“What do you think, Steve? Are we ready to open for business again?”
The wiry Seabee grinned back. “I can think of all sorts of jobs I could use some extra warm bodies for just now.”
“Very well, then. Contact Conakry Base. Tell everyone to come on home.”
“…Two deaths reported at Cape Shilling. Two more at Barlo Point. Three at Whale Bay.” Standing before Belewa’s desk, the staff officer read from the notebook in his hand. “That makes twelve total from the Freetown Provinces so far. We have yet to receive the reports from the Turtle and Banana Islands, however. Communications are still down.”
Obe Belewa nodded slowly. “Very good, Captain Tshombe. It could have been worse. Far, far worse.”
“It was bad enough as it was, sir,” the staff man replied soberly.
Hammers rang outside the Premier General’s office. Sheets of plywood were being nailed over windows that had imploded under the impact of the hurricane winds. Women from a civil labor battalion worked with rags and buckets in the corridor, sopping up the rainwater that had infiltrated the government headquarters.
“How are things with the signals detachment?” Belewa inquired. “Have we any problems there?”
“We are fully operational, sir,” Tshombe replied proudly. “We remained so throughout the storm.”
“Very good, Captain. Give your men a well done from me for their good service.” Belewa hesitated for a moment, then continued. “Are we still receiving information from the Americans?”
“They are still transmitting weather bulletins at regular intervals,” the signals officer replied. “We have also received a message from them that they will be ready to start aerial reconnaissance photographs again shortly… that is, if the General wishes for us to continue to accept them.”
Belewa lifted an eyebrow. “Did the Americans’ photographs prove useful in preparing for the storm?”
“Yes, sir. They proved very useful.”
“And would more such reconnaissance prove useful in our poststorm damage assessment?”
“Uh, yes, sir. I would think so.”
“Then accept the photographs for as long as the Americans are willing to send them. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!”
Belewa rubbed the back of his neck as the signals officer departed, recalling that he hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours. The hurricane was past now. Why not stand down and withdraw to his apartment and to his bed? His command staff were all good people. Why not turn things over to Sako and sleep?
At even the thought, Belewa’s eyes grew heavy. And yet the damage and casualty reports were not in from the coastal islands. Curtly, he shook himself awake. One hour more, perhaps. Yes, just one hour more and then he would rest.
A rap came at the door of his office.
“Yes?”
“The Algerian ambassador desires to speak with you, General. He says it is a matter of great importance.”
Belewa allowed a groaning mutter to escape his lips. A bloody hurricane, and now Umamgi as well.
“Show the ambassador in.”
There was an arch smugness to the imam’s smile as he was ushered into Belewa’s office. “Good evening, General,” he said, coming to stand before the General’s desk. “An unpleasant storm, was it not? I trust that it has not caused undue injury to your nation or your people.”
“In fact, we have considerable damage to deal with, Ambassador,” Belewa replied shortly, not offering the Algerian a seat. “I daresay we are going to be quite busy for a number of days with rescue and relief work. So saying, what may we do for you?”
“It is what I may do for you, General.” Umamgi’s smile widened. “This storm was not entirely an evil omen. It was sent by Allah to grant you victory in your just struggle with the West.”
Belewa scowled. “What do you mean, Ambassador?”
“I bring you word from our embassy in Conakry. Our intelligence service has learned that the Americans were cowed by the fury of the tempest. They evacuated the majority of their fighting forces from the floating base they maintain off your coast.”
Belewa lifted an eyebrow. “Our own agents in Conakry have informed us of the same thing, Ambassador. And your point?”
“Simply this, General. With the passing of the storm, the American forces will be returning. But they have not done so yet. There are only a handful of Americans present at their base. Not enough to defend it adequately, but enough to serve us well as prisoners and hostages.
“You have an opportunity to win this war in a single blow, General.” Umamgi continued eagerly. “I have been speaking with your chief of staff. Your gunboat squadron at Port Monrovia has ridden out the storm without damage. It is ready to sail at your command. If you attack now you could sink the American base, or better yet, seize it. You could break the illegal blockade that binds your nation and make fools of the United States and United Nations both.”
The room grew very still for a moment. Even the hammer blows from the next office seemed muted. And then Belewa smiled a humorless smile. “All you say is quite true, Ambassador. Such an operation would be quite feasible, were it not for the cease-fire that is in effect along the coast for the next forty-eight hours.”
The Algerian’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Cease-fire!” he exclaimed, taking a step closer to the desk. “I have heard rumors of a cease-fire. But still, you would throw away such an opportunity for… some… piece of paper!”
“There is no piece of paper, Ambassador,” Belewa replied mildly. “There is only a verbal agreement between myself and the U.N. military commander.”
“You…” Umamgi struggled to regain control. “Such things are meaningless!”
“They are only meaningless if the involved parties fail to give them meaning. The U.N. commander upheld her share of the bargain. She rendered assistance that possibly saved thousands of African lives. I shall abide by my part of the agreement as well.”
“She is a Western woman!” Umamgi clenched a thin fist in helpless rage. “A perverted, godless, and evil creature! Did you ever think that this is why she made this mad pact with you! To draw your teeth at the one moment when you could tear the throat from your enemies!”
Belewa tilted his chair back and pondered. After a moment, he smiled again. “Speaking truthfully, Ambassador, no. I did not consider it. Nor, I think, did the Leopard. However, even if she did so, the gambit was well played. I have given my word. It will be kept. The cease-fire will be maintained.”
“I will inform my government of this outrage! This insanity!” Umamgi sputtered. “They will not be pleased with an ally who throws away such a victory.”
Belewa steepled his fingers over his chest, finding that he was enjoying himself for the first time in many days. “Ah, Ambassador, it is a great sadness, but it is decreed that some days we must disappoint even our closest and dearest allies. Such is life.”
The Algerian spun on his heel and stalked for the office door. Belewa let him cross half the room before he reached out with a shout to stop the mock holy man.
“Umamgi!”
The Algerian cringed like a village cur and froze in place.
“A man who has no honor,” Belewa continued in a quiet voice, “frequently cannot understand its value. You may go, Ambassador.”
By the time Umamgi stepped back into the corridor, his lean features were stoic once more. Rage still burned brightly within the imam, but he had long since mastered the art of masking his true feelings and intentions. He wore such a mask now as he sought out Belewa’s chief of staff.