Deadly Force (6 page)

“Those are some of my supporters. Whenever we pass going upstream they give us food and any supplies they think we might need. There are a dozen or so groups like this along this river and the larger one downstream. You asked if the people would support a revolution. What do you think?”

“Impressive, Mr. Washington. It couldn't have gone better if you had staged it for my benefit.”

“Do you think I staged it?”

Adams watched the black man. He had never grown up around African Americans. Over the years he had made some contact with the black caucuses and other black groups in his political dealings, but he'd never had a good black friend. He knew he had a lot to learn, and a lot of prejudices to unfetter that had been foisted on him by his parents. He tried hard to evaluate this situation.

“No, Mojombo, I don't think you staged that little rally. It seemed to come from the heart. It was impressive.”

“I'm pleased. Enjoy your Coke before it gets warm.”

Ten minutes later, the jet-propelled craft skidded over two sandbars. The engine powered up, and Adams could feel the flat hull of the boat nudge the bars and the bottom slide over the sand, scraping it all the way.

Mojombo grinned at the sound. “That is the noise of a perfect defense,” he said. “No boat with a propeller could possibly get over those sandbars or another one upstream.”

Vice President Adams nodded slowly. He was becoming more and more impressed with this young revolutionary, this Loyalist Party leader.

Twenty minutes later the boat eased up to a sturdy dock at the edge of the stream. It was only ten feet long, but
built well, and would last for years even though it was made of poles and wooden decking.

Ten men dressed in jungle-print cammies ran to the boat, unloaded the food and supplies the villagers had provided, and hurried with the baskets up a trail into the jungle.

Mojombo set up the SATCOM on the sturdy dock and turned the satellite dish until he picked up the orbiter and the set beeped.

“Mr. Vice President Adams, I believe the radio is ready for you to set the frequency for the White House and to start your broadcast. To be sure they are receiving you, it would be good to call them and ask for a response.”

Marshall Adams took the microphone that Mojombo handed him, moved the dial to the correct numbers, and pushed the send button.

“Calling the White House. This is Vice President Adams calling the White House.”

Wally's frantic message from Air Force Two to the White House set off a near panic. President Randolph Edwards called his top advisors together at once, and they sat in the Oval Office staring at each other.

“It's a kidnapping pure and simple,” Johnson from State said.

“But from what Wally said, the man was literate, spoke perfect English, and his gunmen did not harm any of the Vice President's party or the newspeople with them.” The comment came from the CIA representative, Donaldson. “Doesn't sound like a terrorist to me. Terrorists would have killed everyone in the motorcade after they captured the Vice President.”

“Wally said there were no ransom demands,” the President said, reading from some papers. “That the man who spoke English was the leader of a group called the Bijimi Loyalist Party. Have we ever heard of them?” He turned to the man from the State Department.

“No, we've hardly heard of Sierra Bijimi,” Johnson said.

“What's our course of action?” General Lawford, the president's National Defense Advisor, asked.

“Hell, what can we do? Damn near nothing,” FBI Director Worthington said. “Somebody snatched the Vice President. We've never heard of the grabber. He's not with the government of that nation, so we have no clout and no target there. Damn little we can do now until we hear from the people who hold the Vice President.”

Donaldson tapped his pen on his pad of paper. The CIA
man nodded grimly. “Got to admit it was a delicate and finely planned operation. Tree down across the road. The rigs all stopped. Snipers take out the twelve soldiers before they can fire a shot. Well-placed rounds that didn't even come close to the two cars in the middle. That takes disciplined, well-trained troops. Then their leader gets the drop on the Secret Service men and it's all over.”

“You know that Wally is reliable as the Vice President's top aide,” the President said. “They checked the limo after they found it at the end of the road at the river landing. Evidently the kidnappers took the Vice President upstream to their strong point. Wally says the group has vanished up there before after making a raid in the city or against the Army. He also said the SATCOM radio is missing from its spot in the limo. Maybe we'll be hearing directly from the kidnapper on the SATCOM. Make sure we keep an open channel for that set at all times.”

“Taken care of that, Mr. President,” Sage Billings said. He was the President's Chief of Staff.

“Goddamnit, Mr. President,” General Lawford said. “We should send in a dozen of our river patrol boats and blast everything in sight until they give up the Vice President. We've got to show a strong hand or they'll try to bleed us dry.”

“Easy, General. Easy. So far we don't know what is happening. We need to find out what these Loyalists want first, before we can decide anything.”

Billings caught the President's attention. “Sir, what about our long-standing and well-voiced policy of never negotiating with terrorists? Does that include the people who are now holding the Vice President of our nation against his will?”

President Edwards shook his head, his lips a firm angry line. “I just don't know, Sage. I don't know. First we have to determine that these men who have Vice President Adams are terrorists. Perhaps this no-negotiating problem will just go away.”

“Vietnam,” General Lawford said. Everyone looked up. “Reminds me of how the SEALs worked the war in Vietnam. They made the rivers their highways, charged up and
down them getting their jobs done neatly and swiftly. I'd suggest we send in our special platoon of SEALs to be on station there in Sierra City, even before we decide what we need to do. Anything we come up with, they probably would be involved with anyway.”

Lawford looked around the table. “Mr. Donaldson, could you get your favorite SEAL platoon over to Sierra City in twenty-four hours?”

“We could.” He looked at the head of the table. “Mr. President, I'm liking what General Lawford just said more and more. Fact is, we can put the SEALs on the scene, and use them for recon if nothing else. They can get in and out of a rat trap and not even bother the cheese.”

The President looked around the table. He saw three of the men nod. Worthington bobbed his head. “Let's do it, then see what else we can do when we need to do it,” he said.

“Are there any Naval units in that area?” the President asked.

“We utilized some of our assets last week up near Spain, which are the closest ones to this problem,” Johnson said. “I remember the CNO saying he had no units south of there, so we would have to fly south off a carrier.”

“Spain is how far from West Africa?” General Lawford asked.

Donaldson frowned. “Just a minute.” He wrinkled his brow and rubbed his forehead. “Even with some flyovers, it would be over three thousand miles from the task force in place to that small country. We would do better to fly in some Rangers from Germany with a couple of stopovers.”

“Premature,” the President said. “First we find out what this guy wants, and then we talk with him.”

“We try to figure out a new policy about negotiating with terrorists?” the CIA man, Donaldson, asked.

“We're not negotiating, and we don't know that he's a terrorist,” the FBI director said. “First we wait and see what we have here.”

A knock sounded on a door, and an aide came in with some papers in his hand. He went to the President and
whispered something to him, then gave him the papers.

The President put them on the table, adjusted his reading glasses, and went over the words carefully. Partway through he looked up.

“Well, this is good news. A SATCOM message directly from Adams. The Vice President says not to worry about him. He goes on:

“ ‘I'm being well treated and I am safe and in no danger. I already consider these men I'm with as friends, not enemies, and certainly not terrorists. I'm not sure why I am here, but Mojombo Washington, the leader of the Loyalist Party, told me that he would be making some demands on the United States soon.

“ ‘I don't feel like a hostage, and certainly not like a person who has been kidnapped, although technically, I guess I was. I'll be back in touch with you when I have more news. In the meantime, don't do anything sudden, rash, or bold. General Lawford, there is no reason for any massive military response, at least not right now. Mr. Washington has not told me what to say. He's listening to me and usually grinning. He says he's working on a list of demands that he will be sending to you soon.

“ ‘In the meantime, tell my wife and family that I am being treated well and that the food is remarkable, if a little different. We eat lots of fruits here. I'll be back in touch soon. Sign that: Marshall Adams, Vice President of the United States of America.' ”

General Lawford snorted. “Hell, he would have to take a poke at me. Never has appreciated me.” He looked around. “So, okay, no massive military strike. What the hell else can we do?”

“Simple,” the President said. “We sit here and wait until we hear from this Washington or from Adams. There seems not to be the extreme emergency that we had thought.”

“Seems like we should be doing something,” the CIA man said. Donaldson scowled. “Hell, we at least could send the SEALs into the capital city and have them sit on their hands if they have to. Better to have some kind of presence there beside our twenty Marines at the embassy.”

Billings, the Chief of Staff, nodded. “Yeah, sounds
kosher to me. We send our favorite platoon down there, which certainly can't be labeled as a massive military response. How soon can they get there, Mr. Donaldson?”

“I'll check with the Chief of Naval Operations, but I'd say with the business jet it should take no more than twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours at the most.”

The advisors looked at the President. “Yes, I know some of these SEALs,” he said. “We've used them before. Reliable. They won't go off half-cocked. Yes, Donaldson, let's get it in motion. Send the Third Platoon of SEAL Team Seven to Sierra City, Sierra Bijimi.”

General Kiffa Assaba paced his office. He had just heard about the slaughter of twelve of his best Army Rangers and the capture of the American Vice President. This had to be the work of Mojombo Washington. His face turned red and he hurled the riding crop he always carried across the room. It hit a lamp, knocking it over and smashing the brittle shade. Assaba didn't react to the broken lamp. He continued pacing.

How could the terrorist have known where the convoy would be going? There had been some plans made, but certainly no announcement. The general public would have no idea of the motorcade itself or its direction or destination. So there had to be a spy within the top elements of the Army or the government. Which one?

He should take a thousand men, charge up the river, and kill everyone he found. Sooner or later he would run down Washington and his ragtag bunch of misfits. Yes, he must do that. He would talk to the President about it today. This new attack would be just cause. He could say they were going to rescue the kidnapped United States Vice President.

A knock came on the door. Then his aide, Major Kabala, came in. The tall soldier smiled wearily.

“General Assaba, sir. That matter we spoke of early this morning is ready. We have set up a court-martial in the old Supreme Court room. Everyone is there ready to proceed.”

Assaba let out a tired sigh. He rubbed his hand over his
wolfish face and blinked large eyes. Then he nodded. “Yes, it must be done. I'm ready.”

They walked out of the office, down the hall of the Government Building, and into a courtroom recently vacated by the Supreme court. Now it was military-oriented. Six officers sat on the high bench, with two tables in front of them. At one stood a prisoner dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit. He was handcuffed and his legs bound together with a short chain. He had not shaved recently, and his beard showed as dirty smears on his more brown than black face.

One man stood beside him, his Army-appointed defense counsel.

General Assaba marched up to the high bench, sat in the empty chair at the center of the six men, and rapped with a gavel that lay in front of him.

“This court-martial is now in session. Will the clerk read the indictment?”

A clerk rose and read a two-page charge against Private Tauba Kidira. General Assaba knew the crimes, which included desertion and stealing government property, namely a jeep. The man pleaded not guilty and the trial began.

The Army prosecutor brought two witnesses to the stand. One said that he saw the accused drive a jeep off the military post without authorization.

“I object,” the defense counsel said. “It was dark at the time the alleged drive took place. The witness was more than thirty yards from the jeep. How could be identify Private Kidira as the driver in that darkness?”

General Assaba scowled at the lawyer. “The man is a second lieutenant in the Army. Officers don't lie. Objection overruled.”

A second soldier testified that he had talked with Kidira the day he left and that Kidira had sworn that he would be a soldier no more. He would run as far away as he could.

“I object to this testimony, Your Honor,” the defense counsel said, rising quickly.

“On what basis, Counselor?” the general asked.

“This is barracks talk. Every soldier who ever wore a uniform has cursed and yelled and sworn that he would desert. It's part of being a soldier. Almost none of the men
ever do it. This is simply barracks-room talk that has no bearing on the truth of my client's action.”

“Objection denied. The court will ignore what the counselor has said about the testimony.”

The defense counsel tried to question the witnesses, but was denied the right. The defense counsel said he had no other witnesses. The prosecutor gave a one-minute summary and the trial was over. The officers on the bench stood and conferred briefly, than sat down.

“The finding of this court is that the accused is guilty of high treason, desertion, and stealing government property,” one of the officers on the bench said. “The prisoner is sentenced to death. The sentence will be carried out immediately.”

Two armed soldiers led Private Kidira out of the court. The judges and the general followed him. The condemned man walked to a stone wall just behind the courtroom, and turned to face the wall. When he was completely turned, General Assaba drew a .45-caliber automatic, put the muzzle against the back of Private Kidira's head, and fired one shot. The blast knocked Kidira down and killed him instantly. General Assaba moved up a step and fired three more times into the dead man's head as he lay on the ground, then holstered his weapon.

“No one deserts from my Army,” he bellowed at the dozen witnesses. “No one. Any man who tries will wind up like this one did. Remember that.” He turned and marched back into the building toward his office.