Mission of Honor o-9 Page 4

  After leaving the Maun tourist center, Leon Seronga had led his four-vehicle caravan north through the reserve. The unit was riding Mercedes Sprinters that had been given to them by the Belgian. "The Necessary Evil," as Seronga referred to him in private, among his men. Each van held fourteen passengers. The vehicles had been flown to the Belgian's private airfield in Lehutu in the Kalahari. That was where they had been painted the green and khaki of Moremi Ranger Patrol vans. Before crossing the reserve with their prisoner, the men had all donned the olive-green uniforms of rangers. If any real rangers or army patrols stopped the RPVs, or if they were spotted by tour groups or Botswana field forces, they would claim to be searching for the paramilitary unit that had kidnapped the priest. Depending upon who approached, Leon's team was equipped with the proper documentation. The Belgian had provided that as well.

  Dhamballa saw to the spirits, but the Necessary Evil and his people saw to everything else. They said they supported the cause and hoped to benefit by having the mines returned to Botswana ownership. Leon Seronga did not trust the Europeans. But if anything went wrong, he could always kill them. And that made him a little more comfortable.

  Leon was sitting in the rearmost seat of the second van. His prisoner lay on his side in the small storage section of the van. The men had tied his hands behind him and bound his feet before laying him inside. He was still wearing the hood and was wheezing audibly. The van was hot. Inside the mask, it was even hotter. Leon had kept the mask on for two reasons. First, to dehydrate the priest and keep him weak. Second, to force him to draw some of his own exhaled carbon dioxide with each breath. That would keep the priest lightheaded. Both would make Father Bradbury more cooperative when they reached their destination.

  The priest was nestled among stacks of thigh-high wading boots and several cans of petrol. The other vans were packed with food, water, weapons, blankets, and the nine-by-nine-foot cotton canvas military tents the group would be using when they stopped for the night.

  After more than twelve hours driving through tfce reserve, the group reached the southernmost edge of the Okavango Swamp. Their arrival was marked by a dramatic increase in humidity. The climate was one of the reasons the swamp had been selected. It was hospitable to insects. In particular, the mosquitoes at the perimeter of the water provided more security than a battery of soldiers. And those sentries did not have to be provisioned.

  The drivers parked the vans on the south side of a grove of high, thick date palms. The vehicles would be needed for a mission three days from now. Leon and his team would be driving to the Church of Loyola in Shakawe, which was to the north. That would begin the second phase of the program.

  The thick trunks and long leaves of the trees would keep the vans from being baked by the sun. Six- and seven-foottall batches of feathery papyrus plants would provide cover from any passersby.

  Because it was well after dark, the militiamen made camp. Four guards were posted around the perimeter. They would serve shifts of one hour each. The trip would resume at daybreak.

  The night was noisier at the water's edge than it was in the reserve the evening before. Insects, birds, and toads hummed, barked, clicked, and wailed continuously. Because of the thick foliage, the sounds did not penetrate into the swamp. Even the breathing of the sleeping militiamen seemed loud and very, very close to Leon. They remained trapped in the immediate vicinity, as if the noise were coming from headphones. But it was like white noise. Within minutes after curling up on his blanket, the exhausted but satisfied Leon Seronga was asleep.

  The symphony ended shortly before dawn. When the men woke, Leon selected six men to continue the journey with him. He left Donald Pavant in charge of the bivouac.

  It was just after the rainy season, and the dark waters still stretched to the outer boundaries of the swamp. While the other six men pulled on their hip boots, Leon untied the priest's hands and legs. Father Bradbury was cautioned not to remove his hood, or he would be dragged through the water. He was also warned not to speak. Leon did not want his men or himself distracted by chatter or prayer. Then the priest was hefted onto the back of one of the men. He was weak, and Leon did not have time to walk him through the swamp. The militiamen set out, wading through the sloshy waters. They had tied a pair of motorboats to a tree on a small island 400 yards offshore. The boats were hidden among high reeds where they would not be seen. Seronga had not been worried about rangers spotting them as much as poachers. The islands of the swamp were an ideal hiding place.

  The men moved as they had on land, in two tight, parallel columns. Seronga liked to keep his men organized and disciplined at all times.

  The mosquitoes were relentless for about 250 yards from the shore. After that, the only real threat the men faced were burrowing asps. The snakes typically stretched their yard-long bodies on the silty marsh bottom. Meanwhile, their flat heads rested on the shore, on raised roots, or on floating branches. Though they could not bite through the vinyl of a boot, the snakes could be stirred up and washed over the top in deep water.

  The militiamen continued to walk toward the northeast. They made their way slowly through thickets of high cattails and around stocky bald cypress trees. The bald cypresses literally sat on the soft marsh bottom like bowling pins. They passed mounds of dry land as well as swamp knots. These were raised masses of tangled tree roots. Small lizards actually made permanent homes on the swamp knots. Countless generations of amphibians were born, fed on insects and rainwater, mated, and died without ever leaving the knot.

  Upon reaching the two boats, the men were divided. Seronga and the priest got into one with two guards. The remainder of the men climbed into the second boat. They fired up the engines and sped into the brightening morning.

  The journey northward lasted nearly ten hours. Seronga and Dhamballa had selected a base that was close to the northeastern edge of the swamp. If it became necessary for Dhamballa to escape, the Barani salt pan and the rugged Tsodilo Hills lay to the west. The relatively unguarded border with Namibia was just a short, fifty-five-mile trip to the north.

  By the time the men reached their destination, the sun was low on the horizon. It shone in long, tawny red streaks beyond the rich green of the plants and trees. The swamp itself was already dark, its surface like an oily mirror. But there was something different about this section from anything the men had encountered before. A low, symmetrical, treeless hill rose from the water. It was approximately twelve acres of black earth, soil topped with a layer of fertile, gray brown humus. Built on the low-lying hill were five thatched huts. The walls were made of thick, slab-cut pieces of baobab tree. The rooftops were interwoven roots sealed with mud. Battery-powered lights were visible through the thatching of the central residence, which was also the largest of the huts. The other, smaller huts contained cots for the soldiers that were stationed here, supplies, additional weapons, communication and video gear, and other equipment that had been brought in by the Belgian.

  Only one structure was radically different from the others on the island. It was an oblong shack about the size of two coffins set back-to-back. Except for the floor, which was made of wood, it was built entirely from corrugated tin. There were iron bars in front and a tin door behind them. The door was open. There was nothing and no one inside.

  The waters to the north and east of the small island had been completely cleared of trees, plants, underwater roots and logs, and other debris. The roof thatching used to complete the huts had come from this effort. The work had been necessary in order to create a 150-foot flight strip for the Belgian's Aventura II 912 ultralight. The small, white, two-seat amphibious aircraft could set down on water or on land. Right now, the needle-nosed airplane sat perfectly still in the lengthening blackness. Beside the plane was the seventeen-and-a-half-foot red cedar canoe that Dhamballa used to leave the swamp. It was covered with a fiberglass tarpaulin to protect it from animals looking for a home. Like the airplane, it sat motionless on the flat surface of the swamp. The sixty
-pound vessel was tied to a post that had been driven into the shore of the island. The pole was actually a small totem of a loa or god. The three-

  foot-high mooring was made of bald cypress that had been carved in the shape of a tornado. The image personified the mighty loa Agwe, the divine force of the sea.

  Two armed guards patroled the island at all times. As Seronga and his team neared the southern shore, the sentries turned bright flashlights on them. Seronga and his men stopped.

  "Bon Dieu," Seronga said.

  "Pass," said a voice as one of the flashlights snapped off.

  Seronga had uttered their password, the name of their guardian deity. One of the guards left to inform Dhamballa that the team had returned.

  The men walked ashore. Seronga quickly removed his boots, watching as the soldier carrying Father Bradbury set him on the shore. The priest fell back, wheezing through the mask, unable to move. The militiaman stood over the prisoner, while another soldier bound his hands. When they were finished, Seronga walked over. He grabbed Father Bradbury under an arm and hoisted him to his feet. The priest's robes were thick with sweat.

  "Let's go," Seronga said.

  "I know your voice," the priest gasped.

  Seronga tugged on the priest's slender arm.

  "You are the leader," the priest continued.

  "I said let's go," Seronga replied.

  Father Bradbury stumbled forward, and Seronga had to hold him up. When the clergyman regained his footing, the men started walking slowly through the warm, soft soil. Seronga directed the priest toward the main hut.

  "I still do not understand," Father Bradbury went on. "Why are you doing this?"

  Seronga did not answer.

  "The mask," Father Bradbury implored. His voice was breathy and weak. "At least won't you remove it?"

  "When I have been instructed to do so," Seronga replied.

  "Instructed by whom?" the priest persisted. "I thought you were the leader."

  "Of these men," Seronga said. He should never have answered the man. Additional information gave him new avenues to poke and prod.

  "Then who are we going to see?" Father Bradbury asked.

  Seronga was too tired to tell the priest to stop talking. They were almost at the hut. Though the Batawana native was leg weary, seeing the hut gave him strength. It was more than just the soft, welcoming glow through the wood slats. He was renewed by the knowledge of who was inside.

  "Forget about me," the priest said. "Have you no fear of God's judgment? At least let me save your soul."

  His soul. What did this man know? Only what he had been taught. Seronga had seen life and death. He had seen Vodun power. He had no doubt about what he was doing.

  "Look to your own soul and your own life," Seronga advised.

  "I have done that tonight," Father Bradbury replied. "I am saved."

  "Good," Seronga told him as they reached the hut. "Now you will have a chance to save the lives of others."

  Chapter Six

  Washington, D. C.

  Tuesday, 10:18 A. M.

  For most of his career, Mike Rodgers had gotten up with the sun. There were soldiers to drill, battles to fight, crises to settle. Lately, however, Rodgers's world had been quiet. There were reports to file about the mission to Kashmir, dossiers to review for possible new Strikers, and endless sessions with Liz Gordon. There was no reason to be in early.

  Also, it was difficult to sleep. That made it damned difficult to get up as early as he once had. Fortunately, the decor and the caffeine at DiMaggio's Joe brought him up to something resembling full speed.

  Rodgers parked and walked toward the building. The rain had stopped. He carried his rolled-up newspaper, whacking it in his open hand. The blows smarted. The general was reminded of basic training, when he was taught how to roll newspaper tightly to form a knife. Another time, the DI showed them how to use a crumpled piece of newspaper or napkin to disable someone. If hand-to-hand combat were inevitable, all a soldier had to do was toss the scrap to one side. An opponent would always be distracted. During that moment-and a moment was all it took-the soldier could punch, stab, or shoot an adversary.

  Rodgers entered the small, brightly lit reception area. A young female guard stood in a bulletproof glass booth just inside the door. She saluted smartly as Rodgers entered.

  "Good morning, General," the sentry said.

  "Good morning," Rodgers replied. He stopped. "Valentine," he said.

  "Go right in, sir," the guard replied. She pressed a button that opened the elevator door.

  Valentine was Rodgers's personal password for the day. It was left on his secure GovNet E-mail pager the night before. Even if the guard had recognized Rodgers, he would not have been allowed to enter if his password did not match what was on her computer.

  Rodgers rode the elevator to the basement. As he stepped out, he bumped into Bob Herbert.

  "Robert!" Rodgers said.

  "Morning, Mike," Herbert said quietly.

  "I was just coming to see you," Rodgers said.

  "To return some of the DVDs you borrowed?" Herbert asked.

  "No. I haven't been in the mood for Frank Capra," Rodgers said. He handed Herbert the Washington Post. "Did you see the article about the kidnapping in Botswana?"

  "Yes. They caught that item upstairs," Herbert told him, refolding the newspaper.

  "What do you make of it?" Rodgers asked.

  "Too early to say," Herbert answered truthfully.

  "The uniforms don't sound like the men were Botswana army regulars," Rodgers went on.

  "No," Herbert agreed. "We haven't had any reports of paramilitary activity in Botswana, but it could be a new group. Some idiot warlord who's going to turn Botswana into the next Somalia. Or the soldiers could be expatriates from Angola, Namibia, any of the countries in the region."

  "Then why take a priest?" Rodgers asked. He was uncharacteristically anxious, tapping a foot and toying with a button on his uniform.

  "Maybe they needed a chaplain," Herbert said. "Or maybe the priest heard someone's confession, and they want to know what was said. Why are you all over this, Mike?"

  "There's something about the size of the group and the timing of the attack that bothers me," Rodgers said. "Why send so many soldiers to kidnap a single, unarmed man? And in daylight, no less. A small squad could have picked him up in the middle of the night."

  "That's true," Herbert agreed. "But you still haven't told me why this is important. Do you know anyone over there? Do you recognize something about the abduction scenario?"

  "No," Rodgers admitted. "There's just something about it-" He did not finish the thought.

  Herbert's eyes were on the general. Rodgers was restless. His eyes were searching, not steady as they usually were. There was an unhappy turn to his mouth. He looked like a man who had put something down and couldn't remember where.

  Herbert flipped over the newspaper and glanced at it. "You know, now you've got me thinking," the intelligence chief said. "If this is a paramilitary unit that's been dormant somewhere, maybe they chose this target as a way of announcing themselves without having to face a firefight. If it's a new group, maybe they wanted to give their people some field experience. Or maybe they just miscalculated how long it would take to get to the church. Didn't that happen to George Washington during the Revolution?"

  "Yes," Rodgers said. "It took him longer to cross the Delaware River than he had expected. Fortunately, the Brits were all asleep."

  "That was it," Herbert said. "So there could be trouble percolating somewhere in southern Africa," Herbert said. He slid the newspaper into the leather pocket on the side of his wheelchair. "I'll make calls to our embassies, see if this smells dangerous to anyone. Find out if there's any additional intel. Meanwhile, Paul was asking if you were in yet."

  Rodgers's expression perked. "Did he hear from the CIOC?" the general asked.

  "I don't know," Herbert said.

  "He would have told you if he had,
" Rodgers said.

  "Not necessarily," Herbert said. "He's supposed to brief his number-two man first."

  "That's according to the Good Book," Rodgers said. The Good Book was what they called the National Grists Management Center Operations Book of Codes, Conduct, and Procedure. The CCP was as thick as the Bible and almost as idealized. It explained how life should be lived in a perfect world.

  "Maybe Pope Paul's found religion after all these years," Herbert said.

  "There's one way to find out," Rodgers said.

  "Go get 'em," Herbert said.

  "I will." The general stepped around the wheelchair. "And thanks for checking out that priest for me."

  "My pleasure," Herbert replied.

  Rodgers threw him a casual salute and started down the hall. It was strange to hear Hood's old nickname after all these years. Press liaison Ann Farris had given it to Hood because of his strict selflessness. Ironically, the name didn't really apply. Early in his tenure, Hood had discontinued adherence to the CCP. He tossed the rule book when he realized that it was the antithesis to intelligence work. All an adversary needed to do was get a copy of the CCP from the government printing office to know exactly what Op-Center was going to do in a given situation. That included enemies outside the country as well as rivals inside the U. S. intelligence community itself. When Hood retired the CCP, his nickname went with it.

  Hood's door was closed when Rodgers arrived. The director's assistant, Bugs Benet, was sitting in a cubicle directly across from the door. Bugs told Rodgers that Hood was on a personal call.

  "I don't expect it to be a long conversation," Benet said.

  "Thanks," Rodgers said. The door was soundproof. Rodgers stood beside it and waited.

  Hood was probably talking to his wife, Sharon. The two had recently reached an agreement on terms for their divorce. From what little Hood had confided to Rodgers, their primary goal now was the rehabilitation of their daughter, Harleigh. The young girl was one of the hostages taken by terrorists at the United Nations. After nearly a half year of intensive therapy, Harleigh was at last beginning to recover from the trauma she had suffered. For weeks after the crisis, she had done little more than cry or stare.