Blood Diamonds, page 21
But Mad Dog forged on, kept telling himself that he was all right, in charge, able to lead no matter what happened. When guys died in combat, you didn’t linger on it. You moved on; there was always time later to mourn. Too much time. “Roger that, Two. Tell them to keep us updated. Go duck out somewhere, take Blackhound Three with you, and start your transfer hack now. I want that money back. We’ll go on without you, over.”
“Uh, One, we have a problem. He’s a very clever spook. Looks like he’s done this before and anticipated these kinds of hacks. He’s got a real bitch of a firewall set up, and I’ve already been trying to crack it. Doesn’t look good, over.”
“You promised me…” Mad Dog warned.
“I know. I’ll duck out and keep trying. I just didn’t expect this. Not from him, anyway.”
Mad Dog heard Judas call after Bibby and Doolittle, neither of whom responded. The spook, who was just a few steps behind Mad Dog, hustled up and said, “Where are they going?”
Although he raised his carbine, Mad Dog repressed the urge to turn it on Judas. Yes, they had Dan, all right, but they still didn’t have the money back. If Bibby couldn’t get it, they needed Judas to return it.
But the asshole would never do that. Not unless—
Shots blasted through the brush, striking a few of the trees behind them, bark splintering. “Blackhounds, I’m taking fire on my position,” cried Mad Dog as he hit the mud.
Judas crawled up next to him. “I need a fucking rifle.”
“You need to shut up.”
More rounds razored overhead, and Mad Dog eyed the trees ahead, trying to pinpoint the shooters’ locations. Yep, there had to be more than one. Sounded like three.
“I die, Dan dies. I want a fucking rifle!”
“Stay down. Try not to get killed.” Mad Dog crawled forward toward a little hump, then suddenly rose and slung lead in the shooters’ direction.
He paused, ducked again. “Okay, move up!” he ordered Judas.
The spook elbowed his way forward, keeping his useless pistol high above the mud.
Three more shots popped and whipped through the brush, kicking the spook into a frantic crawl, like an injured grasshopper, all lanky and uncoordinated.
Bender had pulled the truck up to the water’s edge and had stopped. He took a long hard look at the guy getting out of the lead truck, parked on the opposite bank, and even through the windshield wipers and the torrential rain, he knew he was staring at Mboma Kisantu himself. He had studied the intel photos very closely as part of his mission preparation. They all had.
“That’s him,” cried Dzoba.
“Dropped himself in our laps,” said Bender.
Kisantu was waving frantically for them to come forward across the submerged gravel that spanned the river, where he stood only forty or so meters away. The man behind the wheel of his truck was borderline hysterical, shouting and motioning for him to get back in the cab.
A second truck pulled up next to Kisantu’s and at least a dozen armed men poured out of the back, half heading north up the river, the rest spreading themselves along the southern part of the crossing.
For a moment, Bender thought he heard shots in the distance. Wait a minute…he had.
And so had Kisantu. He stopped waving and ran back toward his truck.
“Do you have him?” Bender asked Dzoba, who was rolling down his window.
“I will in a second.” Dzoba lifted his weapon.
At that, the men along the river bank opened fire, muzzles flashing like Christmas lights in the gloom, mud puddles suddenly miniature geysers erupting around the truck.
“I lost him!” shouted Dzoba. “Fuck, we’re taking fire! Too many of ’em! Get us out of here!”
Bender flinched, shrank reflexively in his seat. He stomped on the clutch, threw the truck in reverse, and floored it, backing away from the crossing.
Pope and Sapper had donned their balaclavas while nearing the back of the Delta operators’ truck. Pope had seen why the Delta team had stopped: two more trucks were on the other side, and dozens of combatants had hopped down and begun searching for good points of cover. They were poorly trained, because once they assumed their positions, most of them were still visible, crouched beside a tree or popping up from behind an embankment. But they had moved like they had a purpose, and it was evident that most could point and shoot, a definite deterrent.
Despite all the new company, Pope and Sapper were about to surprise the guys inside the Delta truck when the shots had rung out—
And the damned truck had begun to back up.
He had motioned for Sapper to ease gently but quickly onto the tailgate, and he had done likewise. They now hung on each side of the vehicle, clutching metal canopy rails with one hand, their submachine guns held fast in the other.
The tarpaulin flaps were still closed, but they began to flap as the truck turned and caught the wind, then the driver really hit the gas, nearly knocking Sapper from his perch. Pope widened his eyes, and the guy nodded that he was all right.
Incoming fire tore the shit out of the path, even punched a few holes high in the tarpaulin. Pope felt like a paper target swaying in the storm.
Meanwhile, the two trucks roared forward and began crossing the river, their front tires quickly swallowed, waves washing up over their hoods. Then Pope lost them, the ride growing too rough, the jungle too thick.
He just breathed, blinked hard, looked to the tailgate, to Sapper, then closed his eyes for just a second:
Cheryl, I need you now…
Pope drew in a very long breath, then gave Sapper the signal.
The big engineer’s eyes were bloodshot, and he was soaked to the marrow let alone the bones, but he, like Pope, was good to go.
Nothing could stop them.
But something did. A hand parted one tent flap, and one of the Delta operators peered straight out. Pope held up his hand for Sapper to hold.
Then he nodded, suddenly reached in and grabbed the guy by the wrist, yanked him out of the truck and tossed him onto the mud. He cursed and hit chestfirst with a hard thud, his machinegun snapping from his grip.
As he slowly rolled over, Pope and Sapper swung themselves onto the flatbed, boots first, guns at the ready, Pope dropkicking someone all the way to the back.
More gunfire from the river must have distracted the men shooting at Mad Dog and Judas, because as those rounds boomed, the jungle around them fell silent, save for rain splattering on the puddles and thumping off thousands of fronds.
“Blackhound One, this is Seven,” called Wolfgang. “Delta team took heavy fire and has just pulled out. Four and Five were hanging on the back of the truck and were moving north, but I’ve lost them now, over.”
Shit, the Deltas were bugging out with the diamonds, but at least Pope and Sapper were still with them. They just had to go head-to-head with those incredibly proficient operators, relieve them of the rocks, and take off, no shots fired. A proverbial walk in the park.
Mad Dog vowed to give each a shiny new nickel if they could pull it off. Being chief wiseass had its perks…
Wolfgang continued: “Two trucks trying to cross the river now. Looks like the lead truck has stalled out. I’m pretty sure the guy up there is Kisantu. If he’s not, he’s his twin brother, over.”
“Roger that, Seven. Engage those guys. Keep ’em pinned down for as long as you can, over.”
“So we’re good to shoot ’em?”
“Well, they want to kill you, asshole! Fire!”
Mad Dog got up on his hands and knees, even as he heard Wolfgang, Boo Boo, and Drac bring sudden hell to the river valley. He looked to Judas. “We’re moving out again.”
The spook rose cautiously, backhanded rain from his brow. “Where?”
“To the crossing—so we can take out Kisantu.”
“Bullshit.”
Yes, it was. But Mad Dog wanted to keep the asshole guessing.
Bibby was, once again, so engrossed in his computer screen that he didn’t hear the commotion behind him.
Well, he had actually heard it, but he didn’t turn back until it was all over.
A rebel wearing olive drab fatigues lay on the ground, moaning softly and rubbing the back of his neck as Doolittle lowered his Galil, whose stock had just come down on the unsuspecting fool.
“Jesus, man, why didn’t you shoot him?” asked Bibby.
“I just reacted,” confessed the translator, who confiscated the man’s AK.
“Next time shoot.”
“I will.”
Doolittle sloughed off his ruck and dug through a side pocket to produce a plastic zipper cuff. He forced the rebel to sit up, then bound the man’s hands behind his back. That finished, the translator raised his chin at Bibby. “How’s it going?”
“Not good. I think we’ve lost four million dollars. And if we don’t recover the diamonds, we’ll be six million in the hole. Shit!”
“Do you want me to call the sergeant?”
“Why do you keep calling him that?”
“That’s who he is.”
“No, he’s a merc, just like you and me.”
“To be a great leader, he needs a conscience.”
Bibby gave a little snort, keyed his mike. “Blackhound One, this is Two, over.”
After delicately filling in Mad Dog on his progress, or lack thereof, and letting him know that they had taken one of the rebels prisoner, Mad Dog requested that they move forward with the prisoner and meet him along the path near the riverbank.
“He wants us to take him?” Doolittle asked, tipping his head toward the rebel.
“That’s what he said.” Bibby closed the laptop, shoved it in his ruck. “Off we go.”
Pope shoved his submachine gun squarely in the Delta operator’s face. The guy was arguably the meanest-looking black dude he had ever seen, and thank god Pope had exploited the element of surprise. To a point. The guy had his expensive weapon, a German-made HK no doubt, pointed at Pope’s chest.
Meanwhile, Sapper had Jaga and one other guy covered—like that mattered.
“We just want the rocks,” said Pope.
The Delta operator smiled. “Who the fuck are you? You work for Morstarr? Or are you just another merc? And by the way, nice tan.”
Jaga was screaming in Portuguese and pointing at Sapper. The little fucker obviously recognized him, balaclava notwithstanding. Then he looked at the operator, and, in English said, “Thorn, it’s him! From the mining company.”
“Hand over the rocks, and we’re out of here.”
The Delta operator began chuckling.
Pope drove his gun’s muzzle in the operator’s forehead and growled, “What’s so fucking funny?”
“You…”
“Give us the fucking rocks!” shouted Sapper.
“Shut up!” ordered Pope. “The rocks, motherfucker! Now!”
“So which one of Uncle Sam’s cousins trained you? SEALs? Force Recon? Air Force, probably, huh?”
Suddenly, the truck slowed, brakes squeaking.
“Hurry up,” Sapper warned.
“The rocks! Last chance!” hollered Pope. “Come on. At least we’ll give ’em back to the company that owns ’em. You think your bosses will do that?”
The Delta operator smiled again. “You want the rocks? You’d better go get ’em, you dumbass. You just threw them off the truck.”
Pope looked at Sapper, all red eyes and probably mouthing an “Oh, fuck” beneath his mask.
As was Pope.
And then, in the next second, he was airborne, with Sapper right behind him, hurtling through the rain, the ground coming up too fast. He hit and rolled, as did Sapper, the Delta guy cackling behind them.
The truck had come to a full stop and was turning around, with one operator hanging from the passenger’s-side window. He opened fire, spraying the mud in front of Sapper and Pope.
They scrambled to their feet, and Pope took point, leading them down and off the path, into the thick brush. His legs were on fire, his breath nearly gone. Trees blurred by, and the rain threatened to blind him—
But then, just off to his right, he saw a figure limping along the path: the guy they had thrown off. He was hurt, vulnerable.
“Right there,” Pope cried to Sapper.
They cut through the shrubs and high grass, neared the path, turned, came up behind the limping man.
Pope leaped forward and tackled the guy.
But the truck was just roaring up. He had only a few seconds to disarm and search the man. Not enough time.
But Sapper was there, already digging through the Delta guy’s pockets while Pope pinned him facefirst to the mud.
Gunfire boomed from the truck, rounds tearing into the puddles not a meter from his head.
The operator wasn’t wearing a ruck, just his fatigues and boots. There wasn’t much to search. Sapper was panting, cursing, then finally said, “He doesn’t have ’em!”
“Bullshit!”
“I’m telling you!”
“Fuck!” cried Pope as he released the guy, snatched up the man’s weapon, then tore ass back into the bush, with Sapper in tow, the other Deltas firing behind them.
“Hey, asshole,” Sapper called as they continued to run. “Just fucking with you. I got ’em! Really! I looked inside, and they look like diamonds to me!” He held up a small leather pouch and gasped through a shit-eating grin.
Pope wanted to shoot the big fuck. Instead, he led the man on, tried to catch his breath as he keyed his mike. “Blackhound One, this is Four. We got ’em. I say again, we have the diamonds!”
Chapter 14
Low Water Crossing
Jungle North of Tongaso
Near Congo Border, Angola
1008 Hours Local Time
“Blackhound Four, this is One. Say again, over.”
Which part of “we have the diamonds” did Mad Dog not understand? Well, the whole damned thing. After all, they were in Angola, where the best laid plans of mercenaries went straight to Hell.
Pope’s voice grew more terse as he repeated that they had the rocks, then added, “We took ’em right off a Delta guy, and he’s still okay. No shots fired.”
Half shocked, half ready to swing a fist in the air and scream, “Yes!,” Mad Dog asked Pope to make sure that the pouch contained the diamonds and not something else. Pope sounded insulted by the request and said that while he and Sapper weren’t gem experts the rocks appeared genuine.
That would be the real kicker, wouldn’t it? All this work to rescue fake diamonds. Would Kisantu really be that clever? Plant a couple of guys with fakes in Tongaso? Maybe he wouldn’t, but if there was an inside man at Morstarr, he could pull off a switch, send Morstarr and its hired mercs on a wild-goose chase while the real thugs fled into the Congo.
But as far as Mad Dog was concerned, he and his men had recovered the rough; it wasn’t his problem if the rocks turned out to be fakes. He’d argue that point to Kidman when the time came. It was a weak argument. Shit. He’d have to come up with something better. But he didn’t want to think about that right now.
There was another four million to worry about.
Doolittle and Bibby came jogging up the path with the prisoner between them. Mad Dog used a clicker to gain Bibby’s attention, and they turned off the path and into the brush, where Mad Dog and Judas sat on their haunches.
The spook was staring intently through the binoculars Mad Dog had loaned him, observing the two trucks still stuck at the low-water crossing and the dozen or so rebels trying to free them as they squinted against the driving winds and rain.
“Take off his cuffs,” Mad Dog ordered Doolittle as he cocked a thumb toward the rebel. “And Mr. Bibby? Get back on your computer. And oh, yeah, I want you to call Kidman. Tell him to meet us in Tongaso. Tell him to bring two trucks. We’ll need transport back to the mining camp.”
“You got it.”
“Sergeant, you’re letting him go?” Doolittle asked, glancing to the rebel.
“Yes.”
Judas turned away from his binoculars. “Hertzog, what the hell are you doing now?”
Mad Dog ignored the spook, regarded Doolittle, and raised his voice for the spook’s benefit. “Tell our friend that he’s about to become a hero. Tell him he’s just captured an American CIA agent, and he’s going to deliver him to Kisantu.”
While Doolittle translated, Mad Dog withdrew a zipper cuff from his ruck and waved over the wide-eyed Judas. “Time to pay the piper.”
“Oh, really?” Judas looked incredulous.
Mad Dog extended a hand. “Your weapon.”
“Fuck you.” Judas raised the pistol. “You have lost it, haven’t you?”
“Yup.”
“Mikey, Mikey, Mikey. Pay attention. I die, so does Dan.”
“We have Dan. He was shot. He might die. But we have him, and you’d better hope he lives. Now I want my money back.”
“So you’re deaf and blind. I’m looking at a pistol pointed at your head. What do you see? A white flag?”
“I see an idiot who trusts his enemy’s weapon. You never trust your enemy’s weapon.”
Judas turned the pistol away, took aim at a tree, pulled the trigger. Click. Firing pin too short. CIA agent fucked. He threw the pistol at Mad Dog’s feet and appeared ready to run. “You’ll have to kill me.”
“No, I’ll leave that to Kisantu. You know, after we got Dan back I thought of putting a gun to your head. But a quick death? That’s no real threat. Not to men like us, right? But turning you over to him…ah, ha, now that’s real fun. Yeah, he’d play the torture game, but he’d hold off killing you because he’d think you’re worth something—till he finds out you’re just a piece of shit. Maybe he’d dump you on his friends, you know, those funny men in black turbans? They’d cut your head off, show it all on the Web. Or you could give me my fucking money.”
“I’m ready to make the transfer when you are,” Bibby told the spook. “Just need your user name and password.”
“I give you those, you’ll clean out my account.”
“There’s the difference between you and me. I’ll only take what’s mine.”
