скачать книгу бесплатно
“No, big guy, Sancho’s the only one I trust.” Grimaldi frowned. “Except for maybe the Brixton Bomber and the Mongolian, and the South Africans are okay, except every time I see them I hear the song “Ebony and Ivory” in my head, oh, and T.C. He seems like a stone-cold killer of men.”
That was two-thirds of the squad. “So…you don’t like Russo?” Bolan asked.
“Oh, I like her a lot, but she makes me nervous, and so do those ex-Communist-bloc savages she has with her.”
Bolan controlled his bemusement. “Bear picked her.”
Grimaldi made a noise.
“How we doing on gear?”
“I’ve got a Hercules on the airstrip with all three vehicles and all requested equipment stowed and ready to go. I’ll get you and the team on the ground and in the saddle. After that it’s up to you.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
The pilot shifted in his seat uneasily. “This is messed up. I should be going with you. I should be driving.”
Bolan kept his poker face. It was an interesting phenomenon that pilots automatically assumed they were NASCAR drivers in the making. In Bolan’s experience, “knight of the air” and “rubber meets the road” were two different sciences entirely and rarely mixed well. “I need you hot on the pad, Jack. Ready for extraction from a hot LZ at heartbeat’s notice.”
“Well, if you put it that way,” the pilot said, “I’ll drop you off and be waiting by the phone.”
Both men turned at a polite knock. “Come in,” Bolan said.
Nelsonne walked in smiling, went to the sideboard and made herself a whiskey and soda. “I have taken the liberty of acquiring us a pair of guides.”
Bolan regarded the French agent drily. “Where will they be guiding us to?”
“That is up to you, but they are men of Central Sudan, and have acted as guides and interpreters before. I think you will find them useful in a myriad of ways.”
“You vouch for them?”
“I have worked with them. They are good men.”
“Where are they?”
“Waiting outside.” Nelsonne batted her lashes at Bolan. “Would you like to meet them?”
“Well, it’s awfully hot outside for standing around.” Bolan leaned back and pressed the intercom button. “Two guests outside. Show them up.”
In moments two men in their early twenties appeared in the conference-room doorway and looked in shyly. Both were as tall as Bolan but stick-thin. Their skin was so black it almost seemed blueish. That told Bolan the two men were at least by blood from the South Sudan. Despite the heat they wore matching blue jeans, denim jackets and cowboy boots. They had identical huge brown eyes and even huger identical smiles.
“They are twins,” Nelsonne explained.
“Let me introduce Haitham and Shartai Kong.”
Bolan gestured for his guests to take a seat. “You gentlemen hungry?”
The Kong brothers nodded and sat.
“You guys drink beer?” the soldier asked.
“Yes.”
Bolan hit the intercom for the kitchen. “Could we get a pitcher of beer and some of that lamb up here for our new guests?” Bolan leaned back in his chair. “Kong…that’s a Dinka name.”
The brothers nodded, their shy smiles becoming slightly prideful.
“From Kurdufan?”
Kurdufan was smack-dab in the middle of what had once been the Sudan, and like the Sudan itself Kurdufan had been split into north and south. It was a bit of luck because that was exactly where Bolan was going. The Kong brothers nodded in proud unison.
“Mademoiselle Nelsonne says you’re both excellent guides.”
Bolan was fairly certain it was Haitham who answered. He had a Darth Vader–quality baritone. “Guides, interpreters.” He gave Bolan a sly smile. “Scouts.”
Bolan smiled back in suspicion. “SPLA?”
The Sudanese People’s Liberation Army had been fighting the government in Khartoum since the mid-1980s. Haitham’s chest swelled as he stood and pulled up his T-shirt to show a puckered bullet scar in his lower right abdomen. Both Bolan and Grimaldi’s eyebrows rose as Shartai stood, turned, unbuckled his pants and dropped his trousers to display a long pink scar creasing one buttock. Shartai slapped it for emphasis. Both men burst out laughing and sat again. “Since we were children.”
Bolan glanced at Grimaldi.
“They have a good attitude,” the pilot admitted.
One of the staff brought in a mound of leftover sliced lamb on a bed of couscous and a pitcher of beer. The Kong brothers tucked into the food and greedily began sucking down beer. That told Bolan they were either Christians or animists. The fighting had driven untold numbers of Dinkas south as they had battled the government of the Muslim-dominated North. Christians were ruthlessly suppressed. The traditional African spiritualists were often annihilated out of hand. Nelsonne swirled the ice in her drink. “I have told them you pay well.”
Neither man stopped eating but their eyes snapped to Bolan as they kept shoveling it down. Bolan saw no need to be stingy and he wanted their absolute loyalty, and to him rather than Nelsonne.
“Let’s keep it simple. I’ve already hired nine team members. I see no reason to treat you any differently. As full members of the team I’ll give you ten thousand euros now as a signing bonus, and…”
The Kong brothers stopped chewing and food nearly fell out of their mouths as their jaws dropped.
“And fifty thousand more on completion, or to your families if you’re killed.”
Haitham wiped his chin with the back of his fist and leaned back. “You are serious?”
Bolan went to the safe in the wall, punched in his code and produced two bundles of euros. He sat back down and slid them across the table. “I’m deadly serious. This is going to be hazardous duty, and that’s why I’m paying hazardous-duty pay. I think the two of you will be invaluable members of my team. You in?”
“Oh, indeed,” Haitham said.
“Most assuredly!” Shartai was in full support.
Bolan raised his beer. “Welcome to the team. Jack?”
Grimaldi finished his beer. He knew what was coming. “Yeah?”
“Go get the plane ready.”
Darfur
VEHICLES ROLLED FROM the belly of the C-130. The two Land Rovers were loaded with crates, and the canvas-covered load in the Unimog concealed just under half a ton of fuel, supplies and ordnance. Everything was marked as humanitarian aid. The 4x4s were painted the same beige as the dust storm that was kicking up. The jump-off was auspicious. With a storm coming the landing strip was abandoned. Lkhümbengarav backed a Land Rover down the ramp. “Sancho! Scotty! You’re with me,” Bolan shouted over the wind. “And Lucky, you’re in Rover 1!”
Haitham shouted through the shemagh covering his face. “I am with you, boss!”
“Hop in!”
Everyone except Bolan grabbed his or her bags and clambered aboard.
Bolan made the backing out motion with his hands. “Bring it out, Goose!” The Unimog truck rolled out under Pienaar’s guidance. Tshabalala was already riding shotgun. An MZ 125 SX off-road motorcycle was mounted on brackets on the front and rear bumpers.
Bolan waved the last vehicle out. “Rad! Rover 2!”
The Land Rover whined in reverse as the Serb extricated the vehicle. Nelsonne and Onopkov jumped in as a unit. Shartai shouted out of his scarf-swaddled face, “Boss! With permission? I will go with the mademoiselle!”
“Go!”
Shartai clambered in to Rover 2. Bolan squinted into the wind and dust behind them and clicked the tactical clipped to his shoulder. “All units, hold up. We have company.”
Two vehicles were heading in their direction.
Bolan raised his binoculars and examined the vehicles. One was a Chinese-made military 4x4 and the other a flatbed truck. The back of the truck contained nine men in camo. They all carried Kalashnikovs and their faces were swaddled against the dust. Bolan squinted at the dust-covered windshield of the 4x4. The man in the passenger was wearing mirrored blue sunglasses and a black beret. Nelsonne appeared at Bolan’s side with Mrda and Onopkov in formation behind her. Bolan handed over the optics. “Any idea?”
“I believe it is Captain Osman Osmani.”
“You know this jack wagon?”
Nelsonne handed back the binoculars. “I do not know what a jack wagon is, but I strongly suspect that he is one.”
“So this is a shakedown?”
“Most likely. However, he is not some greedy, sitting-on-his-hands captain who just accepts bribes. He was very active in the fighting both in Darfur and South Sudan. It is very likely the United Nations will get around to trying him for war crimes. The information I have is that he has actually stepped up his strong-arming and extortion to build up his nest egg before he flees prosecution.”
Grimaldi spoke across the com link. “You want me to take off?”
“No, that’ll just make the captain suspicious. Come on out. Leave the ramp down, but be ready on my signal.” Bolan watched the vehicles approach. “Everyone out. Be friendly. Remember, we’re an NGO helping displaced refugees. I’m going to try to pay these guys and send them on their way. But be ready to take them down. Follow my lead.”
The rest of the team formed up. Ochoa took position at Bolan’s right hand. “Hey, Jefe?”
“Yeah, Sancho.”
“You said take these guys on your go?”
“That’s right.”
“These guys got AKs. I can see them from here.”
“It does appear that way.”
“Yeah, but, you haven’t given us any guns.”
Lkhümbengarav nodded. “What he said, hot rod.”
“We’re in an international group of doctors, drivers and volunteers. Osmani and his men don’t expect resistance. If it comes to it, we jump the sons of bitches, pound them like nails, confiscate their weapons and disable their vehicles.”
Ceallach cracked his knuckles with an explosive ripple of pops and cracks. “Right! The old-fashioned way, then.” He raised his hand and waved at the approaching vehicles in a happy fashion. One of the gunmen in the back of the flatbed actually waved back. The vehicles ground to a halt. The soldiers jumped down out of the flatbed, some with their rifles in hand. Others had them slung. Most had their folding stocks folded. They were in a low state of alert. The captain was more leisurely as he let his driver jump out and open the door for him. Two soldiers got out of the back. The officer wore a stainless-steel Ruger .357 Magnum revolver in a conspicuous gunfighter’s rig low on his thigh.
Bolan arranged his face into an obsequious smile and stuck out his hand. “Good morning…” He made a show of looking at the patch on the man’s shoulder and smiling hopefully. “Captain? I’m Dr. Cooper.”
Osmani barely acknowledged Bolan’s guess with a slight nod. He ignored the outstretched hand. The big American looked at his hand and lowered it sheepishly. The captain had the accent of a man whose primary language was Arabic. “I am Captain Osmani. I will see your manifest immediately.”
Bolan blinked in feigned surprise. “We already passed customs and inspections in the capital. Is there some kind of—”
“Your manifest, Dr. Cooper. Immediately.”
Bolan nodded at Grimaldi, who held out his clipboard. Osmani’s driver intercepted the clipboard and then handed it to his captain. Osmani flipped through the pages listing medicines, medical equipment, water purification gear and various aid-station necessities.
“Captain,” Bolan said, “I’m very sorry you had to come out in the middle of this storm.” Osmani inclined his head and gazed at Bolan over the rims of his sunglasses like a snake eyeing a not particularly fast or wily insect.
Bolan recoiled and let himself stumble on over his words. “I mean, Captain, as you may have heard, there has been an outbreak of dysentery in the interior. We need to get our water-purification equipment on-site as quickly as possible. Every second counts.” He stammered like a man who wasn’t used to these sorts of negotiations. “Is there any way we could…” Bolan made a show of swallowing a frog in his throat. “Expedite things?”
Osmani handed the manifest back to his driver, who handed it back to Grimaldi. The captain lowered his official hostility by a tiny increment. “I am aware of the ongoing humanitarian crisis. Rather than requiring you and your people to return to the capital and—”
Nelsonne gasped on cue and clutched Bolan’s arm. “Return? But, no! We bring—”
Osmani didn’t miss a beat. “But it would be better for you to continue your humanitarian mission immediately. However, since I have been dispatched in my official capacity, certain permits will have to be authorized.”
Bolan looked at the captain like a deer in the headlights. “I understand completely. I was given some money for…discretionary expenses.”
“Excellent.”
“How much do you…?”
Osmani sighed tolerantly. “How much discretionary income do you have?”
Bolan very reluctantly produced a money belt from under his shirt.
Osmani’s driver leaned in and whispered something in Arabic. Both men looked at the Kong brothers. The driver whispered urgently. Osmani went reptilian once more. “Who are these men?”
“They are Abdullah and Salva. Interpreters recommended by the Red Cross in Nyala,” Bolan explained.
“I am reminded of a story about a pair of twins I have heard. Rebels and war criminals who are wanted in Khartoum.”
“Captain, I assure you—”
“I am taking these two men into custody. You will submit to a full inspection of your cargo. You will mount your team into your vehicles and return with me to town where the matter will be investigated further. Your passports and all currency both foreign and domestic will be temporarily held. You will button up the plane, leave it here and the pilot will come along, as well.”
Bolan let his jaw drop and made a show of failing to draw up some dignity. “Uh…team? This must be some kind of mistake. We’ll get it cleared up back in town. In the meantime, I want you to obey the captain’s every order and assist him and his men in all ways.” Bolan turned back unhappily. “Will that be sufficient?”
“For the moment.”
