ABOVE SOUTHWESTERN UGANDA
THE CIA’s Gulfstream G5 wasn’t a bad way to fly, but it wasn’t the only way. As hard as it was to believe, it had been six months since Rapp had last been on a chopper—freezing his ass off and bleeding all over everything. This time he had no bullet wounds, temperatures were in the high seventies, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He was sitting on the floor of the cabin with his legs hanging out, savoring the hurricane of rotor wash.
He’d been surprised by how enthusiastic Claudia had been about him accepting Nick Ward’s offer, but now he was starting to understand. He’d tackled changing his life with the same all-or-nothing, sheer-force-of-will approach that he brought to everything in life. Maybe that wasn’t the answer here. Maybe trying to turn himself into a devoted family man, bike racer, and gentleman farmer overnight was overly ambitious. Normality wasn’t something he’d experienced since college, and it might be better to ease in.
“We’re coming up on the hospital,” the pilot said over Rapp’s headphones. “I’ll swing around so you can get a good look.”
“Roger that, Fred.”
The deep green of the mountaintop they were skimming suddenly dropped away, leaving hundreds of feet of air beneath his boots. He squinted into the sun as they banked to follow a red scar of a road winding through the valley below.
The terrain wasn’t that different than what surrounded his house in Virginia, though the flora seemed significantly denser. They weren’t far from Bwindi Impenetrable National Park and based on what he was seeing, it was accurately named.
Even at altitude, David Chism’s research campus was hard to miss—a black stain on the otherwise unbroken green of the landscape. A few charred walls were still standing but it didn’t look like it would take much more than a stiff breeze to collapse them. Some of the site had been excavated in what Rapp had been told was a thorough search for bodies. Apparently, a hidden safe room had been found intact but empty.
The takeaway was that Chism and his people hadn’t died in the fire. Based on a couple of eyewitnesses, he would have had to run into the flames and out the back in order to escape. It had been night and the rain was reported as heavy, making it possible for him to reach the forest without being seen. Possible. But plausible?
“You ready to move on, Mitch?”
“Yeah. Nothing much to see. Go ahead and take us into camp.”
The helicopter banked north, heading for one of the tallest peaks in the area. In the distance, Rapp could just make out Lake Edward, which was split about evenly between Uganda and the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
When they reached the mountaintop, Fred Mason swung around in a wide circle. He’d been Rapp’s go-to pilot for a long time and knew that his passenger would want an overview before they set down.
As expected, Scott Coleman had chosen an ideal location for their base of operations. The sides of the mountain were unusually steep and covered in the dense tangle of foliage that was so ubiquitous in the region. The peak, in contrast, was rocky, relatively flat, and contained only a few widely spaced trees. Three choppers were already on the ground and canvas tents of various sizes had been erected, as had solar panels and diesel generators.
Roughly twenty men were setting up equipment, transporting supplies, or had been strategically posted around the clearing. Coleman always ran a tight ship, and this was no exception. It looked like he was only a few hours from having the camp fully online.
Mason landed under the watchful eye of the perimeter guards and Rapp jumped out. Coleman was standing by but didn’t approach, instead waiting for Rapp to emerge from the swirling dust before falling in alongside him.
“Give me a sitrep.”
“We’re in better shape than I would have thought at this point. Twenty-three guys on-site and another twelve en route.”
“Really?” Rapp said, not bothering to hide his surprise. Mercenaries were a dime a dozen, but ones they were willing to work with were rare. Probably no more than fifty worldwide and always booked.
“Yeah. Based on what you told me, I called and asked how much it would cost for them to drop everything and get on a plane. Then I said yes to whatever number they threw at me.”
“Money talks,” Rapp said as they closed in on a large tent near the center of the improvised complex.
“To men, yes. But equipment’s been harder. There’s just not that much in the area.”
“What about the Ugandan government?”
“Ward’s been working on them, but they don’t want military aircraft being seen this close to the DRC. So, they’re happy to run on at the mouth about how supportive they are of this rescue effort but when you try to turn that talk into action you hit a brick wall. It’s not the end of the world, though. We can get by with civilian aircraft. Some of it’s military surplus, so retrofitting weapons and armor isn’t too difficult. Particularly with Ward passing out blank checks.”
“What about this place? Is it secure?”
“We’re mostly counting on natural barriers, but they’re pretty significant. Getting people up the side of this mountain in enough numbers to attack us would be almost impossible. And even if they did manage it, we’d see them coming in plenty of time for a leisurely evacuation. The only way you’re going to hit this place is from the air, and Gideon Auma doesn’t have that capability. You know, other than the fact that they say he can fly and shoot fireballs out of his ass.”
They entered a tent full of communications gear and Coleman fished a couple of Cokes from a cooler before throwing one to Rapp.
“What are we hearing about the US team?”
Coleman dropped into a folding chair and put his feet on a table. “Nada. I’ve talked to my SEAL friends, Delta, you name it. No one knows anything about the operation. Are you sure your information’s good? I’m finding it a little hard to believe a bunch of guys I’ve never heard of just walked into the jungle a few days ago with no support.”
“I hear what you’re saying but I talked to Irene and she seems to think it’s real.”
Coleman frowned and ran a hand through his blond hair. “Okay, then it probably is. But it’d be nice to have a few more details. If we’ve got friendlies wandering around in our operating theater, better to know about it now than after we accidentally shoot them.”
“Have you talked to Dan Lombard about it?”
“The head of Africa Command? That’s your social strata, man. I’m just a simple sailor.”
Rapp pulled out his satellite phone and found the number he’d thought to program in before leaving the Cape.
“General Lombard’s office,” a woman on the other side announced.
“Is he in? This is Mitch Rapp.”
“One moment, please.”
Rapp polished off his Coke and tossed it in the direction of a trash can on the other side of the tent. It bounced off the rim and landed in the dirt.
“Mr. Rapp,” the woman said when she came back on. “The general has asked if he can call you right back. Is this a good number?”
The inflection she gave to the word good suggested she meant secure.
“Yeah. This one’s fine,” he said before disconnecting the call.
“Out?” Coleman asked.
Rapp shook his head. “I don’t think he wants to talk to me on an office phone.”
In less than five seconds, a ringtone sounded and Rapp picked up. “Danny. What the hell’s going on over there?”
“Nothing good. But there are whispers about a certain SEAL you know operating in Uganda.”
“Africa’s full of crazy rumors. What about you? Do you have anyone in Uganda?”
“No, I don’t.”
This time it was the emphasis on I that was telling.
“Who does?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Guess.”
There was a brief pause over the line. “Okay. This is what I’m hearing. Nine American soldiers went into the jungle three days ago with orders to find David Chism.”
“Delta?” Rapp asked.
“I don’t think so. I’ve made a few quiet inquiries and can’t find anyone in special forces who knows anything about this. Word is that all nine men were pulled from different units, but I don’t know which ones.”
“Who’s supporting them?”
“As near as I can tell, no one.”
“Bullshit, Danny. They’re not just standing around in the woods holding their dicks.”
“Look, here’s what I can tell you. I’m not supporting them. The Ugandans sure as hell aren’t supporting them. And, according to my source in military intelligence, they aren’t supporting them. Honestly, this thing stinks to high heaven of the Agency. But now you’re telling me it’s not.”
“Who sent them, then?”
“It sounds like the orders filtered down from on high. How high I can’t say.”
“Shit,” Rapp said quietly.
“That pretty much sums it up.”
“Can you give me a way to contact them?”
“Like I told you, I can’t even give you their names.”
“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough.”
“Don’t break my balls, Mitch. There are nine men who’ve been thrown to the wolves in my backyard. I’ve done everything I can to get involved and come up empty.”
“Okay, then tell me why? What’s the point of sending them in like this?”
“I don’t know. The truth is I don’t know anything anymore. It’s all politics. I can’t take a dump without a written decree from the Oval Office.”
“That’s been going on since we got into this business, Danny.”
“No. It’s different now, Mitch. And I don’t want any part of it. At the end of the month, I’m taking my retirement and heading for the beach. If you’re smart, you’ll do the same.”