“She would not do this,” the general persisted. “Destroy the very thing she desires, and kill herself at the same time? It is—” He stopped abruptly, as if recognizing the truth in Okoa’s words.
“Look who just figured it out,” Rook said.
Okoa, who had not moved from his chair during the entire incident, now rose to his feet and circled around to stand in front of Velle. “You know what this woman means to do. She does not care about you or what happens to our people.”
Velle stared back, his earlier anger giving way to uncertainty.
Okoa pressed the point home. “You know what will happen if she destroys the lake.”
The general swallowed nervously. He knew. “She has a boat. On the lake. She left… perhaps half an hour ago.”
On the lake. Half an hour. King’s mind turned over the information, calculating the dire possibilities. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to walk out of this tent like ducks in a row, and get on the helicopter. You’re going to tell your men to stand aside and let us pass, and then we’re going to find Favreau and stop her. Understood?”
“Wait,” Okoa said, holding up a hand. He kept his eyes locked with Velle’s. “Patrice, for better or worse, you are now the leader of our nation. I have given you that authority and I will not challenge you. The safety of our people is your responsibility now.”
“Why do you say this?”
“Let these people go. Let them save us all if they can. But the country must not lose another leader.” He turned to King. “I have signed an executive order granting General Velle emergency powers. He is the legitimate leader of the country, and I ask you, as a representative of the United States, to recognize his authority. Take the helicopter and do what must be done, but allow the General to leave.”
The request was as much a surprise to King as it was to Velle. “I don’t have time to screw around here. And I don’t recognize his authority.”
“Then recognize mine,” Okoa insisted. “Are you here to help us, or to force us to do your bidding?”
King saw the passionate sincerity in Okoa’s eyes. He released his hold on Velle’s collar and, without lowering the Uzi, stepped around to face the general. The big man’s eyes were still blazing with indignation.
“Tick tock,” Rook murmured.
King turned back to Okoa. “Mr. President,” he enunciated the words, “right now, all I care about it stopping Favreau from blowing up the lake and killing two million innocent people. I can do that with or without any help from the General. The smart play is to bring you both along. I don’t have time to learn how to trust him.”
Okoa did not relent. “Patrice, let them go. I will remain with you, not as your captive but as your partner.”
“I…” Velle’s voice caught. He took a deep breath and then tried again. “I will agree to this.”
Every fiber of his being told King not to trust the man. Velle was a traitor to his own country, a megalomaniac bent on personal glory, willing — eager even — to sell the wealth of his nation and the future of its people to foreigners.
“We could just shoot him,” Rook suggested. “That would clear up this question of who’s in charge.”
King ignored the remark. Like it or not, Okoa was right. The Chess Team had come here to preserve the peace and protect the innocent, but the ultimate responsibility for both rested with these two men.
“Right this minute, the only thing that matters is stopping Favreau,” he said. “General, I’m going to walk out of here and get on that helicopter. If you have dealt in bad faith, whatever happens will be on your head.”
He heard Rook suck in an apprehensive breath.
“Although if we fail,” he continued, lowering the Uzi. “I doubt any of us will be around to regret it.”
Velle stepped away. He was breathing rapidly, almost panting, and still bristling with anger. He looked defiantly at Rook and the guardsmen who still had their weapons trained on him, and then he stalked to the tent flap. He grabbed hold of it with such ferocity that the entire tent shook as he pulled it back.
“Go!” he snarled.
King looked to Okoa once more and saw him nod.
In the long silence that followed, King heard the sound of the helicopter’s engines powering up.
52
Bishop listened to the standoff that was transpiring just a short distance away. He had completed a hasty pre-flight check, but had held off starting the turbine engines until the confrontation was resolved, to avoid revealing their presence. Escaping in the helicopter had always been the trickiest part of the plan. It would take at least a full minute for the turbines to reach optimal take-off power, a minute in which the entire camp would know that something was amiss. One or two well-placed bullets would spell the end of their bid for freedom. King had been counting on using Favreau and Velle as human shields to discourage anyone attempting to destroy the helicopter, but that plan was now dead.
Favreau was going to use the bomb. Bishop didn’t know anything about the woman, but he understood that much about her. If her threat of destruction had been merely that, a threat, a bluff, she would not have gone out on the water. There was only one reason for her to do that.
She had to be stopped.
Two million lives depended on it.
In a moment of absolute clarity, Bishop understood what he had to do.
He slid out of the pilot’s chair and poked his head into the main cabin. “King needs you.”
Queen didn’t hesitate. While she hadn’t been able to follow the confrontation in the command tent, she had heard the gunfire and was already poised for action. Bishop slid the door open and gestured for Queen and the guardsmen to move out.
As she hopped down, scanning the surrounding area, Queen seemed to remember that she no longer had her glasses. “Where is he?”
“He’ll find you,” Bishop said. He slammed the door shut and threw the combat lock.
He half-expected Queen to start pounding on the door, demanding to be let back in, but the only sound he heard was the tense three-way exchange between King, General Velle and President Okoa.
Bishop moved back to the cockpit and started throwing switches in sequence. There was a loud backfire and then the twin Klimov TV3-117 turboshafts started spinning. A low whine filled the aircraft, quickly rising in pitch and intensity as the main rotor began to turn. Bishop felt the airframe shudder with the torque. He tightened his grip on the collective and cyclic controls, and watched the RPMs build.
“Bishop!” King shouted over the din, and Bishop realized he had mentally tuned-out the standoff in the command tent. “We’re outside. Open the door.”
There was an undercurrent of dread in King’s voice. He knows, Bishop thought. Of course he knows. This is exactly what he would do, in my place.
Bishop said nothing. He slowly twisted the throttle, increasing the RPMs, and then, moving his hands and feet in a complex ballet of synchronized activity, eased back on the collective, tilted the cyclic forward, and held the rudder steady. The Mil rolled forward a few yards, and then Bishop felt that indescribable sensation of the ground reluctantly letting go. The helicopter continued forward, picking up speed without gaining any altitude. The right wheel clipped a tent, which was already flapping like a loose sail in a hurricane, and then he was out over the dark waters of Lake Kivu.
The Mil bore as much resemblance to the helicopters he had trained on as a luxury sedan did to a city bus. The controls were the same, as were the basic principles of operation, but there was a whole lot more aircraft to pay attention to. Fortunately, the flat surface of the lake was the perfect place for him to get familiar with it, provided that he didn’t nose into the water. As the helo picked up speed, he increased the collective pitch and started climbing into the night sky.