Mission of Honor (2 page)
Authors: Tom Clancy,Steve Pieczenik,Jeff Rovin
Tags: #Intelligence Service, #War Stories, #Kidnapping, #Crisis Management in Government - United States, #Crisis Management in Government, #Government Investigators, #Political, #Fiction, #Spy Fiction; American, #Suspense Fiction, #Adventure Fiction, #Adventure Stories, #English Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Government investigators - United States, #Botswana, #Espionage, #Diamond Mines and Mining
Within days, the chief plotter vanished. Sir Khama never learned of the plan against him or of the counterstrike. But the English knew. Leon had made very certain of that. Despite the quiet demands of the foreign office, the Englishman was never located. Few outsiders who went into the Okavango Swamp alive were ever seen again. Men who went into the swamp and had their throats slashed from ear to ear were never found. Leon did, however, give the chief foreign officer the man’s watch. The Batawanan told him he had no desire to start a collection of British timepieces.
The CFO got the message.
A year later, the British ceded control of the country. Bechuanaland became the Republic of Botswana, with Khama as its first president. The changes that had started were not undone. People liked the goods from Europe and America. But President Khama made it difficult for other groups to enter his country with new distractions and foreign ideas.
It was only then that Leon and his young colleagues realized what a huge responsibility they had won for themselves. They were no longer protecting one man.
Like Khama himself, they were looking after a nation. In a continent buffeted by ancient tribal rivalries and wars of land, water, and precious minerals, they were suddenly responsible for the security of nearly half a million people. Their own families depended upon their vigilance.
Leon was given a commission as second lieutenant and joined the Botswana Defense Forces. He served in the army’s elite Northern Division. Among other regions, Batawana and the floodplains of Maun were under their jurisdiction. Seronga helped to organize security along the border with war-ravaged Angola. He also instructed native Angolans on intelligence gathering techniques to use against the Portuguese. Like his brothers in Botswana and South Africa, he wanted to see the Europeans driven from Africa.
Despite the efforts of Leon and the president, the nation continued to change. Leon watched as his people became fat and eviscerated. Like the hogs Seronga and his father had hunted so long ago, the Botswanans were prey for hunters: men from Europe who came back with money. Botswanans sold the hard-won coal mines, the copper mines, the diamond mines. They had thrown off political control only to surrender to economic control. The revolution had been for nothing.
During this time, his greatest comfort was his own family. Lieutenant Seronga married when he returned to the north. He and his wife had four sons. In time, they began bearing him grandchildren.
It was for their sake, finally, that he left the Defense Forces. He retired on a pension for a time. But then something happened. He found a new cause, a new army to lead.
Leon and his men rounded a clump of high grasses. Some of his old soldiers had returned. They had done the legwork for this crusade. They had found and watched the deacon missionaries. They were supported by new and idealistic fighters such as Donald Pavant, his right-hand officer. Pavant was a little extreme, but that was all right. His youth and impulsiveness were balanced by Leon Seronga’s age and wisdom. Other men had joined them, including a handful of white warriors Gaborone, men who believed in their cause. Or perhaps in the money to be made by driving the foreigners out. Regardless, they were here.
Seronga and his unit came upon a familiar pond. The watering hole was smaller than it used to be. Irrigation had changed the floodplains, and the pigs had been relocated. Only the field mice and a few flightless birds came here to drink. But it was still unmistakably the pond where he had begun his road to manhood. In the rising sun, Leon imagined he could still see the long shadows of his father and the other men. He could still taste the blood of the pig on his lips.
And one thing more. Leon could still see his father’s dark eyes, hear his father’s words: “Our people cannot survive without shedding blood. We cannot exist without risk. “
Fortunately, the other members of Leon’s old Brush Viper unit felt the same as their former leader did. The men had remained in contact over the years. When one of the Brush Vipers heard Dhamballa speak, an opportunity presented itself to undo the mistakes that had been made. Leon went to hear the man in Machaneng, a village to the east. He was captivated by what he heard. He was even more impressed with what he saw: a leader.
They had to work with Europeans again, only this time they would do it right. They would take back what had been lost.
Distant structures appeared on the horizon, beyond the waving grasses. There were six of them built of logs with ceramic tile roofs. The sun glinted on the white satellite dish in a clearing. It played on the chrome of the cars and vans parked in the dirt lot.
Leon motioned for his men to stay low behind the grass. He knew that they should have come here in the dark, but it was important that he see the sun rise. Besides, the tourists inside the compound would not be up yet. Scouts had reported that the shutters remained closed until nearly eight A.M. The foreigners liked their sleep.
Saving the nation would not be easy. And it would not be bloodless. But that was to be expected.
Revolutions seldom were.
Maim, Botswana Monday, 5:19 AM.
Father Powys Bradbury opened his eyes a moment before the sun peeked over the windowsill. He smiled as he watched the white walls and ceiling brighten. It was good to be back.
The South African native usually rose at first light. Throughout his forty-three years as a priest, Bradbury had made it a habit of saying his morning offering at the break of day. The prayer was about dedicating one’s day to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. It seemed only right to do that when the day began, not when it was convenient.
The short, wispy man continued to smile as he lay in his small twin bed. The bed was tucked in a corner of the white walled room. The only other pieces of furniture were a night table, a wardrobe at the foot of the bed, and a desk across the room. There was a simple laptop computer on the desk. Father Bradbury used that primarily for E-mail. The computer was surrounded by stacks of books and periodicals, which were also piled on the floor of the small room. The priest subscribed to newspapers from across the continent. He enjoyed finding out what other Africans were thinking.
The wardrobe contained two sets of his priestly vestments, a white bathrobe, a windbreaker for cool winter nights, and one pair of jeans and a Cape Town sweatshirt. Father Bradbury wore the jeans and sweatshirt whenever he played soccer with his more sports-minded congregants. Apart from the short pajamas he had on now, these were the only clothes the priest owned. He believed wholeheartedly in Psalm 119:37 which said, “Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity ;4>y Your way give me life.”
Father Bradbury’s only indulgence was a compact disc player that he kept on a shelf above the desk. He enjoyed listening to Gregorian chants while he wrote or read.
Father Bradbury stretched soundlessly. There was no one in the adjoining room. The seven deacon missionaries who were attached to the Church of the Holy Cross were in the field. But silence was a way of life for Father Bradbury. He had first developed a fondness for it at the Seminary of Saint Ignatius in Cape Town, where silence was mandatory for all but prayer. He felt there was something civilized about quiet. It was something that separated humans from the braying, roaring animals of Africa. He had never agreed with the notion that noisy, crowded cities were the hubs of civilization. To him, civilization was a place where sophistication was not as important as loving cooperation.
In just a few moments, the energies of the white-haired priest would be turned to the service of God. His attention would go to the people of the surrounding villages. Father Bradbury took a minute to enjoy one of the few times of the day that were truly his.
The night before, Father Bradbury had returned from a five-day visit to the archdiocese in Cape Town. He always enjoyed his meetings with Archbishop Patrick and other mission priests. The cathedral itself was made of shining white stone, an inspiration to see and to work in. There were two bell towers framing the main portal, each of them five stories high. Their ringing could be heard all over the city. Archbishop Patrick himself was also an inspiration. He always had stimulating ideas about how to bring the word of Christ to people who had little familiarity with the Church and its teachings. The seven men actually had a great deal of fun as they went to the Veritas Production House to make audiotapes. Using simple readings and commentary, the clergymen outlined gospel values. These audiotapes would help the deacon missionaries of southern Africa bring new believers to the fold. Unlike Father Bradbury, who remained in his own parish, the deacon missionaries were the men who worked in the field, who went to the isolated villages and regions shaken by poverty, disease, and hunger.
Father Bradbury drew a deep breath of the dry, hot air. He exhaled slowly, then listened to the wonderful silence. Once in a while it was broken by chacma baboons that approached the compound in search of a handout. Though the grasses, insects, and fruits they ate were plentiful, the dog-nosed primates were among God’s laziest creations.
There were no apes today. Nothing stirred but the wind. And it was absolutely delicious.
The air in Father Bradbury’s native city was dusty and humid, and the streets were loud, even at night. The clergyman had been in Botswana for eleven years. He had spent seven of those years as a deacon missionary. He still had the rough feet and sunburned face to prove it. He had spent the last four years as parish priest at the forty-seven-year old Church of the Holy Cross, which ministered to the neighboring villages of Maun and Moremi. Bradbury missed the church terribly whenever he was away. He missed the calm, he missed his ministry, and most of all, he missed the individual congregants. So many of them had given their time and their energy to make the church an extended family. The priest loved being a daily part of their lives, their thoughts, their faith.
Whenever Father Bradbury was gone, he also missed the tourists. For purely proselytical reasons, Archbishop Patrick had supported the construction of the tourist center adjoining the church. Each week, over four dozen tourists came from Europe, North America, the Middle East, and Asia. They enjoyed great comfort. Porcelain bathtubs, teak floors, mahogany sleigh beds, wicker chairs with thick cushions, and sumptuous native rugs. They ate from bone-handled silverware and copper plates. There were unfinished oak beams all around them. Guests had rich cotton sheets on the beds and elegant damask tablecloths in the dining area. Tourists used the walled compound as a staging area for tours and photo safaris. Many of the visitors were young. Religion did not play a large part in their lives. Archbishop Patrick thought that an inspirational place like the reserve might bring them nearer the creator. For Father Bradbury, the tourists also brought something, something more secular but no less important. Their wide-eyed awe at the countryside reaffirmed his own sense of wonder and pride in the region.
The priest threw off the lightweight top sheet. Even this far from the river, Father Bradbury needed a mosquito net. He was grateful for it. The priest had what his mother used to call “candy-sweet veins.” Mosquitoes loved him. In addition to sore feet, he did not miss the mosquitoes, gnats, and parasitic warble flies that were part of his years of carrying the word of God from village to village. There were fleas here, but at least they could not fly. A shower a day with medicated soap, and they showed no interest in him.
Father Bradbury rose. He knelt briefly beside the cross that hung above the bed. Then he headed for the tiny washroom built between his room and the deacons’ quarters. Along with the tourists, plumbing had come to the compound. It was a welcome addition to the rectory.
After showering in the tiny washroom, Father Bradbury dressed. Then he stepped outside into the warm morning. A small flagstone walk led from the rectory to the small church. Beyond that, only pa
Washington, D.C. Tuesday, 7:54 AM.
It was a dark, rainy morning and DiMaggio’s Joe was not as jammed as usual. That was fine with General Mike Rodgers. He had been able to find a parking spot directly outside the coffee bar. And he spotted a small, clean corner table on the inside. He walked to the back of the room, slapped his damp cap and his copy of the Washington Post on the empty table, then got in line.
The line at the counter moved quickly, and to Rodgers’s amazement, the display case actually had what he wanted. He paid for his oversized corn muffin and an ultra tall cup of coffee. Then he returned to the table and sat on the stool, facing the back wall. He gazed into the past. He had to remind himself why he had become a soldier in the first place. And this was certainly the place to do it.
The legendary DiMaggio’s Joe was located in Georgetown on the corner of M Street and Wisconsin Avenue. The coffee shop had been established in 1966 by a transplanted New Yorker named Bronx Taylor. Taylor was a New York Yankees fan back when the Washington Senators were their rivals and people could still smoke in coffee shops. The widower had retired and moved to Washington to be close to his daughter and son-in-law. He needed something to do, and he decided to be provocative. Taylor succeeded. Fans of the baseball Senators used to come in to yell at Taylor. They were all blue-collar workers back then. Janitors from Georgetown University, bus drivers, barbers, and butlers and gardeners from the tony old houses. The men would come in and deride the Yankees over juice, sausage, and watery eggs. And pie.
And coffee. And a smoke or two. And more coffee. Taylor made a fortune at this little place.
When Bronx died four years ago, his daughter Alexandra took over. The diner was gentrified. The woman replaced the catsup-stained white tile walls with wood paneling. Instead of a counter and booths with large, solid Formica tables, there were now wood stools with stands that had wobbly metal lattice tops. And Alexandra no longer served just one kind of coffee. For that matter, she no longer served just coffee. There were flavors and fragrances and blends that ended in an e. Rodgers still ordered plain and black coffee, even though it tasted as if it were brewed with potpourri.