Queen and the others ducked down below the right-side landing gear pod and waited again. To get inside, they would need to reach the sliding door on the left side of the aircraft, which was much more exposed.
She crept to the rear of the craft and ducked under the tail assembly. There were just a few yellow icons moving here and there, but no enemy forces in the immediate vicinity. Now or never, she told herself, and stepped out into the open. She moved smoothly down the right side of the cabin and then swung herself up and into the interior.
There were two men inside, big, muscular Caucasians. The facial recognition software identified them as former soldiers and probable ESI mercenaries about a nanosecond before Queen put one silenced round in each man’s eye. She kept moving, sweeping through the cabin like an avenging angel. Maybe in a way, that was exactly what she was, exacting retribution for Joseph Mulamba’s death at the hands of men who belonged to the same murderous organization that had taken his life.
There was no one else in the helicopter.
Bishop came in a moment later, followed by the two guardsmen. The latter trained their Kalashnikovs on the open doorway. Bishop took a moment to check the bodies to make sure that they were as dead as they looked, then headed forward to the cockpit where Queen was waiting. He settled himself into the flight chair.
Everyone in the team had received some aircraft training, but Bishop was the only one of their number with actual time in the seat of a helicopter. Queen watched him study the controls. “You can fly this thing, right?”
His expression was typically unreadable but after looking around for a few seconds, he said, “I need your glasses.”
The request caught Queen off guard, but made perfect sense. Bishop was going to fly an unfamiliar aircraft, in enemy territory, in the dark. He should be the one with both night-vision and high-tech instantaneous computer access. But she had gotten used to the idea of having the glasses on, of being in constant contact with someone who could answer any question, of being able to see what no one else could see. She and Rook never would have survived the journey through the subterranean realm of the Ancients without them.
But I don’t want to give them up, she thought, and thinking that made her realize just how dependent she had become on the glasses. She nearly snarled at the small sign of weakness. She stripped the glasses off and handed them over, along with her synchronized q-phone. “I hope you’ll take better care of them than you did your last pair.”
As she moved back into the cabin to join the guardsman, she heard Bishop say, “We have the helo. Standing by.”
51
King scanned the open ground that separated him from the command tent. He had identified it as such during his initial survey of the camp, but he had no way of knowing if Favreau and General Velle were inside. If they were not, his plan for a stealthy surgical victory was finished. There would be no alternative but to fight.
He watched the tent for a full minute but no one came or went. When Bishop’s voice sounded in his head, reporting that the helicopter was secure, he knew he could wait no longer.
“Let’s go,” he told Rook.
They moved smoothly from the shadows and strode toward the tent. The guardsmen had removed their berets, and in the darkness, he hoped that anyone who happened to be looking in their direction would assume that they were just four more soldiers carrying out camp business. He and Rook could not blend in quite so easily, but they would be exposed for only a few seconds, and once they reached the command tent, it wouldn’t matter anymore.
One of the guardsmen stepped forward and drew back the flap of the tent, allowing King to move inside. As he crossed the threshold, several targets appeared in his virtual display. He brought the Uzi up and trained it on a figure tagged with red. It was General Velle.
It took a moment for the people in the tent to realize what was happening — more than enough time for Rook and the others to move inside. King kept his gun trained on Velle, but behind his glasses, his eyes were scanning the other targets. He identified two of the ESI mercenaries, both marked with red, and Gerard Okoa as well, but there was no sign of Favreau.
Damn it.
Comprehension dawned on Velle’s face, quickly transforming into anger, but before he could open his mouth, King moved forward, thrusting the business end of his Uzi into the general’s chest. “Tell your men to stand down.” King glimpsed movement off to his right, one of the mercenaries going for his weapon. King moved quickly, slipping around Velle’s bulk, putting the general between himself and everyone else.
The implied threat wasn’t enough to stop what happened next. The mercenary got his gun up, and then the tent erupted in violence, noise and smoke.
The mercenary was blasted off his feet by a burst from Rook’s Kalashnikov. The mortally wounded man’s finger had been in the trigger well of his MP5. A second thunderous report sounded and ragged holes appeared in the overhead canopy.
The guardsmen opened fire, gunning down the officers who had been standing to either side of Velle. The other mercenary ducked behind the table, seeking cover, and got off a shot that vaporized an unlucky guardsman, but Rook brought his rifle around and unloaded it in a sustained trigger pull. His bullets tore through the tabletop and stitched up the mercenary’s chest, dropping him before he could fire again.
The fight was over as quickly as it had begun, but King knew that the plan for a stealthy exit was now as dead as the men strewn about the tent. Over the ringing in his ears, he could hear shouts from outside.
Velle had jerked in surprise when the firing started, but the hard steel muzzle pressed to the base of his neck kept him rooted in place. Nevertheless, he remained defiant. “You are all dead men.”
“We’ll live or die together,” King said. “Your choice.”
When Velle did not respond, King gripped his collar and shepherded him through the carnage to the front of the tent. “Rook, open the door so that our friends outside can hear the General’s answer.”
Rook waited until King had Velle in position, and then drew back the flap slowly, keeping himself out of the line of fire. King nudged Velle forward until he was framed in the opening.
“Live or die?”
Just outside the tent, a ring of soldiers had gathered, their weapons at the ready. King could feel Velle quivering with rage, but after several tense seconds, he spoke. “Stand down.”
King didn’t wait to see if the command was heeded. He pulled Velle back inside and nodded to Rook, who let the tent flap fall back into place, hiding them from view.
“Smart decision,” King said. “Now, where’s Favreau?”
“I don’t know who you are,” Velle said, ignoring the question, “But if you put your guns down now, I will let you walk away.”
King swiped the Uzi’s suppressor across the back of Velle’s head, just hard enough to elicit a cry of surprise. “Favreau.”
“She is gone.” It was Okoa. “She left some time ago.”
“Left? Where did she go?”
Okoa shook his head. “I do not know. She had that bomb with her. She said she would destroy Lake Kivu.”
King felt his blood run cold. They were too late.
“She is bluffing,” Velle snarled. “It is a threat to force the United States to recognize my government, nothing more.”
“I do not think she was bluffing,” Okoa countered. “There is a madness inside her.”
“Where is she?” King pressed, giving Velle another meaningful tap with the Uzi.