Nolan closed his eyes and steepled his fingers at his lips. He listened to the rattle of gunfire, the screams—then came to a decision.
He opened his eyes. “Perhaps we can address all our troubles in one move.” He ticked off the problems at hand. “Katwa is near the end of its usefulness. The prisoners are likely still nearby. And as I understand it, most of the witnesses—or should I say, workers—are holed up on site.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then it’s best we clean house. Perhaps, in doing so, we can rid the world of that malignant colony at the same time.”
Draper’s face paled as he began to understand Nolan’s intent.
“Ready the failsafe,” Nolan said, confirming the captain’s conjecture.
“The MOAB?”
Nolan nodded.
The full name for the GBU-43/B weapon system was officially Massive Ordnance Air Blast. Though it was better known as the Mother of All Bombs. Nolan’s calculating mind always prepared for unexpected contingencies. Five years ago, he had the opportunity to purchase seven MOABs, each weighing ten tons, from a munitions company whose CEO had a gambling problem. The American military believed the bombs had been distributed among its allies. Normally each cost two hundred thousand U.S. dollars. Nolan had paid three times that much to secure each one, and another hundred thousand to make them vanish.
Afterward, he had buried them in bunkers at strategic areas of his operations.
As a failsafe.
In case he ever needed a site erased.
Like now.
The MOAB had been designed to be a bunker buster, to destroy tunnels and other buried facilities. Its yield was equivalent to that of a small tactical nuclear weapon, with a blast radius of a mile in every direction.
Nolan planned on blaming the explosion on an industrial accident. Any further inquiry would be quashed by those in his employ within the DRC government. Plus, he would collect a hefty payout from the mine’s insurance policy, far more money than he could ever hope to earn from the failing mine.
All in all, a win-win.
Satisfied, Nolan addressed the question shining in Draper’s face. “Your men,” Nolan said. “How long will it take you to gather them and evacuate?”
“Forty minutes,” he said, plainly anticipating this inquiry, proof that he was a good man and a better soldier.
“Maybe we’d better allow you a bit more leeway, Captain. To make sure you get well clear of there.”
Draper straightened, ready to carry out his order. “Yes, sir.”
Nolan nodded to him. “I’ll set the failsafe’s timer for midnight.”
20
April 24, 11:08 P.M. CAT
Ituri Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
Positioned at the back of the ATV, Gray stood guard over Kowalski. The big man splashed through calf-deep water, tugging each boot out of the muck. He reached the last of the ATV’s four tires, uncapped its stem, and slowly let air out.
Shortly after entering the swamp, the wheels had mired up to their axles in the mud of the swamp. They were stuck. The plan was to partially deflate the tires and hope the greater surface area of tread would give them the extra traction to pull free.
“About done?” Gray called over as he watched the flat water. He had a flashlight clutched next to the length of his KelTec handgun. His heart pounded in his throat, knowing the risk they were taking being out of the ATV.
The night was pitch-black. The little glimpses of sky through breaks in the canopy were cloaked in clouds. A heavy mist, nearly drizzle, hung in the air. All around, mosquitoes whined. Frogs croaked. Birds and monkeys called across the swamps, objecting to their trespass.
“Almost finished,” Kowalski grunted.
“Don’t let out too much air and give us a flat.”
“I know what I’m doing, Pierce. It’s not the first time I’ve gone mudding.” Kowalski grumbled under his breath, then resecured the cap on the tire stem. He straightened and slapped the nearly six-foot-tall tire. “See? Still plenty of cushion.”
“Then back inside. Let’s get moving again.”
Kowalski waded to the open rear gate, and the two clambered into the ATV. Benjie shifted aside to let Kowalski pass and return to the driver’s seat. Faraji kept watch up front, ready to guide them onward to the village of the Leopard King. It marked the next goalpost along the trail left by the Reverend William Sheppard.
Gray sighed.
That’s if we get moving.
They had been trekking for nearly two hours. He estimated that by now the team had crossed out of Tshopo Province and had entered neighboring Ituri, a more remote and heavily forested section of the Congo. They had to be nearing that abandoned Kuba village.
Kowalski started the engine, gunned it, then set about rocking the ATV back and forth, fighting to pry their tires out of the mud. Water and muck fountained all around them.
A pack of small monkeys fled from the display, sweeping across the canopy. A few landed on the roof with loud bangs, then bounded away. One hung around long enough to scream through a window at them, its tiny face scrunched in fury, baring needle-like teeth.
“Allenopithecus nigroviridis,” Benjie said. He craned near the window as the monkey fled, following the rest of its troop. “Also known as Allen’s swamp monkeys.”
“Did that one look normal to you?” Gray asked.
Benjie shrugged. “I . . . I think so.”
Faraji added his own assessment. “Very tasty, yes. Good eating.”
Kowalski grunted. “I’ll take your word for it, kid.”
He continued to rock the ATV, heaving his body back and forth in the seat, as if his extra mass would make the difference.
And maybe it did.
One last shove and the ATV broke free. Trundling once again, they were tossed about the compartment for a few breaths. Then the vehicle found its proper footing and sped onward across the deepening swamp.
“See? Piece of cake,” Kowalski noted with satisfied triumph.
“Yes, cake,” Faraji commented. “Very tasty, too.”
Kowalski patted the youth on the shoulder. “That I’ll agree with. But you can keep that roasted monkey all to yourself.”
Faraji nodded seriously. “Thank you.”
“Don’t slow,” Gray warned. “Keep a steady pace. We don’t want to get mired again.”
“Enough with your backseat driving already.” Kowalski twisted to glare at him. “You want to take the wheel? I’m happy to take a goddamned nap.”
Gray waved forward, knowing they were all on edge. The oppressive darkness, the press of the jungle, the lack of sleep, all wore at their nerves.
“Sorry,” Gray said. “Just keep going. Listen to Faraji.”
As they forged ahead, Gray returned his attention to the glowing topo map on his digital pad. He had been roughly tracking their progress, pinging a GPS reading once every half hour, then turning it off again. He didn’t want to risk exposing their progress, but they were deep in the weeds out here. Even Faraji looked skeptically out at the drowned jungle.
Gray compared the map to the landscape around them. Since leaving Sheppard’s old missionary station, the elevation had been steadily dropping. He suspected this section of the jungle was not normally a swamp. The heavy monsoons had likely flooded these lowland forests.
With every passing mile, Gray grew more worried. Before long, the bouncing and jolting of the ATV smoothed out into a gentle rocking. The floodwaters of these drowned lands had gotten so deep that the vehicle had turned back into a duck. The spinning tires became paddlewheels, propelling them along. Their pace slowed considerably.
The jungle grew even denser. Clusters of raffia palms crowded with groves of cedar. Orchids hung all about. Drapes of vines tried to snag them in their nets. Twice—with much cussing from Kowalski—they had to use machetes to break themselves free.
Despite the flooding, the dark forest stirred with life. Pythons languidly shifted their loops away from their passage. Rabbits fled in all directions, leaping from mossy hillocks to brambly thickets. Countless troops of monkeys wailed at them. Gray even spotted one of the rare striped okapi as it splashed across their headlights.
With each new sighting, Gray looked to Benjie.