Countdown_ The Liberators Part 29

"I hope they can't," Adam replied. He exhaled, despairingly. "My father had slaves, too, though we didn't call them that. Still, that's what they were. I never thought about it back then. About where they'd come from, who missed them at home. Some of them, too, had been with our clan for generations. Those were like family."

Her eyes flashed. "Not pieces of meat like me, you mean?"

"I didn't mean that. What I meant was that the whole thing is wrong. And it took meeting you for me to realize it."

"And what can you or anyone do about it?" she asked.

He lifted both their hands, the ones that were manacled together, for ill.u.s.tration's sake and said, "Now? There's nothing either of us can do now. Maybe someday."

"It's a nice dream, anyway, isn't it?" she replied.

Their walk had taken them by the dock. The dhow was still there, thumping gently against the dock. The crewmen were busily scurrying about, preparing to leave. Their Arabic cries carried across land and water.

As long as I'm dreaming, Adam thought, looking longingly at the dhow, what dream gets me in command of that boat, with the crew doing my bidding, to get the h.e.l.l out of here?

Bribe the crew? Even a.s.suming I can get aboard, they're none too likely to accept me as someone whose family could pay the price. Force the crew? With what? He looked over at the guards. They'd kick my a.s.s, if I tried to grab a rifle, even if they wouldn't just shoot me out of hand. Kill the crew? Even if I had the skills and strength for that, which I don't, I couldn't run the boat. And I've got no teacher to pa.s.s on the skills, even if . . . hmmm. No, I suppose not . . .

Dhuudo, Ophir, D-74

Most likely the slave market of Suakin never would reopen, despite the fervent hopes of some of the people who lived nearby. This didn't mean there was no trade in slaves; there was. In fact, the trade had become quite impressive again across the world. By some estimates there were more slaves on Earth, in absolute numbers, than there had ever been before. To a large extent, those estimates depended for their size upon definitions of slavery that were perhaps a bit too expansive for accuracy's sake. Nonetheless, there were perhaps millions, certainly hundreds of thousands, of slaves kept and used, bought and sold, around the globe that would have met Cato the Elder's definition of a slave: A tool that speaks. Most of these were female, and if they could speak it was not for that ability that their owners valued their mouths.

Still, although female slaves had values that males did not, for most buyers and owners, there was still a market in healthy males.

What's mah bid fo' this fahn, healthy, young buck n.i.g.g.ah? Buckwheat Fulton mentally sneered as the bidding opened on a boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen. Manacled, the boy was black, as was Fulton himself, and had features, like the retired master sergeant, more negroid than the locals who tended to resemble very dark Arabs. On the other hand, in contrast to Fulton, the boy looked absolutely terrified.

Bidding was fierce, unintentionally egged on by a group of whites seated on benches near the low stand on which the auctioneer displayed the wares.

"What the h.e.l.l are they up to?" Buckwheat asked of Wahab, a flick of his chin indicating that he meant the whites.

Wahab shrugged, as if with indifference. If the genital mutilation of the girl in Rako had been an embarra.s.sment, how much moreso this barbarism?

"Some anti-slavery society or other?" he said with a shrug. "A church group? No telling. They collect money then come here to 'ransom' the slaves, which has the side effect of driving the price up, hence making it more profitable to raid for slaves and increasing the number who are taken. Of course . . . what was that?" he asked, after Fulton muttered something or other.

"I said," Buckwheat replied, "'thank G.o.d my multi-great grandpappy got dragged onto that boat.'"

"Oh. Well, anyway, as I was about to say: Of course, given a choice between paying to ransom slaves, thus ensuring more are captured, or using the money to buy arms for the tribes that are the usual victims of the raiders, naturally you western types prefer the least violent and least effective-really, the most counter-productive-approach."

"I suppose they do," Fulton answered. If Wahab understood that Buckwheat had just said that he was not among those who preferred nonviolent and ineffective solutions, the African gave no sign. He did, however, think, And when I pinned general's insignia on you, if I could, I wonder if you might lead us in a war to free the slaves? That would be something. Or to create a country from sc.r.a.ps? It always takes a foreigner to do that, someone not part of or beholden to a clan. When this is all over, you, and I, and Khalid, are going to have a long, long talk.

With a clap of hands, the auctioneer indicated that bidding was over. He pointed toward the group of whites who had been successful in outbidding the poor locals and shoved the slave lightly in their direction. The whites made a great show of huddling around the boy, in the guise of protection, and a greater one of striking off his manacles. One of their number took pictures for posterity's sake or, more likely, to feature in pamphlets designed to raise money. As the whites led the boy off, another slave, female this time and considerably younger than the boy, was mounted on the auction block.

"Come on," Fulton said, standing up. "If I don't get away from here, I'm going to kill somebody."

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO.

It is very rea.s.suring, when confronted by an approaching enemy tank, to know that across one's shoulder is the most modern shoulder fired rocket in existence; or that the man a yard or two away is diligently tracking the tank through the sight of a MILAN or TOW missile . . . But there are times when none of these comforts are within reach, and one has to do the best one can with what is available, and that may not be much.

-Ian Hogg, "Tank Killing"

D-73, a.s.sembly Area Alpha-Base Camp, Amazonia, Brazil

FitzMarcach's face said "doom." First Sergeant George shook his head, doubtfully, as Reilly's finger traced across the map. "They'll murder us, boss," George said. "There's no cover, either getting there or once we are there. We'd be- "

At Lana's knock on the tent pole, Reilly, his exec, and his first s.h.i.+rt both looked up from the map they'd been studying. The diffuse jungle light was still bright enough, in comparison to the tent, to strain the eyes. This caused the Israeli woman to appear more of an outline than a person. Not that it isn't a nice outline, Reilly thought, then mentally added, After the mission, a.s.shole. There'll be time, opportunity, and rightness, then.

There were other outlines, much less distinct, behind Mendes. Reilly thought they were the two South Africans, standing behind her. He repressed the distaste he felt about those two, primarily because they were reasonably discreet about their status and were, in fact, pretty d.a.m.ned good armored car mechanics. Good troops, as a matter of fact. Not their fault, what they are. Then again, not my fault if it makes my skin crawl, either. And if being together helps them push away the solitary nature of life, who am I to criticize?

"Come on in," he said, flattening the map down on the field table between himself and George. "Have a seat . . . err . . . seats," he amended, when his eyes had adjusted well enough to make out Viljoen and Dumisani in detail. Behind them, he saw, were the German, Nagy. and the two Brits, Trim and Babc.o.c.k.

Aha, the foreigners' union, Reilly thought. Well, why not? They're a better mirror than most.

Mendes went right to the point. "We've been talking it up to your men. But it's not working."

"That's not exactly right, baas," Dumisani corrected. "It's working with about two thirds of them, some, anyway. Others are neutral. But there's a smaller number, maybe half a dozen, who are listening to one of them-"

"Adkinson," Viljoen said. "I've seen the type before; chip on his shoulder, big head, tiny brain. Not competent to be in charge of anything big and resentful as h.e.l.l of someone who is. Nasty toxic b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He's even starting to infect your infantry and most of those guys are devoted to you personally. Why the h.e.l.l did you take him on, anyway? Leave aside that he loathes Dumi and me because we're gay . . . or maybe because we're foreign . . . or maybe both. You never should have hired him."

Reilly glanced quickly and guiltily at George, who said, "His record was clean and even pretty good. And he was available. There wasn't any obvious reason for the boss not to take him on. And, yes, I knew he's been a source-okay, okay, the source-of trouble for the last few days."

"Well," Viljoen said, "you would have been better off if he'd been unavailable."

"What's his beef?" Reilly asked.

Viljoen shook his head, not with confusion or doubt but with disgust. "He'll claim he's only concerned about the tanks and the implicit violation of the contract here. It's bulls.h.i.+t; if it hadn't been tanks, it would have been something else. He's just that type."

"Dani is understating the man's abilities," Dumisani said. "He's actually not stupid. He wouldn't be so dangerous if he were. He's fairly clever, in fact, clever enough to hide what he's doing behind care and concern and a sort of bizarre notion of professionalism."

Reilly looked at George. "Why hasn't the sergeants' mess taken care of it?"

The first sergeant chewed at his lip a moment before answering. Rocking his head from side to side, he said, "They're waiting to hear from you. Frankly, they're scared, Boss, scared enough that they're not sure whether to beat Adkinson's a.s.s or join him in a mutiny. You have to talk to them."

Reilly sighed, then brushed fingers through somewhat thinning hair. "Among my many other military failings, Top," he admitted, "is a vast inability to bulls.h.i.+t people. I haven't talked to them about it because I don't have an answer to the problem yet." His finger indicated the map. "None of the options are good. The more I think about them the less good they seem.

"Suppose we hit the tank compound first. Okay we can probably wreck that tank formation. But the more I think about it, the more certain I am that everyone in that village will scatter to the bush and we'll fail the mission. They're going to hear the shooting, after all; the compound's not that far from the village.

"Stauer's already said we can't just take the town and evac everybody by air. He doesn't think we can do it in time even if he gave us the air. Again, the more I think about it, the more I'm inclined to agree.

"I don't think a few light aircraft can do it alone and I don't think I can afford to split our force up either, even if we have air support.

"So I'm stuck. I wish to h.e.l.l that Stauer had ordered the high velocity 60's."

"Oh, sure," Lana said. "Those can penetrate a T-55 right through the front glacis. At pretty fair range, too."

"Mmm . . . yeah." Reilly made it almost a curse. "But we don't have them. What we've got is 90mm soft recoil guns that can-"

"They can kill a T-55," Viljoen said. "I've done it . . . well, with help. But it helps if you can get them from the flanks. I remember the first time we ran into them . . . "

Reilly, Mendes, George, and the rest all stood bent closely over the map. Trim watched, too, but it wasn't really an engineering problem. Babc.o.c.k-Moore seemed distant and distracted, staring up at the tent ceiling when he wasn't staring at the door flap.

Reilly's right index finger drummed the map at a particular spot. "I'll have to clear it with Stauer," he said. "It's a major change to his plan. Major."

"But you can believe in this?" George asked.

"Yes," Reilly answered.

"Then tell the troops."

"As soon as I talk to Stauer." He thought for a moment, then said, "Formation on the airfield, tomorrow morning. Call it eleven hundred hours. And pa.s.s the word to Gordo that I want at least two of his Porters waiting on the airfield at that time. Plus I need him to make a deal with his Guyanan contacts to hold a few people more or less indefinitely.

"Also, Top?"

"Yessir?"

"Identify the dozen or fifteen of the most reliable non-coms and troops we have. Issue them arms and ammunition. Also give me a list of the least reliable people we have."

"Schiebel in charge?" George asked.

"Good choice, yes," Reilly replied.

Trim gave a tight smile and added, "And there I was going to volunteer my sergeant."

Reilly raised an eyebrow and asked, "Why's that?"

D-72, a.s.sembly Area Alpha-Airfield, Amazonia, Brazil

Stauer and Phillie stood off to one side, along with the Sergeant Major. Stauer looked, if anything, jolly, in stark contrast to Joshua's scowl. Phillie was beginning to believe that the sergeant major had been scowling so long it had become his natural facial expression.

On the other side of the field two Pilatus Porters thrummed softly, their engines idling. Behind the Porters Reilly stood, centered on the airstrip's perforated steel surface. Mendes stood beside Reilly, along with the two South Africans, and what looked to be about a dozen armed men, close behind.

Stauer asked of Joshua, "Is he f.u.c.king her, do you think?"

Phillie blushed, just slightly. The Sergeant Major's scowl simply deepened. "Nope," he said, shaking his head. "He might have, before she signed on with us. Now? Not a chance."

Stauer nodded and agreed, "Yeah, you're most likely right."

"It's not like she wouldn't say 'yes' in a heartbeat," Phillie said, softly.

"What's that?" Stauer asked.

"Oh . . . it's written all over her face. She wants him bad. A woman can tell these things, you know."

"But he wears a wedding ring," Stauer objected.

"You might be surprised how little that can matter," Phillie said. She didn't offer to elaborate.

Before Stauer could enquire-which is to say, pry-further, they heard George's voice through the trees, counting off the simple cadence: "One, two, three, four . . . left, right, left . . . left, right, a-left." Some of the troops began to sing the company song before the first sergeant cut them off with, "Shut the f.u.c.k up, G.o.ddammit. It's not a singing occasion."

"Is he going to shoot somebody?" Phillie asked. "I mean he's got those armed men . . . " Her voice trailed off. It was pretty horrible even to think about.

"Only if necessary," Joshua answered, completely tonelessly. Phillie looked over at his face and saw that, remarkably, his scowl had disappeared, replaced by something that was almost a smile. She asked about that.

"I love to see a master at work," Joshua answered. The sergeant major went quiet then, watching through narrowed eyes as George gave the commands to maneuver the company into a position centered on Reilly. He was no more capable of failing to evaluate even the simplest military evolution than a politician was capable of keeping his word or speaking the truth when a lie would serve better.

Phillie noticed that the engines of the Porters began to cut out as the company approached the runway. She asked about that.

"He considers it 'poor art' to actually have to raise his voice to a shout," Joshua explained.

"Do you know what the problem is?" Stauer asked Phillie. "I mean the real problem?"

She just shook her head.

"In any company, in any army in the world," he began to explain, "there are about, oh, anywhere from half a dozen to at most a dozen people who really make things work. I mean the real go getters, the ones you can completely rely on. Those guys, and girls sometimes, make up the real chain of command."

"The difference between a good company and a bad one is often how closely that real chain of command mirrors the legal and official chain of command. If all the real movers and shakers are, say, privates or junior noncoms, it can put a company into a state of unofficial civil war in a heartbeat.

"I've seen a company where the real commander, the man everyone turned to for guidance, was a staff sergeant on crutches."