Battleground (24 page)

“Yes, sir. His main office on the third floor front of the building with the big wall of windows, and then his apartment down on floor two with the seven rooms.”

Maji scowled for a moment. “Not sure just how I can tell
the colonel about this. I’ll use your name since your officer isn’t here. Your name again, Sergeant?”

He wrote it down. “That will be all. Carry on.” Maji turned and strode out of the room. He’d learned his military behavior as a two-year Army man who had been discharged three years ago. Being a corporal in a rifle company back then was coming in handy.

Did he have enough? He wondered as he got lost once, then found his way out the same rear service door he had come in. No one even noticed when he left the building. Security might be fine in the front, but here it was terrible.

Maji walked to his car. He had everything he needed. When he looked at the jeep he had stolen parked half a block ahead, he saw two military police checking it. They looked around, then got back in their patrol rig and parked behind the jeep. It looked as if they were going to wait and see who came to claim the rig. How could it be reported stolen already? If so, his ID wouldn’t be any good to get him out of the camp.

If he tried it, and they caught him, he’d be shot on the spot. He needed another way to get off the base.

Five minutes later, he had strolled down to where he could see the main gate. The double guards were still in place. Few cars or trucks left the base. He saw two come in and only two go out in half an hour. No one had been allowed to walk out through a special gate at one side. Several men who had tried to leave had been turned away. A general lockdown?

How could he get off the base?

He walked around again, then checked the dead man’s wallet. It was stuffed with hundred-shilling notes, each worth about two dollars American. Might be worth a try.

At the nearby officers’ club, he had a beer and listened to the men talk. He found two who were heading for town. They said they had special passes to get through the gate. The captain excused himself, and went to the men’s room. Maji went there a moment later.

In the bathroom they were alone. Maji asked the captain about the pass.

“Yeah, got one. Getting married in the morning. Even the general figured I should go in. Damn fine girl.” The captain was half drunk.

Maji chopped him twice in the side of the neck with the hard side of his hand, and the captain went down. Maji dragged the captain into a toilet stall, took the pass and the man’s ID card, closed the door, and hurried out.

Five minutes later, he flagged down a truck heading for the front gate and scowled at the driver.

“You heading for town, Corporal?”

“Yes, sir. Special duty.”

“I’ve got to get to town, and my transport broke down. No time to get a new one from the motor pool. I’ll ride with you.”

At the gate, the driver showed his pass, and the man there waved them through without a second look at the lieutenant in the other seat. Being an officer, even if for a short time, did have its advantages.

Maji dropped off the truck a mile from the base, walked to his car, and dug the SATCOM from the truck. He was in a little-used area behind some warehouses.

He keyed in the right frequency, and adjusted the antenna.

“Rover, this is Quest One.”

There was a long silence from the speaker. He checked his dials and sent the same message again. This time the speaker came to life.

“Quest One. Rover here, over.”

“Rover. Best bet: three-story building, top floor front. Personal apartment second floor. Security doubly tight on the site.”

“That’s a roger, Quest One. Take care.”

Just as the last word came from the speaker, the flat crack of an AK-47 sounded and Maji looked up in amazement, slammed backwards, and dropped the SATCOM micro-phone. The single round had jolted into his shoulder, and he clawed for the small revolver in his pants pocket.

The AK-47 fired again, this time on full automatic, and six rounds bored into the Kenyan spy. Two hit the SATCOM,
smashing it, and both the man and his radio died at the same instant.

Two Kenyan Special Agents ran up and stared at the man on the ground.

“You sure he’s the one?”

The other man nodded. “Oh, yes, he’s the one. Let’s see how much spy pay he has in his wallet. Our captain will be pleased that we have closed one more leak in our intelligence division.”

0814 hours

Oval Office

Washington, D.C.

President Wilson Anderson rolled back in his big leather chair, and scanned the four men and one woman facing him around his desk. These were the advisors he had learned he could rely upon. They had individual specialties, but could see the broad picture better than anyone else in D.C. He watched each one intently.

Phillips served as National Security Advisor. Phillips was rock-solid in international affairs. He stood only five feet six inches tall. However, he had a surgical mind that bored into the heart of a problem and dissected it with unerring skill.

Lambert J. Waldpole was his CIA director. Steady, a man who’d moved up through the ranks. He was a former field agent who had done his share of hand-to-hand killing in Europe during the Cold War. He was a top administrator who could evaluate the hell out of a situation even if he hated it. He stood six four, and carried 210 pounds like a small tight end.

Mabel Thorndyke, the only woman in his cabinet, was the first woman Secretary of State. She was a brilliant foreign affairs strategist, a longtime diplomat who could negotiate with the best, and win. She had an unerring antenna for the downstream results of actions taken today. She was an inch
shorter than Phillips, and a calming influence when things heated up.

Greg Sweibel was his Chief of Staff, and carried more weight than some of the others at the table. Some called him the First Vice President, and the un-elected Vice President. He was neat, a fashion-plate dresser, single, at the peak of his career after twenty years in rough-and-tumble national politics. He had a keen eye for the immediate effects of decisions.

Hart Kilburn was the Secretary of Defense. A career soldier, he had come up fast, and held pivotal roles in the Gulf War. From there he had retired and turned down a bid for the presidency, preferring to work out of the spotlight until his appointment to Defense. He was a tactician who understood war, force, showing the flag, and how much pressure a task force of Navy ships and planes can bring to bear on a situation.

President Anderson turned to Kilburn. “Hart, just what’s the situation now in Kenya?”

“Getting better. The Navy SEALs rescued our diplomats and staff there after the embassy was overrun by the rebels. Then they broke the one hundred sixty men out of that prison, and got them on hovercraft and then to the ships offshore. Now I hear they have liberated the frigate that had been captured.

“My Naval commander in the area tells me that President Djonjo is gradually regaining control. He now has over fifty percent of the Army and Navy back under his control. He’s cleaning out a pocket of resistance in Mombasa. Then he will control that vital port on the southern coast.

“He hasn’t said anything about wanting help in eliminating General Maleceia.”

“Mr. President,” Waldpole said. “My CIA man with the fleet down there reported about an hour ago that President Djonjo was vitally interested in getting help to knock out Maleceia once and for all so they could bury him. Maleceia’s holed up now in his headquarters north of Nairobi.”

George Sweibel turned to Waldpole. “Yes, but didn’t he
say that he was not too happy with the bombing and strafing runs by U.S. fighters?”

“Yes, George, he said that,” Waldpole replied. “However, he also said it was vital to knock out Maleceia so he would never upset peaceful democracy in Kenya again.”

“He wants us to kill Maleceia?” President Anderson asked.

“That’s the general idea, without having to use the word,” Mrs. Thorndyke said. “He put it about as strongly as a politician can. Yes, he wants us to blast this colonel-general right into Hell.”

The President looked at Jared Phillips, who had been drawing a large black man on his pad. “Jared, what do you think?”

“I’d guess that the President down there would love to get somebody, namely us, to blast General Maleceia into the nether regions so he would never have to worry about him again. From the point of view of worldwide opinion, it might not be the best move for us.” He held up his hand as several others started to speak.

“Just a minute, let me finish. Yes, we are regarded as world’s enforcers. We went into Kenya for legitimate diplomatic and hostage-rescue reasons. For this the world is with us. Once we go a step further and try to wipe out the man responsible for the U.S. embarrassment, then most of the nations will say we’re stepping over the line and getting involved in the internal affairs of Kenya.”

The men in the room looked at Mabel Thorndyke. She nodded and studied her notepad, and then her head came up, her eyes hard, her jaw slightly set.

“Gentlemen, this one is tricky as all hell. If we do what we want to do, go in with a dozen planes and bomb that headquarters of Maleceia into kindling, we accomplish a good for Kenya, and maybe ourselves down the line. We also get a black eye in world public opinion. However a good steak soon reduces a black eye to a distorted memory. I’m not sure yet which way to go.”

“Do I have to remind you about Saddam Hussein?” Kilburn asked. “We had him by the
cojones
as Mrs.
Thorndyke might say, and we let him get away. No, we
invited him to keep on living
. He’s caused us trouble ever since. There’s a good chance that he’ll go on messing with us for as long as he stays in power. Now this self-made general in Kenya is not as big a threat. By that I mean he controls no oil. However, he will continue to irritate us, and to cause all sorts of hell in Kenya, if we don’t go in and take him out right now with a good bombing program on his HQ, and then send troops or the SEALs in to make sure that he’s blasted straight into Hell.”

President Anderson held up both hands. “Okay, time out. I want all of you to go to your benches and think this through a little more. We’ve had input from everyone. Let’s see what we can work out as a practical approach that will benefit us currently and that will be best for us downstream in Kenya and in the world.” He grinned. “Hey, if this job was easy, I wouldn’t need you folks.”

The five filed out, and went to the nearby conference room, where they found fresh coffee, rolls, and bottles of cold water.

“Now we get down to work,” Zweibel, the Chief of Staff, said.

In his office, the President looked over his calender, canceled three appointments, and paced the room. By the time his advisors returned two hours later, he had a rough idea of what he wanted to do. He’d see if the suggestions of his cabinet people coincided.

Zweibel led the people in, and kept standing when the others sat down.

“Mr. President, we have worked out what we think is the best move for the United States. First we route our response to the President of Kenya through State. This will give it a more rounded and subtle approach.

“Second, we think Mrs. Thorndyke herself should send the message and then phone President Djonjo.

“Here’s our suggestion. We should indicate to President Djonjo that it is his best interests to wipe out General Maleceia so he will not be a troublemaker in years to come. We suggest this be done with smart bombs or ship-launched
missiles targeting the complex where the general has his offices.

“Mrs. Thorndyke received a message relayed from an operative in Nairobi who has penetrated the military complex and who reports that the general’s main offices are on the top floor of the only three-story building in the complex. It has a window wall on one side, and is on the outside of the building. He also has an apartment on the second floor.

“Secretary Kilburn suggests that the Navy be assigned to do the bombing of the HQ, and that the SEALs already on-site off Mombasa be used to go in and make sure that Maleceia is dead in the ruins. If for any reason he escapes, it would be up to the SEALs to track him down and dispatch him.”

The President leaned back in his chair, and peaked his fingers as his Chief of Staff sat down. He looked at each of them.

“Say you all?”

The heads nodded.

“That’s about the scenario I’d come up with. I don’t think we can rely on the ship-to-shore missiles to do the job here. We need pinpoint precision bombing. This can be done with computerized targeting, as I understand.” He looked at the Secretary of Defense.

“That’s right, Mr. President. The complex has already been mapped in flyovers, and is all in the shipboard plotting computers.”

“I hadn’t thought about the SEALs moving in,” the President said. “They are as efficient on land as they are in the water?”

Kilburn nodded. “The acronym stands for Sea, Air, and Land, Mr. President. I followed them one day from the ocean into the beach and inland for five miles. They are awesome with their tactics, their discipline, and their firepower. They are undoubtedly the best and the deadliest special forces organization in the world.”

“All right. Mabel, it’s your move. Make that call to President Djonjo, and let’s get this moving. Eight hours. The time in Kenya right now should be about 8
P.M.
Maybe a
dawn attack could be worked by the Navy. Secretary Kilburn, see how they want to play that part of it.

“Mabel, and gentlemen, I think we have a solution that will be effective now and work for us in the future.”

2140 hours

USS
Monroe,
CVN 81

Off Mombasa, Kenya

“Damn right I want to take the fifty,” Magic Brown said. “Look, the medics gave me an okay. I did moves and exercises for them and the wound didn’t break open. I got a go. I want the fucking fifty in case we need to slow down some armored cars or trucks. Can’t tell what we’ll wind up working against up there.”