SOUTHWESTERN UGANDA
LIEUTENANT Jeremiah Grant wasn’t sure if his current situation was best described as a shit show or a clusterfuck. But it was one of those for sure. In fact, he’d never been so sure of anything in his life.
It had all started out so well. He could still feel his initial elation at being put in command of this operation. Naïve wasn’t a word he’d generally use to describe himself but, like clusterfuck, it fit perfectly. Of that, he was also dead certain.
Dead. Another word that would likely come in handy soon.
In his defense, being told that the president of the United States had personally requested his involvement in a critical mission was something he’d fantasized about since his G.I. Joe days. Virtually overnight, he found himself transferred to the big leagues. The leader of the free world had entrusted him with protecting God, country, and apple pie. One day, he might even find himself getting a medal hung around his neck in the Oval Office. He could almost picture the adoring faces of his friends and family as they watched.
The delusions of grandeur had faded quickly, though, leaving him with nothing but hard, ugly reality. While he had distinguished himself to some extent in both Iraq and Afghanistan, why would the new commander in chief have any idea who he was? And why would anyone pick an infantryman who had spent his combat career in the desert for this operation?
The pickup that Grant was riding in hit a particularly deep rut, nearly bouncing him from its rusty bed. Once stabilized, he went back to scanning the deep green of the surrounding mountains. There were probably more trees over one hundred square yards in Uganda than in the entire country of Afghanistan. He had virtually no experience fighting in this kind of terrain. He didn’t even have experience living in it. Arizona born and bred.
Grant turned his attention to the men sitting around him and wondered if they shared his background. Because he honestly didn’t know. He’d never fought with any of them and questions were very much discouraged. This wasn’t the Middle East. This was secret agent shit.
One thing was obvious: they were all around the same age and outfitted in a mix of eco-touristy, off-the-shelf outdoor gear that would briefly—very briefly in his estimation—fool a local into thinking they were there to snap photos. What wasn’t obvious is that all had M17 pistols hidden beneath their shirts and HK MP7s in their packs. In case things got ugly. Which he’d bet his meager life savings was exactly what was going to happen.
In the end, the situation was crazy and stupid, but not overly complicated. Four days ago, some egghead scientists may or may not have fled into the jungle when they’d been attacked by a psycho who thought he was God. The psycho in question had men—and children, apparently—searching for them, likely in hopes of securing a fat ransom. The Ugandan government didn’t want to get involved because they were afraid of psycho-guy as well as not wanting to piss off the Congolese. And the Americans couldn’t roll in a force of a few hundred men from Africa Command for political reasons that he didn’t fully understand.
Like the situation, the mission was also equal parts crazy, stupid, and straightforward. Starting from a burned-out hospital, he would lead his eight men into the jungle, dodge an unknown number of armed cult members, and find these scientists who, after four days, were almost sure to be dead. Further, he was to do this with no outside support and intel that could be summed up as “it’s two white guys and a Chinese chick. You can’t miss them.”
Piece of cake.
As he scanned the faces of his men, Grant felt his cynicism grow. He’d given money to the president’s campaign and his wife had actually volunteered to help get the vote out. Did that have something to do with him being there? Did the men around him have similar stories? Because this was clearly the purview of a SEAL team or Delta or some of those crazy recon Marines. Men who had trained together, who specialized in these kinds of ops, and who had experience in this kind of terrain.
Did the White House figure he was so blinded by the radiance of Anthony Cook that he wanted to get his ass shot off? If so, they needed to think again. He’d supported Cook because the entire US political system needed an enema and he was the best bet at making that happen. The man wasn’t the second coming, though. Just a politician who was maybe a little more competent and less sleazy than the others.
Or maybe not.
The vehicle began to slow, and Grant looked over the cab at the remains of something that only a few days ago had been a research facility funded by none other than Nicholas Ward. It wasn’t much more than a burned-out ruin now, but the forest behind it was barely even singed. Based on the information he had, the fire had been set in a rainstorm that kept it from spreading. It seemed likely that Chism had been inside at the time and, as far as Grant was concerned, his barbecued corpse probably still was.
They stopped in what appeared to have been the parking lot and everyone climbed out.
“This is the place,” their local guide said, raising his index finger toward the jungle to the east. “They would have had to escape to the—”
“Don’t point,” Grant said, assuming they were being watched. “Now get your gear together. I want to be out of here in ten minutes.”
He looked around him at basically nothing. There was no reason for any of the facility’s employees to return. There was nothing left that would interest looters. And the Ugandan responders had pronounced the debris free of bodies days ago. Gideon Auma’s men were still in the area, though, taking the long-shot bet that the scientists were alive and out there somewhere.
His men had donned their packs and were similarly examining the tangled forest that they were about to wade into. Grant motioned them to the other side of the lot, away from their guide.
“Are we good?” he said when they formed around him.
All looked at each other, waiting for someone to say something. Finally, a man to Grant’s right spoke up.
“What the hell are we doing here?”
“I don’t think I understand the question…” He almost said “soldier” but managed to catch himself. This clandestine bullshit wasn’t his thing.
The man—his man—pointed to the tree line. “There could be a battleship twenty feet away in there and we’d walk right by it. Do you have some kind of intel that we don’t know about? Because, if so, I’d like to hear it. I’d like to hear that our plan isn’t to wander around a hundred square miles of jungle hoping to bump into three scientists everyone knows are dead.”
“We’ve all received the same briefing,” Grant said.
“Then we are officially the most expendable sons of bitches on the planet.”
“Were you ordered to take this mission?” Grant said.
“No. I—”
“Then stow it.”
They fell silent for a few seconds, likely all lost in the same thoughts. Finally, another of his men nodded toward their guide. “What do we know about him?”
This one wasn’t as fiery as the other. His tone was calm, and he had eyes that seemed to take in everything they passed over. Grant had a good intuition for men, and this was one who could be counted on. He’d remember that if—when—this thing blew up in their faces.
“Not much.”
“He looks like he’d slit his own mother’s throat for eight bucks.”
Grant had come to roughly the same conclusion. He assumed that the intelligence side of this op—if that was indeed the correct word to use—had discovered that reputable tour companies tended not to operate in the same areas that Gideon Auma did. And that had left them scraping the bottom of the barrel for an asshole who probably spent more time guiding poaching expeditions than photographic ones.
“We’ll let him take point,” Grant said. “That way we can keep an eye on him.”
That didn’t seem to make anyone feel better.
“I have something else to say,” his thoughtful man said. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Go ahead.”
“Being expendable doesn’t bother me. I knew I was expendable the day I walked into the recruiting office. But this is different. I feel like we’ve been set up to fail and now we’re being led to slaughter. Nicholas Ward got his panties wadded up about losing his people and he promised some politician a bunch of campaign donations if he sent a rescue mission. And that politician said ‘Sure, why not? We’ll send a few dumbasses to Africa to put on a show. And when they’re all dead, you can send over a check.’ ”
“Your point?” Grant said.
His man thought about the question for a moment, either not registering that it was rhetorical or choosing to ignore the fact.
“If I’m gonna die out here, I don’t want to die a chump. When I go down, I at least want you assholes to know I did it with my eyes open.”
The rest of the men grumbled in agreement. Grant remained silent for a long time, finally speaking at a level that wasn’t much more than a whisper.
“What I say next doesn’t ever get repeated. Does everyone understand? This goes to your grave.”
Nods all around.
“We’re going to wander around in the woods for a few days. We’ve got no choice in that. But I’m refocusing the primary objective of our mission.”
“To what?” one of them asked.
“To us surviving. And if in the process we trip over David Chism alive, then great.”
“And if we don’t?” someone asked.
“Then fuck him.”