt face seemed to tremble with barely restrained anger. He turned to Velle. “It will take more than a piece of paper to make your government legitimate.”
“Not in the eyes of the world,” said Favreau. “The African Union and the United Nations will recognize such a decree as legally binding. They will honor General Velle’s request for monetary assistance and peace-keeping troops, and of course, facilitate the development of the natural gas reserves, for the good of all.”
“Ah, so now we come to the heart of the matter.” Okoa kept his gaze fixed on Velle. “You don’t care what our people want. You desire only to please your foreign masters.” He filled the last words with such contempt that Velle’s face darkened, as if he had just been slapped.
Favreau smiled patiently to hide her annoyance. This was taking much longer than it should have. “Mr. Okoa, all of this posturing is irrelevant. You see this device that I am carrying? You know what it is, do you not? A one kiloton tactical nuclear device. If General Velle’s government is not formally recognized, here and abroad, then I will use this device to blow up the Kivu natural gas deposits. Tonight.”
Okoa’s gaped at her. “Why would you do such a thing?”
“Isn’t it obvious? To win, of course.”
“But you would be destroying the very thing you are trying to possess.”
“The fear of losing something is a weakness. The nations of the West fear losing control of the natural resources of Africa more than they fear having to support the government of a military strongman. You, Mr. President, fear the pain and suffering that will come to your people, even more than you fear losing your own life. To protect them, I think you will sign this paper.”
Okoa’s eyes began moving rapidly, as if searching for some alternative to the awful choice Favreau had set before him. Then, he sagged in defeat. “I will sign. General Velle, you have a formidable ally. I wonder, does she also control you by threatening the thing you most fear to lose?”
Velle’s nostrils flared, but he did not reply. Instead, he slid a folder across the tabletop toward Okoa. Inside, on a sheet of paper, emblazoned with the presidential seal depicting an ivory tusk, a spear and the head of a leopard, was the executive order that would turn the Democratic Republic of the Congo into a dictatorship.
Favreau did not wait to see him sign the paper. This small victory had been relatively easy. Okoa had been able to look her in the eyes and see what she was willing to do. Marrs and the American government might not be so easily swayed.
She turned and left the tent, heading for the lakeshore.
50
Ten figures swam silently through the dark waters of Lake Kivu, stealthily approaching the military camp.
The water felt cool, refreshingly so for Queen, who was still wearing a drysuit. During the long hike through the jungle, the insulated neoprene dive garment had felt a little like wearing a sauna, but with no changes of clothing available, their choice was either that, or as Rook had suggested, fighting naked. It was a tempting thought. The drysuit really was stifling, but the dark color helped her blend with the jungle shadows.
The nearby shore was lit by dim campfires, but in the display of her glasses, she could easily distinguish the Type 63 armored infantry vehicles that formed a semi-circle around the enemy position. The tracked vehicles looked like baby battle tanks, but were designed primarily to shuttle ground forces and provide fire support, courtesy of a 12.7 mm turret-mounted machine gun. Presently, the vehicles were sitting idle, their crews sprawled out on the flat exterior surfaces. Some tents had been erected inside the protective circle and a few soldiers roamed the encampment, but aside from token patrols, there was no security. In the center of the camp, unguarded, sat the Mil Mi-8.
While still thirty yards from shore, the group split into two. King would be leading Rook and four of the guardsmen in search of the bomb and President Okoa. Queen, Bishop and the remaining guardsmen had a different goal.
Knight was somewhere outside the camp, providing over-watch with his sniper rifle. Like the chess piece that was his namesake, he moved and fought indirectly, unconventionally and often decisively. That was what he did best. Or at least it had been. While the rest of the team were nearing the limits of physical and mental endurance, Knight had gone somewhere into the dark territory beyond those limits. His wasn’t just a wound to the flesh. Some soldiers lost the will to live after an injury like his. Queen had no doubt that he could hold it together long enough to finish this mission, but she didn’t allow herself to think about what would happen after that.
She scanned the shore, verifying that there were no enemy troops present, then motioned for the others to follow her in. They low crawled out of the water and crept forward to the edge of the camp. “We’re set,” she whispered.
“Roger,” came King’s voice. “Standby.”
She glanced up the shore and saw the blue icon that marked King moving into position. Stealth was critical. If everything went as planned, they would get in and do what needed to be done without alerting the enemy. That was, of course, the optimal outcome. If they were discovered and the incursion turned into a pitched battle, the parameters for success were a lot looser. They included the intentional detonation of the RA-115 device, which would kill all of them, but neutralize the greater threat to the innocent civilians living along the shores of Lake Kivu.
Several new yellow icons began appearing in Queen’s virtual display. From their two respective locations, King and Queen could now keep track of most of the enemy soldiers as they moved around the camp.
“Set,” King said, after a few seconds. “Let’s do this.”
Queen kept one hand on Asya’s silenced Uzi, which King had given her, and held her other up in a pre-arranged ‘get ready’ signal. The weapon was now synchronized to her glasses, and she used it to sight in on the Congolese soldier wandering past the helicopter. She fired and a few seconds later, he was gone. Her hand came down and she, Bishop and the two guardsmen picked up and hastened forward. They stopped beside a tent, waited a few seconds, then made the final push to the helicopter.
The Mil Mi-8 looked to Queen like an ordinary military chopper — a Huey or a Blackhawk — that had gotten the stretch limo treatment. Behind the typical bubble window cockpit, the cabin morphed into a long fuselage with a series of round porthole windows. The main rotor, jet turbine intakes and tail rotor boom all sat perched atop the main cabin.