Rogue Assault Read online

“While you were...what’s the story? Handcuffed to the airplane’s landing gear?”

  “It’s true, I swear!”

  “You were armed, were you not?” Camara asked.

  Another nod. “I was, but I am not a gunman. Suddenly, a man was there with a machine gun, telling me to drop my pistol. What else could I do?”

  “You could have killed him, or died trying,” Camara said. “But instead, you helped them steal my merchandise.”

  “ No, sir! I did not help them! You must see, I had no choice!”

  “And once again, I say, you had the choice to die,” Camara answered. “What would they have done without you? Drag five hundred kilos of cocaine to the beach and swim away with it?”

  “I did not think.”

  “I see that,” Camara said. “These two men. You say that one was African, the other white, perhaps American.”

  The pilot nodded rapidly, eager to please.

  “What else did you observe?”

  “Sir?”

  “Their vehicle, for instance, when they left the airfield. Did you see it?”

  “There was no opportunity.”

  “Or you were frightened. Maybe kept your eyes closed when you could have seen it?”

  Furious head-shaking. “No, no, no!”

  Camara sighed. “All right, then. I believe we’re finished here.” Half turning to the pair of soldiers who stood waiting by his office door, he said, “The farm for this one.”

  They moved to flank the pilot, took his arms and started leading him away. Wild eyes, the pilot babbled at Camara. “Farm, sir? What is the farm?”

  “Your final destination,” Camara said. “Give Gustave Junior my regards.”

  “Gustave? I don’t—”

  Then he was gone, for good. It would be a short drive to the small plantation southeast of Bissau, which Camara had converted into a crocodile farm. The hides were sold for expensive boots and other items, but the farm also provided a disposal system for those inconvenient bodies that Camara had on hand from time to time. Gustave Junior was the prize of his collection, a fourteen-foot Nile crocodile he had named for Burundi’s notorious man-eater, the original Gustave. Always hungry, he helped Camara rid himself of six to eight men in an average year.

  One minor problem solved, but that still left the latest in a string of major headaches. With a second shipment lost, hauled off to who-knew-where, Camara would be forced to answer for it. And he knew the general wouldn’t be amused.

  Headquarters of the Forces Armées de Guinée-Bissau,

  Bairro Militars

  CAPTAIN ABDOUL LOUA felt zero apprehension as he presented himself to General Diallo’s receptionist and waited for confirmation of his appointment. The summons had been sudden, but not unexpected. With so much happening in Bissau and environs, Loua had known it was only a matter of time before the Special Intervention Force became involved.

  And he was looking forward to the action.

  The FIE, as it was known—for its Portuguese name, Força de Intervenção Especial—wasn’t a typical police department. And although attached to the Guinea-Bissauan army and commanded directly by General Diallo, it wasn’t a military police force either. It fell somewhere between the two, in a murky gray area where politics and law enforcement mingled, a paramilitary team theoretically created to deal with major crimes and threats to national security, but lately employed more often to defend criminal allies of the army’s general staff.

  Which troubled Captain Loua not at all.

  He was a warrior, first and foremost, giving little thought to which side he supported in a given conflict, as long as he was on the winning side. This day, in Loua’s homeland, that meant backing General Diallo and the army in whatever course of action they pursued. If it included executing meddlers from the Judicial Police or riding shotgun on drug shipments from Colombia, so be it.

  The receptionist escorted Captain Loua from the waiting room to General Diallo’s private office. Snapping to attention in the presence of his ultimate commander, Loua held his sharp salute until it was returned, then stood rigid in his place until Diallo said, “À vontade.” Relaxed into the at-ease stance, hands clasped behind his back, Loua waited to hear his next assignment.

  “You are aware of the disturbances Bissau has suffered recently,” Diallo said, not making it a question.

  “Yes, General.”

  “I’ve learned that one of those responsible for the disruption is an officer of the Judicial Police. Does that surprise you, Captain?”

  Loua considered it, then said, “It does, General. They normally do nothing.”

  General Diallo smiled at that, then said, “It seems that some of them, at least, are changing. We must locate this officer. You must locate him. Capture him for questioning, if possible. If not...kill him.”

  “Yes, General. His name?”

  “Nilson Medina.” As he spoke, Diallo slid a piece of paper toward Loua, across his massive desk. “You’ll find his address and some other details here, although I don’t expect he’ll be at home.”

  “I’ll find him, General.”

  “The search must be discreet, but still effective,” Diallo stated. “Choose the best half dozen men available. Keep me advised. Dismissed!”

  Captain Loua stood at attention and saluted once again, then pivoted precisely on his heel and marched out of Diallo’s office. It wasn’t the most exciting mission he had ever been assigned to, but at least it was a start. When he had found this rogue policeman and interrogated him, obtained the names of his superiors and sponsors, there would be more work ahead.

  Wet work. The kind Loua liked best.

  If he succeeded, he would once again have proven himself to General Diallo. It might even earn him a promotion, if he did the job quickly enough and the results were satisfactory.

  And if he failed? Loua dismissed that prospect from his mind without a second thought.

  He would succeed because his life depended on it, and he loved his work.

  Ministry of Justice, Estrada da Granja do Passube, Bissau

  “THERE WAS A RENTED BOAT,” Captain Joseph Mansaré said. “Its owner must be able to describe the man or men who hired it. If he lies about it, bring him in for further questioning.”

  “Yes, sir,” his aide replied. “I’ll send the word at once.”

  “No,” Mansaré said. “Go yourself. I want your own impressions of the man and what he saw.”

  Before his young lieutenant reached the office door, Mansaré’s phone rang, clamoring for his attention. Scowling as he snatched up the receiver, he snapped out, “Olá!”

  “This is the last time I will trouble you,” a familiar voice stated.

  Mansaré glanced in the direction of his office door, relieved to find it shut. Even so, he dropped his voice an octave as he replied, “I’m not the one who’s troubled. If you ask the army, now, the answer may be different.”

  “I’m trying to avoid them, for the moment,” Nilson Medina said.

  “That may soon become more difficult,” Mansaré cautioned.

  “I expect so. Have they mobilized the FIE yet?”

  “We’re not privy to such orders at the ministry, but it would hardly come as a surprise.”

  “There will be inquiries about me,” Medina said, “if they have not started yet.”

  “Camara misses you, I know that much,” the captain answered. “And I understand that someone from the ministry of the interior has asked for information about any undercover operations we may have in place.”

  “Were you approached?” Medina asked.

  “Not yet. I would deny it all, regardless. Those people do not frighten me.”

  “They should, Captain. They will stop at nothing.”

  “And you, my friend? What
will you stop at?”

  “I’m still learning,” Medina told him. “We intercepted a shipment of cocaine, one to replace that which was lost last night.”

  “Edouard must be having fits,” Mansaré said. “I wish that I could see it.”

  “You should leave the city,” Medina told him. “Take your family and get away.”

  “With what excuse?”

  “Pick anything you like. Before we’re finished...well, the general may be desperate.”

  “These seem to be desperate times,” Mansaré said. “But honestly, what are you hoping to achieve?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Medina. “Something. Anything. Expose the full depth of corruption.”

  “Ah. It hardly qualifies as secret, would you say?”

  “Not to our people. To the world. Perhaps they will be forced to act at last.”

  “And then what?” Mansaré asked. “We become the new Somalia, with so-called peacekeepers and secret operations by the CIA?”

  “We have no plans for afterward,” Medina said.

  “You have no plans. But what about your new friend?”

  “He is here to do a job. The same we would have done if law and order stood for anything in Guinea-Bissau.”

  Mansaré knew any further argument was futile—and, in fact, he found himself agreeing with Medina to a point, although the bloodshed troubled him. Particularly when he thought his own blood might be added to the spillage. But if no one ever took a stand, if those who swore an oath to law were satisfied with simply going through the futile motions, then what difference was there between established government and anarchy?

  “You said this is the last I’ll hear from you?”

  “There likely won’t be time or opportunity to speak again,” Medina said.

  “But if there is, if you need anything...feel free to let me know.”

  “Goodbye, Captain,” Medina said. And he was gone.

  * * *

  THEY CHOSE THE AIRSTRIP west of Bissau on a whim, a little taste of in-your-face defiance for the hell of it. Medina reckoned that the pilot they’d released would wind up there, and it appeared his guess was accurate. Same Beechcraft Model 99, according to the number stenciled on its rear fuselage, none the worse for wear after its hijacking. There were no cops or other guards around it on the tarmac, nothing to suggest surveillance was in place. The drugs were gone, the flyboy would have been debriefed by now, and might be lying in a shallow grave if Edouard Camara was distraught enough to shoot the messenger.

  Whatever.

  There was no good reason to destroy the plane, but when Medina raised the possibility, Bolan had gone along with it. Why not? Replacing the plane with a modern equivalent model—say the Beechcraft Super King Air—would cost Camara six to eight million dollars, depending on where he went shopping. One more heavy blow to both his war chest and mobility, and all that it would cost the Executioner was one five-pound RPG round.

  They sat two hundred yards back from the target, perched on a ridge that let Bolan aim his launcher without firing through the airfield’s chain-link fence. The Beechcraft had been parked off to the west of the control tower, facing the wire, like a rude student forced to go sit in the corner of his classroom. Camara had no further use for the plane at this moment, no cargo for it to retrieve or transport, and soon he’d be denied his wings entirely.

  Loading the launcher as he stood beside the Peugeot, Bolan asked Medina, “Did your captain take you seriously?”

  “Yes and no,” Medina said. “He understands the trouble that is coming, but he will not leave Bissau.”

  Some kind of dedication, Bolan thought, and he would be the last man drawing breath to question that. He hoped Medina’s captain—and his friend, from all appearances—would come out on the other side of it in one piece. That was, if he proved to be the officer Medina took him for. If not...well, he was on his own.

  HE AIMED DOWNRANGE, framing the Beechcraft in the launcher’s UP-7V telescopic sight. The RPG’s original optics, the PGO-7, was basically a mortar sight attached to a rocket launcher, but the newer model was a great improvement, marking the target with a red dot at 2.7x magnification. At his present range, Bolan expected a hit with no problems.

  And so it went. When he squeezed the trigger, the launcher fired a jet of flame and smoke behind him, while its warhead flew to close the gap between muzzle and target, trailing its own plume of smoke. Its booster fell away in flight, sprouting a set of stabilizer fins allowing for rotation that enhanced its accuracy. Built to penetrate 260 mm of armor plating, the single-stage HEAT projectile met minimal resistance from the aircraft’s fuselage and detonated on impact, devouring the Beechcraft in a roiling ball of fire. The fuel tanks blew a heartbeat later, to complete the job.

  Medina laughed out loud and did a little shuffling dance step where he stood. “Camara will be furious,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Let’s call and break the news,” Bolan replied, “as soon as we’re a few miles down the road.”

  10

  “Phone call for you, Edouard,” Henrique Togna said. He moved to stand beside Camara’s desk, cell phone extended like an offering.

  “Who is it?”

  “He won’t give a name,” Togna replied. “Says he has information for you on the trouble at Bubaque.”

  Frowning at the telephone, Camara grudgingly accepted it. “Quem é ese?” he demanded.

  Instead of identifying himself, the male caller said, “Try it in English.”

  Camara’s frown deepened. “Who is this?” he repeated. “How did you get this number?”

  “Numbers aren’t a problem,” the caller said. “And my name isn’t important. I just thought I’d beat the rush and tell you that your drug plane’s permanently grounded as of...oh, say five minutes ago.”

  Despite the spark of panic in his gut, Camara answered with a level voice, smelling the trap. “You’ve either lost your mind,” he said, “or you have called the wrong number. If you have information on a crime, I would suggest you contact the police.”

  “Well, let me check,” the caller said. “You are Edouard Camara, right? The narco-trafficker and murderer? Your number is—” He rattled off the digits swiftly. “That Edouard Camara? That is you?”

  Camara felt the heat and color rising in his cheeks. He made a conscious effort to relax his grip on the cell phone as he replied, “You insult me with groundless charges. Once again, I say—”

  “Your Beechcraft Model 99,” the caller interrupted. “Tail number J5-QZX? You’ll need a new one if you plan on any noncommercial flying in the future.”

  Camara felt his throat trying to close. He cleared it, then said, “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “I guess you’re not the sharpest chisel in the toolbox, eh? Okay, try this—I just blew up your plane. Call the Penha-Bor airfield and ask, if you don’t believe me.”

  “Hold on.” Camara lowered the cell phone and turned to Togna. “Call Penha-Bor and check on the Beech 99,” he instructed.

  “Check on—?”

  “Just do it!”

  Camara turned back to his caller. “If what you say is true, why call and tell me this?” he asked.

  “I like the personal touch. Full disclosure. I’m shutting you down. If you want to get out with your skin and whatever swag fits in a suitcase, the time to pack up is right now.”

  Camara had to laugh at that, despite the rage it stirred inside him, burning through his gut like acid. “You’re courageous on the telephone. No name, no face. All talk.”

  “I wasn’t talking at your cutting plant,” the caller said, “or at Storm Transport. Didn’t say a word out on Bubaque. Well, that is, until I told your pilot where to take me with your cargo.”

  “Cargo?”
/>   “You want to tap dance?” the stranger asked. “I’m not taping anything you say. I’m not police, and in the crazy system you’ve got here, it wouldn’t matter if I were. Okay? You’ve lost a lot since yesterday. Stay put, and you’ll lose everything—your life included.”

  “I do not respond to threats from strangers,” Camara said.

  “Suit yourself. But if you’re counting on the army to protect you...don’t.”

  “Ah, so you fight the army now, as well?”

  “My way,” the caller said. “Your General Diallo won’t enjoy it any more than you do.”

  “And if I—” Camara hesitated, listened to the droning in his ear, and realized the line was dead.

  Togna came back seconds later, trepidation written on his face. “The plane,” he said.

  “What of it?”

  “Blown up on the runway. By a rocket, so they say.”

  “That son of a bitch will burn in hell!” Camara raged. “He does that, then calls me to brag about it?”

  “Who was it, Edouard?”

  “How should I know? Do you think the prick gave me his name?”

  Togna almost shrugged, then caught himself in time, one shoulder slightly raised.

  “But I am going to find out,” Camara said. “Today.”

  * * *

  NILSON MEDINA’S APARTMENT house stood two blocks west of Avenida Pansau Na Isna, northeast of downtown Bissau. Medina had agreed with Matthew Cooper that it was folly for him to go home, when people had to be hunting him, but he believed they would have checked his flat by now—perhaps ransacked it—and the odds of anyone remaining on surveillance were no more than fifty-fifty. Not the best, but there were things he needed to retrieve, if they were still available, before he could consider any kind of life outside Guinea-Bissau.

  His passport, first and foremost. It was hidden in the ceiling, in a plastic sandwich bag he’d taped inside an air duct for the air-conditioner that rarely functioned. Not the most original of hiding places, granted, but it seemed the best available within his dwelling, and Medina chose it over carrying the passport on his person, where it might be lost or stolen.