Countdown_ The Liberators Part 7

Stauer rubbed his jaw, considering. "It has a certain elegance to it, I admit," he said.

"And we can train them as ground crew in the time between finis.h.i.+ng a.s.sembly and crossing the line of departure for the mission," Cruz said. "We can add armaments aboard s.h.i.+p."

"But what about the runway. These planes . . . ?"

"Czech designed CH 801's," Cruz supplied. "They're basically Fieseler Storchs, if you're curious."

"Right. Czech. They'll still need some s.p.a.ce to take off."

"Four hundred feet or so, with full loads," Cruz said. "Well, really less because they'll start off well above the sea and moving into the wind . . . but four hundred to be safe."

"So I suggest a container s.h.i.+p," Kosciusko said. "We pile the containers high to get over any masts, or cut the masts to drop them, then lay PSP or AM-2-"

"AM-2 is better," Cruz said.

"No doubt," Gordo agreed, "but I can get an unlimited supply of PSP"-perforated steel planking, or Marsden Matting; it was used to lay airfields essentially overnight- "in the Philippines. World War Two leftovers, and in as good a shape as the day it was delivered to the islands. They use it for fencing down there."

"What about the choppers?" Stauer asked.

Gordo answered, "Russian Hips. Used, I can get as many as you want for under two million a copy."

"And we can pile the containers in such a way as to leave s.p.a.ces for the Hips to land in," Cruz offered. "Then we cover them with tarps. From the surface, n.o.body will see s.h.i.+t, and from the air . . . well, camouflage is a wonderful thing. Same deal with the landing craft; we load them in by the sides, build container sized frames to hold them, and cover them with tarps. Or cover them with cut out container sections."

"But who can fly Hips?"

"Besides an infinity of eastern Europeans," Cruz said, blowing on and then buffing fingernails on his s.h.i.+rt, "I can. Exchange program to Kremenchug Flight College, back in the mid-nineties."

"You have a line on recruiting some eastern Euros, then?" Stauer asked.

"Guy who taught me is living not so large in Tver," Cruz said. "Goes by the name of Borsakov, Artur Borsakov. He's pus.h.i.+ng seventy, was a colonel, as a matter of fact, in the Soviet-Afghan War . . . early in the war. He can round up the other pilots, crew chiefs, and whatever mechanics we need. I figure we can pick up the two choppers Gordo found, enough spare parts, the ground crews, and fly the whole a.s.sembly to link up with the s.h.i.+p somewhere around Vladivostok. Or anywhere else, really."

"We need two," Stauer said. "That means that unless we have at least three we will end up with one working."

"I can get a third," Gordo said. "I told you, 'as many as you want.' You want the water float kits installed?" he asked Cruz.

"How much?" Stauer asked, even though the question wasn't directed at him.

"Another seventy-five thousand over and above the five point one million for the Hips. And Mike's going to need funds to buy spares once Borsakov identifies which spares we really need."

Stauer looked the question at Cruz.

"We're gonna fly off of and then to and from a s.h.i.+p; the floats would make sense," Cruz said. "s.h.i.+t often goes wrong, ya know?"

"All right," Stauer agreed. "And the s.h.i.+p?"

Gordo scowled. "For reasons beyond my ken," he said, "s.h.i.+pping costs are much higher than what I expected them to be. At least for the size we want they are. I recommend leasing one."

Stauer turned to Wahab and asked, "Will your chief go for a lease?"

Wahab liked Stauer immeasurably. He appreciated, too, what the American was trying to do for him, his people, and his leader. But he was a little miffed that all this conversation, all this planning, all this spending of his chief's money, had been discussed almost as if he weren't there. He pushed the feeling and the thought away. I am not here for pride's sake, but for my people's.

"What's the cost of purchase?" Wahab asked Gordo.

"For what we want, anywhere from eighteen to sixty million USD."

"And to lease one for . . . what, three months?"

"Much less than the figures I gave you. Maybe a million, two hundred thousand, if we can get a three-month charter. Four or five million if we have to go for a year. I haven't asked for a quote yet but we are talking a small fraction, and we can always sublease any time we haven't used."

Wahab turned his facer to Stauer. "Lease one, Wes. We're already getting over fifty million in known, planned costs, and those are only so far. Sixty million for a s.h.i.+p will send my chief over the edge."

Stauer grimaced. "One advantage to buying, as opposed to leasing, is that you can get the money back on a purchase, but the lease is just lost. Still . . . you're the boss."

"Just his representative," Wahab corrected. Though I appreciate the honorific.

"What about the sub and the patrol boat?" Stauer asked.

"We've got a couple of issues there," Gordo said. "The patrol boat's no problem; I've already contracted with the Finnish company that owns it for Biggus d.i.c.kus to take delivery next week."

Gordon was no fool. Stauer said 'you're the boss' because he is the paymaster, and we'd better keep him happy. To Wahab he said, "The purchase price on the boat was so low I figured I'd better jump on it. Hope that's okay."

"Sure, Mr. Gordon," Wahab agreed. He only said that because Stauer dropped the hint.

"It's unarmed, of course," Gordo continued, "but we can fix that later, after Terry springs Victor from durance vile. And Biggus doesn't need an armed boat anyway.

"The sub, however . . . well, I narrowed it down to two that would do, one of which is perfect and not particularly expensive. That one's in Croatia."

"Problem is, Wes, that the Croatian one is still military. Well . . . naval. It's one of those Yugoslav-built commando carriers. Plastic, don't you know. But because it's military, buying it would raise questions and attract attention. Neither of which we want."

"Right" Gordo sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he handed it over to Stauer.

"A minisub painted up in killer whale motif?" Stauer asked, pa.s.sing the sheet over to Wahab, who looked and shrugged.

"Mmmm . . . yeah. It used to be military, Swedish, but has been sold and resold enough to drop off the screens. Sea Shepherd owned it for a while, hence the paint scheme. Less than half a million bucks and capable of getting a couple of Biggus's boys to the harbor where they can mine the other side's boats."

"Right," Stauer said. "Orca the friendly killer sub it is. Now what about the a.s.sembly and training area?" That question was directed to Wahab.

"My chief will pay for the smaller one in Brazil," Wahab said, "but he insists on retaining owners.h.i.+p." He looked embarra.s.sed when he added, "Yes, I know he agreed that the a.s.sets purchased would be part of your fee, but this is land and the land's a lot of money. A ruler in Africa never knows when he's going to need five thousand square kilometers of jungle on another continent to hide in."

Stauer kept his face blank, even as he thought, Go ahead and break your agreement with me, Khalid. Don't be too surprised if I don't keep to all the fine points concerning my agreement with you.

While Stauer was thinking that, Boxer reminded himself, Brief Wes that Khalid has probably stolen and stashed away something between two and three billion dollars. Might help his-our-bargaining position.

"Keeping supplied up there?" Stauer asked Gordo, changing the subject.

"The same landing craft you're planning to use for the a.s.sault. Or . . . "

"Or?"

Gordo reached into another pocket and pulled out another sheet of paper. This he also handed to Stauer. "Or we can buy a hovercraft. Frankly, if you really need the landing craft, and you do, we'd wear them out making constant runs up and down the Amazon. Might lose one, too. This"-his finger indicated the sheet of paper-"can deliver a couple of tons every three days. That's enough, if we bring the heavy s.h.i.+t in initially by landing craft, and purify our own water, to supply us in the middle of nowhere, Amazonia."

Stauer thought about that. No . . . no. A hovercraft operating on the Amazon daily is going to attract attention from the Brazilian authorities . . . and they're borderline paranoid. Besides, I don't know where to get a hovercraft crew we could trust. They're just not that common.

"No hovercraft," he told Gordo. "Think of something else."

"Oh, well, just a thought," Gordo said. "If no hovercraft then we can use the mix of the landing craft, the Hips, and maybe some fixed wing, since we're buying a couple of Pilatus PC-6's, anyway. And I can charter some Brazilian river craft. The engineers can hack out a strip and I can order some extra PSP from the Philippines. h.e.l.l, maybe that will work better." Gordo frowned momentarily. "No, I'd better order the extra PSP from Calumet in the States. More expensive but we'll get it sooner."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Development aid is one of the reasons for Africa's problems. If the West were to cancel these payments, normal Africans wouldn't even notice. Only the functionaries would be hard hit.

Which is why they maintain that the world would stop turning without this development aid.

-James s.h.i.+kwati, Kenyan economist

D-149, N'Djamena-Abeche "Highway," Chad

"Oh, G.o.d," moaned Adam, seated between Abdi and Gheddi, "what is this?" The boy covered his mouth and nose with his hands and began to cough and sneeze from the thick dust that swirled around the bus. His kidneys were in agony from the pounding they'd taken from the combination of bad shocks and worse road.

"I believe this is called 'foreign aid,'" Labaan answered.

The captive looked confused, and from more than the aftereffects of the drugs he'd been given.

"Foreign aid," Labaan repeated, with a sneer. "You know: When guilty-feeling Euros and Americans sh.e.l.l out money, ostensibly to help the people, but the money all ends up in the hands of sundry corrupt rulers and their relatives?"

"I don't . . . "

"Understand?" Labaan stood up and, using the bus seats to hold himself erect against the bouncing, walked to the rear where Adam sat. Abdi moved over to open a s.p.a.ce for Labaan to sit.

"We are travelling on what is supposed to be an all-weather, asphalt highway. Money was budgeted for it, no doubt by a consortium of Europeans and Americans, governmental and nongovernmental, both. No doubt, too, a generous provision for utterly necessary bribes was built in to every bid . . . well, except maybe for the Americans. For that matter, probably no American concerns bid on the project, since their government is death on paying bribes if they catch someone at it. Such an unrealistic people."

If ever someone wore a smile that was three-fourth's sadness, that someone was Labaan. "Now let me tell you what happened with all the money that was supposed to go for the road. First, some very high ranking people in this country took the twenty or so percent that was factored into the bids for bribery. Then someone important's first cousin showed up, waved some official looking papers, sprouted something in the local language that the contractor couldn't understand. Then, in really excellent French, that cousin explained all manner of dire probabilities and suggested he could help. That cousin was then hired as a consultant. He was never seen again, except on payday.

"An uncle then showed up, in company with four hundred and thirty-seven more or less distant family members, every one of which was hired and perhaps a third of which showed up for work on any given day, except for payday."

The bus's right front tire went into a remarkably deep and sharp pothole, causing the metal of the frame to strike asphalt and Labaan to wince with both the nerve-destroying sound and the blow, transmitted from hole to tire to almost shockless suspension to frame to barely padded and falling apart seat to him.

"A guerilla chieftain," he continued, once the pain had pa.s.sed, "perhaps of no particular relations.h.i.+p to the ruling family, then arrived, offering to provide security with his band of armed men. He was, at first, turned down. And then several pieces of heavy construction equipment burned one night. The guerillas were quickly hired. They never showed up either, except for their leader, at payday, but no more equipment was burned.

"Then came the tranzis, the Transnational Progressives, average age perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two, and knowing absolutely nothing about road construction. Indeed, most of them wouldn't have even known what it meant to work. Rich boys and girls, trust fund babies, out to feel good about themselves by saving the world. They filled up every hotel room and hired the few competent, and critical, local engineers to do important things like act as chauffeurs and translators."

The bus had now arrived at a washboard section of the road. Labaan kept speaking, but the steady thumpkareechsp.r.o.ng of the road and bus made his words warble almost as much as a helicopter pilot's over a radio.

"More cousins came, and they, of course, had to be hired as consultants, as well.

"At about this time, the accountant for the project arrived and explained that it could no longer be done to the standard contracted for. The substrate began to suffer and the thickness of the road to be reduced. The demands for money, for the hiring of spurious workers and spurious services, never ended. With each mile of road, that substrate became less to standard and that surface became thinner."

Labaan shook his head. "And then came the first rain . . . "

At that moment, both front tires went into a large, more or less linear hole, adding the screech of metal as the fender twisted to all the more usual sounds.

"As I said: 'Foreign Aid.' And it doesn't matter a whit whether it come from NGOs, quangos, governments, or rock stars; it never does a bit of good. Never. Fifty-seven billion United States dollars come to Black Africa every year in aid, official and unofficial, Adam. Fifty billion is deposited to foreign accounts by our rulers."

D-148, nearing Abeche, Chad

"f.u.c.king foreigners!" the bus driver exclaimed. The bus began to slow as the driver applied brakes. Pretty much unconstrained by asphalt at that point, a cloud of dust billowed upward.

"What is it?" Labaan asked. He didn't wait for an answer because when he looked out the large front window he saw half a dozen armed "men" standing in the road.

Labaan wasn't leader of the team merely for his age. "Abdi, Gheddi, get low, take your submachine guns, exit the back door. I don't think they'll see you with all the dust."

Abdi and Gheddi quickly pulled zippers, opening their cylindrical carry-on bags and removed from them submachine guns which already had magazines loaded in the pistol grips. Crouching low, they scooted to the rear door of the bus and twisted the handle to open it. One after the other they oozed out to the ground, hit, and rolled. In the dust raised by the bus they were not noticed. Gheddi took the time to run after the slowing vehicle to shut and partially lock the door behind them.

Like his subordinates, Labaan opened the small carry-on bag at his feet and removed a firearm, in his case a pistol. He looked to the opposite side of the bus and saw that Delmar was doing the same. Both men held their weapons low, where they wouldn't be seen until the last minute. "Delmar, you work from the rear," Labaan added, "I'll work from the front."

"What is it?" Adam echoed Labaan, except that the captive sounded hopeful.

"Guerillas, rebels, bandits . . . hard to say. Driver?"

"I don't know that there is any difference," said the driver without turning his head. He continued to apply the brakes until the bus came to a full stop amidst a self-generated cloud of dust and a concert of squealing brake pads and rus.h.i.+ng air.

"And don't think they're here to rescue you, boy," Labaan said. "Look at the scruffy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They don't even know of your existence."

The bus door opened. Three "men" boarded, all in civilian clothes. One carried a Kalashnikov. The other two had bolt action rifles of considerable antiquity. The rifles were longer than their bearers, who looked to be twelve or thirteen years old. The Kalashnikov carrier seemed older, perhaps nineteen or twenty. All were dirty, shoeless, and in near rags. And the weapons looked worse than they did. With the bus so close to the three who remained outside, Labaan couldn't see the tops of their heads, though he could see rifle muzzles pointed at the driver. More children, he a.s.sumed. The three on board joked and laughed among themselves in a language Labaan didn't know.