Armed Resistance. Don Pendleton
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a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his neck. “It is blessed hot in this country here and I mean hot, boy! We don’t get anywhere near this kind of humidity in Texas. You hear what I’m saying?”
Bukenya appeared unaffected and instead directed his men to begin their inspection. They fanned out, two covering Hawkins and his entourage with their weapons held loosely at the ready while three more headed for the plane. The inspector nodded to the remaining officer, who ordered them to line up and patted down each man in turn.
Phoenix Force took the entire parade in stride, confident the more cooperative they acted the quicker they could move past this. The men who went aboard the plane cleared Grimaldi from the cockpit first but the pilot gestured toward McCarter to indicate he had a close eye on them. They had no reason to worry since the armory aboard their plane was well concealed in the fuselage and boasted electronic scanning countermeasures developed by Stony Man’s resident cybernetics wizard, Aaron “Bear” Kurtzman. Short of tearing the plane apart, the inspection team wouldn’t even know it existed.
The inspection took less than five minutes—something McCarter noted with interest. He wondered if there hadn’t been a little influence wielded by the Oval Office but dismissed the idea as quickly. It wouldn’t be in their best interest for the U.S. to alert Ugandan officials that Phoenix Force was anything other than who they declared: oil tycoons with a Texas-based petroleum company. The cover seemed adequate considering the large number of such interests in Uganda. The country was a gold mine for trade with U.S. refineries, in particular, and trading continued free of a good many restrictions. Of course the companies that dealt with Uganda paid a premium for that access, so the inspector’s relaxed search of their plane had likely been at the behest of his own government.
“Everything seems to be in order,” Bukenya said. “Do you need me to arrange some transportation into the city or have you made other arrangements?”
A chocolate-brown omnibus arrived before Hawkins could reply, a young man at the wheel with shiny dark skin. He rolled down the window and in perfect English said, “You Joes call for a driver?”
Hawkins rendered a casual wave and then grinned at Bukenya. “We called ahead so our travel arrangements are made.”
“And how long will you be in Uganda, gentlemen?”
“Two days at most,” Hawkins said, mostly because he hoped it was the literal truth.
Bukenya slapped the palm of his hand with Hawkins’s passport, his eyes narrowing a bit; he looked as if he wanted to say something else but finally he returned the passports to each man in turn and bid them farewell in his native language. Bukenya whirled on his heel, barked at his officers and in a minute they were gone.
As soon as McCarter exchanged pass phrases with the omnibus driver, he struck up a conversation while the Phoenix warriors loaded up their gear and climbed aboard. Within a minute they were away from the airport and headed north out of what passed for the bustle of Kampala.
“Where we headed, mate?”
In spite of the more stilted intervals, Kumar’s command of English was good enough that he could be understood. “We can go as far as the border. From there, we will have to go by foot.”
“What about our wheels?” Encizo asked from his position in the seat immediately behind Kumar.
The Sudanese freedom fighter glanced in the rearview mirror. “I have a friend who will pick it up and return it to the station here in Kampala.”
“We’re going to walk from the border?” Hawkins inquired. He let out a whistle and added, “That’s a pretty good hike.”
“My thoughts exactly,” McCarter said. “I don’t know how much you know about our mission here but we’re sort of short on time, bloke.”
“I understand,” Kumar replied. “There is another vehicle that will pick us up near Nimule National Park in my country, which shares its southern tip with Uganda. This is an area with large tourism, and lots of vans like this one, so we should not stand out. We will slip across the border under cover of darkness.”
“How far to the border?” Hawkins asked.
“I believe…um, maybe eighty kilometers.”
“You speak English well,” Encizo said. “You had training?”
“Most of the men in our camp are taught English by the U.S. advisers. We are told these men are from language schools and are permitted in the country to help us with reading and writing.” He chuckled and added, “But we know they are actually from your CIA.”
“Yeah, that’s one of the things that has us concerned,” McCarter said. “You know anything about our man who disappeared or who might have him?”
“It is not strange, this,” Kumar replied. “Americans are always disappearing here. Some just leave and others are killed by wild animals. Some are kidnapped for ransom, perhaps, but not most. Most are tourists and without much money. And they tend to stick to the larger cities. The rest are usually well guarded by police and their own security forces. Your man was known in Khartoum with many friends. I do not think anyone would risk taking him. They fear American retaliation too much these days.”
“That’s good,” Manning muttered. “They should be afraid of that.”
“What can you tell us about this Lord’s Resistance Army?” McCarter asked.
“They are a knife in our side, this much I swear,” Kumar said between clenched teeth. “We have lost many friends and family to these devils. I live now only to serve General Kiir and fight alongside my brothers to defend South Sudan.”
McCarter decided not to mention he wasn’t particularly interested in hearing the rhetoric. He asked, “Is this the first time you’ve come across weapons made in the U.S.?”
Kumar nodded. “As far as I know. I’ve only been allowed into the field in the last year. I work for my brother, Samir, who is leader for our segment. It is actually he who found your guns.”
“When can we meet him?” Hawkins inquired.
“We will see him tonight, later…once we have made it over the border. He waits for us on the other side.”
McCarter reached into the pocket of his suit coat and withdrew the photograph of Jodi Leighton. The CIA still hadn’t heard from their case officer in Khartoum, according to Stony Man’s last update. McCarter wasn’t entirely sure he agreed with the Farm’s theory that if they followed Leighton’s trail it would naturally lead them to the weapons. Things weren’t always so cut-and-dried in the clandestine services, and McCarter had no reason to believe this would be any different. Still, Kiir’s men had way more eyes on the ground than the CIA or Stony Man could hope for; those personal connections were their very best hope to locating the missing agent.
“You ever see this man before?” McCarter said, passing the photograph to Kumar.
The Sudanese fighter took the picture, keeping one hand on the wheel while his eyes bounced between the photograph and the narrow road. He took his time before handing it back to McCarter. “He looks like Joe.”
“Joe?” Manning echoed.
“He is with your CIA.” Something caused Kumar to chuckle. “We called him Joe because that’s what he asked us to call him. He always treated us well, gave us information whenever we asked for it. My brother was not happy when we learned he’d been taken.”
That got McCarter’s attention. “Taken, you…you telling me that you know what happened to this chap?”
“Of course, that is why General Kiir requested you come. Joe was always fair with us. He never showed disrespect to our cause like so many of the CIA before him. He was a different man, a good man. It’s the Lakwena that took him. Most assuredly I tell you this.”
“How did they do it?” Encizo inquired.