Mission Liberty (34 page)

DeLuca moved to the cell door, shining his own flashlight on the ceiling. The old man was skin and bones, his legs as thin
as a child’s arm, but there was a light in his eyes.

“My name is Special Agent David DeLuca,” he said. “I’m with United States Army counterintelligence. We’ve come to help you.”

“Take my son and go,” the old man said, coughing. “You can leave me here.”

“No, Father,” the younger Asabo said. The next thing he said was in Fasori, at the end of which the old man nodded.

DeLuca waited. He appreciated that decisions needed to be made with due deliberation, but the idea that they could find themselves
in the middle of a firefight at any second made it difficult to remain patient.

Finally, Asabo finished speaking to his father.

“Thank you for coming to get me, David,” Paul Asabo said, “but after all these years, I won’t go back. Even staying here,
in this cell, with my father, would be better. If I’m going to die, I want to die in Liger. Please. You should go, before
someone comes down. The guards come every once in a while to check on the generator, or to get something.”

“No one’s going to die,” DeLuca said. “We’ll take your father, too.”

“He can’t walk,” Asabo said.

“Then we’ll have to get out some other way,” DeLuca said, thinking. DeLuca didn’t see how the old man would be able to negotiate
the ropes at the door of no return, or any way to lower him down. If they couldn’t go down, then they had to go up.

“What’s at the top of the stairs?” he asked.

“I think there are guards,” Asabo said.

“How many?”

“I don’t know. Every now and then, I can hear men talking.”

“Preacher,” DeLuca said. “You said there was a trapdoor leading to the governor’s quarters. Think it still works?”

“Couldn’t say,” Johnson said. “On the other hand, most things in this place appear to have been built to last.”

“Scottie,” DeLuca said, speaking into his radio. “Thermal imaging on the governors’ quarters. Have you got it?”

“Through the roof only. The administrative offices or his living quarters?”

“Living quarters,” DeLuca said. “Bedroom. Anybody in it?”

“It appears to be empty,” Scottie said. “But getting thermals is sketchy.”

“Nobody sleeping there?”

“Not that I can find. It looks clear.”

“Good enough for me,” DeLuca said. “Preacher, I saw an aluminum ladder in the men’s dungeon. Send one of your men to get it,
then show him where the trapdoor is and set it up. Your other man is going to need to carry the king up the ladder fireman
style. Dan, we’re taking the president’s helicopter. You’re going to have to fly it.”

“I might as well just join the Air Force,” Sykes said. “I hope all the buttons are in the same locations.”

“Get Captain Evans back on the horn and tell him to stand by,” DeLuca said calmly. He studied his CIM for the latest falcon
view of the castle, showing him where Bo’s men were positioned. He clicked over to a graphic view of the structure, showing
him the layout, the doors, the exits, ramparts, towers, and barbicans. “I think it’s fair to guess the president keeps his
helicopter ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

The SEAL’s torch cut through the last part of the lock. He shook it a moment, and then the cage door swung free. Paul Asabo
stepped out as Lieutenant Riley and the third SEAL entered the cell to help the elder Asabo to his feet, wobbly as a newborn
calf.

“Hoolie,” DeLuca said, flipping his NVGs down, “on my signal, kill the generator. It’s time we enjoyed our American God-given
right to technological superiority.”

DeLuca allowed the others to go up the ladder ahead of him, then gave the signal to Hoolie. The castle lights went out. Hoolie
ran to the ladder in the pitch black and climbed up behind DeLuca, in whose NVGs the place seemed bright as day.

Climbing up through the trapdoor was stepping back into the seventeenth century. The governor’s quarters were part of the
Ligerian Historical Museum, and featured the original furniture, wall decorations, and historical details, a pair of men’s
slippers beside the bed, a Bible opened on the end table. The bed was a large four-poster, and there were marks that clearly
indicated where chains had been used to fasten someone to it.

They moved aside the velvet rope and crossed to the hall, which opened onto a small balcony overlooking a courtyard below,
where DeLuca saw four iron balls, each the size of a basketball, to which, Johnson explained, prisoners had once been chained
as punishment, or to simply die in the sun for the viewing pleasure of the occupying powers. The courtyard was also where
prisoners were occasionally drawn and quartered.

Beyond the balcony was a hall leading to the administrative offices, opening onto the castle’s main courtyard. DeLuca saw
a black Chinook, guarded by a pair of soldiers, and beyond that, the main castle keep where the Historical Museum’s large
exhibit hall was located. DeLuca saw candles being lit in the exhibit hall, where Bo’s Presidential Guard had taken positions,
men gesticulating and shouting. He saw soldiers manning machine guns in the towers and at the parapets facing town.

He checked his CIM again, zooming out for a larger view. Rebel forces appeared to have the castle surrounded, but there was
something of a lull in the fighting. He clicked for the location of John Dari and found him nearby, moving approximately from
City Hall toward the castle gate.

“Scottie,” DeLuca said. “What’s going on outside the gates?”

“See for yourself,” Scott said. “I’m patching through a live feed. This is Al Jazeera.”

DeLuca saw the captured digital imagery in real time, the streets of Port Ivory awash in rebel troops who seemed to have taken
full control of the city.

“How many UAVs do we have right now?” DeLuca asked.

“All five,” Scott said. “Locked and loaded. You crashed the other one.”

“I’m going to need some shock and awe,” DeLuca said. “Can you put something somewhere where the collateral damage will be
minimal? Maybe between the outer and inner walls?”

“I can do that,” Scott said.

DeLuca turned to Paul Asabo.

“Paul, I want you and your father to wait here until we come to get you,” DeLuca said. “Lieutenant Riley, you’re free to take
your men back out the way we came if you want. It’s your call.”

“And miss all the fun?” Riley said. “I’ve never done a mission with CI before. Usually, SEALs like to think things through
first.”

“It’s all a state of mind, Lieutenant,” DeLuca said.

“Preacher,” DeLuca said. “Have you got a plan to take out the guards?”

“Oh,” Johnson said. “I’m sorry. Did you want me to wait?”

DeLuca looked out at the courtyard again, where Johnson’s men had subdued the guards and were dragging them off to the sea
wall. A moment later, Johnson’s men had taken the guards’ place, donning their helmets and flak jackets.

“No, I guess not,” DeLuca said. “Dan—how long does it take to get one of those things ready to go, from cold start to liftoff?”

“Why are you asking me?” Sykes said. “I keep telling you, I’m not a pilot.”

“Oh, come on, Dan,” DeLuca said, smiling. “Be all that you can be.”

“About three minutes,” DeLuca heard Captain Evans tell him on his headset. “According to our thermals, the APU is hot.”

“Any time you’re ready, Scott.”

“Firing,” Scott replied.

DeLuca counted in his head, a thousand one, a thousand two.

On four, the night was split by the sound of a Hellfire slamming into the castle’s inner bailey, and a moment later, a second
missile hit. The Presidential Guards in the towers opened up with their machine guns, firing on the city below.

DeLuca led the way, crouching low and crossing to the helicopter. They’d gotten halfway there, in the open and completely
exposed, when the courtyard was lit by the light of a flare fired from the castle keep. DeLuca saw men running into the courtyard,
soldiers as well as men dressed in suits and ties. He straightened from his crouch and walked briskly toward them.

“Plan B,” he said into his radio.

“Which is?”

“I’m not sure yet,” DeLuca said. “Scottie, a couple more if you will.”

DeLuca walked toward President Bo and his party as if he belonged there. He debated, briefly, telling Bo he was going to have
to confiscate his helicopter in the name of the United States Army, when he had what he hoped was a better idea.

“President Bo,” DeLuca called out, coming to attention and snapping off his snappiest salute. Sykes, Vasquez, Riley, and Johnson
did the same. “General David DeLuca, United States Army. This is Colonel Johnson, Major Riley, Captain Sykes, and Captain
Vasquez.” He was trusting that no one noticed they’d come in sterile without any identifying insignia on their uniforms to
indicate rank. “Ambassador Ellis sends his warmest regards, as does the president of the United States.”

“What are you doing here?” President Bo asked. He was shorter than DeLuca had expected, dressed in a black suit, white shirt,
and red tie, the Kevlar helmet on his head making him look something like a dictatorial bobble- head doll.

“Your situation is untenable,” DeLuca said. “Let me show you.”

A third missile struck the castle walls, a harmless but impressive display of pyrotechnics. Scottie had heard DeLuca’s words,
“Let me show you,” and was following his father’s play. When DeLuca showed the Ligerian president his CIM, Scottie filled
the screen with as many blinking red dots and swooping green arrows as he could. DeLuca saw where, at one point, Scottie even
layered in the weather forecast.

“As you can see. you really shouldn’t stay, sir. My pilot will take you and whoever you want to bring with you to our carrier
offshore.”

“I’m General Ngwema,” a tall man said, stepping forward and saluting. “I will stay here.”

“Not a good idea, General,” DeLuca said, trying to sound crabby and wise, like a general should. “We’ve got sixty-four B2
bombers that flew all the way here from Missouri, and they’re set to arrive and drop their payloads in about ten minutes,
accompanied by Tomahawks and JDAMs and JSOWs and you name it—we’re going to flatten this place for you and then bring you
back to pick up the pieces. No charge, compliments of the United States military.”

He showed Ngwema the CIM. Scottie quickly added small airplane icons to the display.

“I will come back afterward,” Ngwema said. “Our work here is not finished.”

“My pilot will take you,” DeLuca said, gesturing to Dan Sykes.

“I have my own pilot,” President Bo said. DeLuca looked at Sykes, who nodded vigorously.

“All right then,” DeLuca said. “This place is going to fall apart—you have to leave now. We’ll follow you in our own chopper.”

He pulled his men aside and circled them together in conference. A fourth missile slammed the castle for effect.

“What are we doing?” Hoolie asked.

“I don’t know,” DeLuca said. “Look important.”

“What next?” Preacher Johnson asked, pointing vehemently to his SATphone, as if there were something important about it.

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?” DeLuca said.

“I thought there were too many RPGs and shoulder-fireds to fly helicopters out of here,” Lieutenant Riley said.

“I heard that, too,” DeLuca said. “In all things, there’s an element of risk.”

DeLuca watched as President Bo loaded two suitcases, filled with cash, no doubt, or diamonds, into the helicopter and told
two of his wives or mistresses they could come with him, telling the other two they had to stay. The women left behind didn’t
seem to like it much. DeLuca and the others saluted as the big black Chinook carrying Bo, General Ngwema, Bo’s cabinet members,
and as many of his guards as the aircraft could carry rose and flew over the seawall, staying low as it cruised above the
open water, heading out to sea.

Soon it was far offshore and safe.

“Don’t you wish we could have done that to the Clinton administration?” Sykes said.

“Scottie, you wanna tell the
LBJ
to get their guest quarters ready?” DeLuca said.

“It’s under discussion,” Scott said. “People here in Washington aren’t quite as quick on their feet as you are. The view from
here seems to be that there are no vacancies on the carrier.”

“Well hey,” DeLuca said. “Don’t look at me. I just suggested they take off. They don’t have to land if they don’t want to.”

In the exhibit hall, he saw, by the light of the candles that had been lit there, three of Bo’s Presidential Guards changing
into civilian clothes. The men ran off in their boxer shorts when they saw they weren’t alone. DeLuca saw piles of uniforms
and weapons elsewhere, where other guards had done the same. The machine guns atop the towers had been abandoned as well.
On his CIM, DeLuca saw images of men slipping over the wall by the service entrance and running from the castle. In the hall,
DeLuca saw that the stuffed lion had been removed from its pedestal, and someone had cut the ivory tusks off the elephant.
A glass case containing examples of Da goldsmithing had been looted, as had a case containing the royal crown and scepter,
but the Royal Sun Robe was intact. When he turned, he saw that Paul Asabo had come to the hall with his father, who walked
stiffly and slowly now but under his own power.

“John and I took a class together at Mill River Academy,” Asabo said, looking at the Royal Sun Robe, “on the meaning and uses
of symbolism. I remember telling the teacher that Africans don’t separate symbol from meaning. That’s what animism is. The
spirit, the meaning, literally inhabits the thing. It was hard to make him understand.”

Throngs of people pressed at the gate, where music played. A television crew was filming in the crowd, their lights bright
in the night. When DeLuca’s SATphone rang, the internal caller ID told him it was John Dari, who was, according to DeLuca’s
handheld, just outside the gates.

“You might want to take this,” he told Paul Asabo, handing him the telephone. “I think it’s for you.”