African Dragon (4 page)

6.

When they returned to the briefing room, one of Deirdre’s assistants was there. Jesse Daniels had worked for Deirdre for the past eight years, first as a field agent in and out of Africa, and then “inside” for the last four years after getting sick in-country. It was four weeks of intense drug therapy before the parasites that almost killed him were finally eradicated. He welcomed everyone back and had them get seated. As soon as all were sitting, he dimmed the lights and began showing photos of some of the contacts that Nigel Ufume had made before he disappeared. They took notes on names and locations as Jesse explained the network that Nigel had built over the years.

The next slides were of press clippings from the last few months. One of them showed a statement from the DRC’s Mining Minister, Djumi Ofama, requesting help from the world community to help police the mining of uranium in the country. While the DRC had “officially” closed down the mines at both
Shinkolobwe and Lubumbashi, over seven thousand miners still worked the locations by hand, selling the ore to private companies owned by Chinese and Indian “businesses.”

One of Nigel’s contacts had talked about large numbers of sick children who had worked in the mines for a few months. Their low body weights made them the “canaries in the coal mine,” and they were the first to show signs of radiation sickness. Based on what Nigel had been told, the quantity of uranium must have been vast.

Jesse handed out maps of local roads, rail lines and villages. Some of the villages had names penned beneath them of key contacts—some to use for help, some to stay the hell away from. After over an hour of detailed information, Jesse put the lights on and shifted gears to a more relaxed mood.

“Okay—I know you’ve had a long day, and we’ll break for dinner in a bit, but ‘food’ is a good segue to my next topic, which is food.” He smiled and everyone groaned, having flashbacks to the Guaranis eating monkeys, caterpillars, and lord knows what else back in Paraguay. “I worked in and out of Africa for several years. I’ve covered Somalia, Angola, Uganda, Burundi, you name it. My last stint was in Somalia, and I ended up getting sick as hell. Almost died from some type of parasite that we never did figure out how I got. Might have eaten something, might have been bitten by something, who knows? Anyway—you don’t eat anything unless you see it killed and butchered in front of you. Vegetables and fruit are usually okay, but cook the hell out of them. Your best bets are your MREs. I know they suck—but you won’t die from them.”

He smiled broadly. “Now I am going to tell you a true story.” That got a groan.

“When I first started working in Africa, I was with one other agent—just us. So we positioned ourselves in a small town posing as businessmen looking for opportunities in metal mining. After we made some contacts, we spent a couple of months in a tiny shithole of a village near the mining operation, where we were trying to sort out who the players were. Anyway, I couldn’t eat
anything
except the local raisin bread. Anything else I ate made me sick. I lost about twenty pounds in two months. So every day, I’m eating raisin bread, baked fresh right there. Great stuff, except that I was getting pretty damn bored of it. Occasionally I would eat some porridge or shit with it, but honestly, everything turned my stomach other than the fresh bread, right out of the local oven.

So anyway, after about three weeks of living on the stuff, one day I go and get some bread for breakfast, and there aren’t any raisins in it—just plain bread. I figure the raisins are probably the only real nutrition I’m getting, and I want my damn raisin bread. So I ask the baker where the raisin bread is. He asks what raisin bread? And we go back and forth with my shitty language skills until I understand that they just got new bags of flour, and that’s why there aren’t any ‘raisins’ in it yet. Maybe I should come back in a few weeks.”

It took everyone a second to figure out what Jesse was actually saying as he was speaking, but as they caught on, the heads began shaking.

Lance Woods, an army ranger famous for eating just about anything, asked, “Didn’t you notice the wings, man?”

There were a few chuckles and comments about not complaining about MREs anymore. Jesse laughed. “No shit—that’s a true story. And when the raisins finally
did
show up back in the bread again, I ate it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And that ain’t what made me sick, either. At least those little suckers were cooked.”

Julia leaned over to Chris and whispered that they could skip dinner.

Jesse handed out briefing sheets that listed known foreign companies working in the eastern region of the DRC. There were over a hundred companies listed from China, India, North Korea, and South Africa. Sorting the legitimate companies from government shells would take some work, but in any case, the export of uranium had officially been made illegal by the DRC government. Any company exporting uranium, usually through Zambia or directly onto ships in Muanda on the Atlantic coast, was breaking the law.

A rail line ran west from the mining areas through the skinny western arm of the DRC to the Atlantic, the DRC’s only access to the ocean. Muanda, a city of about fifty thousand people, had seaports and an airport, and refinery operations had sprung up along the rail lines. It wasn’t a huge leap to conclude that ore was being mined, transported, smelted and refined, and then either shipped out by boat or plane. Gathering information on that process was another item on their “to do” list.

Jesse went into great details of the operation for another hour and then finally put the lights back on and walked closer to the team sitting in front of him. His demeanor went serious and he looked at his shoes for a moment while he tried to find the right words.

“We work in a dangerous business. Most of the time, we work without a safety net. I know most of you come from specialized military backgrounds where you don’t necessarily get to call in air support or expect someone to come get you if things go south. You are all used to being self-reliant, which is a good background to have. Nigel was no different. He knew the risks, same as all of us. But the people here at home see what are called abuses at Abu Ghraib or Gitmo and get outraged because prisoners were humiliated, sleep deprived or scared shitless by big growling dogs. The difference between an American interrogation and a Chinese interrogation is that the Chinese will release the dogs.

If they
have
Nigel, and I think they
do
, they will not have any qualms about taking him apart piece by piece to find out whatever they can. Once they’re finished with him, they’ll kill him just as sure as I am standing here. The chances of rescuing Nigel are almost nil, but I expect you to try. Other than your team, he has no chance. No one else is going to look for him. Anyway—that’s all for tonight. Go grab some dinner and get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow we start again at seven.”

7.

The briefings and training continued for ten long days. At the end of the ten days, Jon and his crew sounded like tropical fish experts, Theresa, the navy corpsman, had studied African diseases and parasites, and the rest of the team knew their way around the southeastern DRC. Places, people, and businesses had been memorized, and they knew more about metals and mining than a college geology student. It was time.

At six pm, Darren Davis and Deirdre Gourlie entered the large conference room where the team was helping themselves to a large buffet at their “graduation party.” Darren had ordered a huge amount of food—all of it first class. Sushi rolls, prime rib, shrimp, crab legs, Chinese food, lasagna—you name it, it was on the long table. So were cold beers, a bottle of sake, and a couple of bottles of red and white wine. Cascaes saw them enter and called out, “Attention on deck.” Everyone stood at attention, most of them with plates piled high with food.

Darren and Deirdre laughed. “So formal today?” asked Deirdre.

“Anyone that feeds us like this gets a salute, ma’am,” said Cascaes, snapping a sharp salute to her and Darren. They laughed and gave their best salutes in return, and everyone chuckled. “I apologized to my men when I saw the food. I hadn’t realized this was a suicide mission.”

Darren laughed and grabbed a cold bottle of beer. “It’s not a suicide mission, but you also aren’t staying at the Mandarin Oriental. I hope everyone has their favorite food in here
somewhere
. Trust me when I tell you that you won’t be eating very well in the Democratic Republic of Congo.”

Chris looked at Deirdre. “Yeah, Jesse told us his bread story. I think we’ll be sticking to MREs.”

Deirdre smiled. “The snake tastes just like chicken,” she said, “But the water buffalo can be a bit stringy and gamey, especially if it’s been out in the sun for a day or two.”

“Thanks,” Chris mumbled.

Darren filled a plate and sat down next to Chris, who was sitting next to Julia—no big surprise. If Darren was curious about their relationship, he kept it to himself. Deirdre picked up a bottle of wine, but Jake Koches quickly took it from her and said, “Allow me.” When he had poured her the glass of Merlot, she walked to the head of the table and asked for everyone’s attention. Everyone stopped speaking and looked over.

“Here’s to a successful mission. Come home safe, and bring Nigel back home, too.” She paused and cleared her throat. “And
fuck
China.”

Everyone cheered at the pretty little Irish girl using sailor’s language. They cheered and toasted and returned to gorging themselves. Darren leaned over to Chris Cascaes.

“I spoke to Mac yesterday,” said Darren.

Chris Mackey was the baseball team’s “coach” from their last mission. It had been Mackey who originally came up with the idea of the baseball team cover story. He had led the operation, along with Cascaes, in Paraguay, but had contemplated retirement and dropped out of sight.

Chris smiled. “How is ol’ Mackey?” he asked. “He must be on some little island somewhere getting drunk and chasing skirts.”

Darren leaned closer. “Actually, he told me to tell you to move your ass and bring him a decent bottle of scotch. He’s in the DRC waiting for you. He’ll be waiting for you at Luano Airport in Lubumbashi when you get there.”

Chris laughed out loud and shook his head. “Well isn’t that like a good friend, to pick me up at the airport. When did he get there?”

“A week ago,” Darren said quietly.

Chris felt himself get angry. “And you’re just telling me now?”

“Not my call,” he replied. “The boss isn’t thrilled with your team concept as it is. He says the group is already way too big and “you guys are going to be the death of him.” That’s a quote, by the way. Anyway, the director spoke with him personally yesterday and Mac says the Chinese have been very busy. The PAC is much further along than we anticipated. We changed your weapon load after we spoke to Mac. You are ready for a full scale war, and the president has redirected a troop ship of marines from the Middle East to the African coast.

“While the president doesn’t want another Somalia on his hands, and certainly doesn’t want to antagonize the Chinese, he also won’t sit back and allow the Chinese to fund the PAC and overthrow a pro-American government. You will be stepping into a sticky wicket, my friend.”

Cascaes clinked Darren’s bottle and drank back the second half of his beer in a long chug. He muffled his burp and smiled crookedly at Darren. “So much for a little recon and rescue mission, huh? Well, no matter. My men are better at breaking things and killing people than they are at search and rescue anyway.”

Darren kept his voice low, the room getting louder around him as the team drank and ate and laughed a little too loudly, feeling the jitters of getting ready to head out.

“Look, Chris. The PAC may already number over six or seven thousand. Mac is trying to find out who the leaders are, and hopefully, if you can take them out, the rebellion will fall apart. But don’t go toe to toe with a friggin’
army
. If the president calls in the Marines, it won’t be to rescue
you
guys, it will be a political decision that has nothing to do with you guys. All I’m saying is, stay in the shadows. This is not a military operation.”

“I understand,” said Chris. “But I would like to go over the new weapons and ammo list with you after dinner.”

8.

The flight from Virginia to Canada was via private CIA jet. Once there, they switched passports and boarded a commercial flight to Spain, where they had to change planes to South Africa. Once in South Africa, it was a smaller plane to Luano Airport in Lubumbashi. All in all, from Virginia to Lubumbashi was over thirty hours, and no one was in a particularly good mood when they arrived at the sweaty Luano Airport customs line. It was over eight-five degrees inside the airport, which might have been cleaned once or twice in the last ten years. While there were a few fans visible in the terminal, not one of them was operational. The weary travelers stood in line fanning themselves with their counterfeit Canadian passports as a bored looking man stamped them in front of a security guard carrying an ancient machine gun. Hodges, the resident marine sharpshooter leaned over to his buddy Earl Jones and whispered in his southern drawl that if the guy fired his weapon, it would blow up in his face. He was probably correct.

After the group cleared customs, they walked down another dirty hallway to freight pickup. They cringed as they watched a half dozen sweaty men manhandle their large crates into the airport. The crates were heavy, having double and triple interior walls to hide weapons, ammunition, and other equipment that would get them arrested. The lead lining to shield from x-rays made them even heavier. The men were screaming at each other in frustration trying to deal with the weight of the crates when an official looking man in a military looking uniform walked over to find out what all the fuss was about. He approached the group, the only ones in the area, and asked what they were importing.

“We aren’t importing anything, sir,” said Chris. “We are actually in the
export
business—live tropical fish export. This is SCUBA diving equipment and materials we need for our business at the lake.”

The official looked at the manifest list on the outside of one of the crates and mumbled to himself for a while as he pretended to understand what he was looking at.

“Extra heavy packages like these are subject to import taxes. Are you in charge of this group?” he asked Chris.

“Yes,” he said, sensing the impending shakedown. The official had Chris follow him down another dirty hallway to his small office. When they walked inside, it had an ancient wooden desk and one chair, and nothing else.

The official was tentative. “You have American dollars?” he asked.

Chris shook his head. “No, sir. We’re Canadians. I only have Canadian currency.”

The official rubbed his chin. “How many Canadian dollars equal an American dollar?” he asked, obviously clueless.

“One Canadian dollar equals two American dollars,” Chris lied.

“Well then you will have to pay one hundred dollars as a special tax,” he said, trying to be smooth. To him, it was almost five months salary, and he wasn’t sure if he was asking for too much.

“Wow, that’s a lot,” said Chris, waiting for some reaction. They stood and stared at each other for a moment, and then Chris broke out a small wad of bills. He had intentionally stuck his cash in small wads in a dozen different places, for this specific reason. He counted the money, which came out to eighty dollars Canadian. “I didn’t go to the bank yet, it’s all I have on me.”

The official swiped it from his hand and shoved it into his shirt pocket. “My cousin has a truck. Maybe you need a ride somewhere to transfer your cargo?”

Chris fought the urge to smile.
“I bet he does,”
he thought to himself
, “and your other cousin sells gas, and your other cousin…”

“Well?” he asked, now getting nervous.

“Actually, my business associate is here waiting to pick us up,” he said. The official grunted and left the office, with Chris close behind. When they got back to the group, he disappeared. Chris’s men pushed the cargo on ancient wooden dollies with wheels that were worse than any wobbly grocery shopping-cart. By the time they got to the main entrance of the airport, they were soaked and cursing under their breath. Mackey’s voice echoing off the walls broke the tension.

“Hey!” he yelled, a genuine smile on his face as he saw all of the familiar faces.

Chris smiled and walked over to exchange a big hug. Cascaes whispered, “We cool here?”

“So far. But let’s get your shit and get the hell out of here. We have a lot to talk about. I’ll go pull the truck up to the door.”

Cascaes couldn’t help but laugh at the big fish cartoon on the back of Mackey’s t-shirt as he walked away.

Mackey pulled up in what looked like an ancient school bus with the roof cut off. Seats in the rear had been removed to make a sort of cargo area. It squeaked and rattled as he pulled up, and the men were laughing hysterically at the heap.

“Go ahead and laugh,” said Mackey, “It’s the only thing I could find that can carry your fat asses, ladies excluded, of course,” he added, catching himself.

The team loaded up their cargo in the back of the bus and piled in. The seats were torn, and most of them were missing the arms. Theresa joked that she couldn’t find her seatbelt.

Mackey cranked the engine back up, which belched black smoke, and pulled away from the airport. As they bounced off to begin their mission, Cascaes looked back to see the official standing outside the airport with his arms folded across his chest, watching them closely. He quickly told Mac about the shakedown at the airport.

“Welcome to Africa,” said Mackey.