African Dragon by David M. Salkin Read Free Book Online

president doesn’t want another Somalia on his hands, and certainly doesn’t want to antagonize the Chinese, he also won’t sit back and allow the Chinese to fund the PAC and overthrow a pro-American government. You will be stepping into a sticky wicket, my friend.”
    Cascaes clinked Darren’s bottle and drank back the second half of his beer in a long chug. He muffled his burp and smiled crookedly at Darren. “So much for a little recon and rescue mission, huh? Well, no matter. My men are better at breaking things and killing people than they are at search and rescue anyway.”
    Darren kept his voice low, the room getting louder around him as the team drank and ate and laughed a little too loudly, feeling the jitters of getting ready to head out.
    “Look, Chris. The PAC may already number over six or seven thousand. Mac is trying to find out who the leaders are, and hopefully, if you can take them out, the rebellion will fall apart. But don’t go toe to toe with a friggin’ army . If the president calls in the Marines, it won’t be to rescue you guys, it will be a political decision that has nothing to do with you guys. All I’m saying is, stay in the shadows. This is not a military operation.”
    “I understand,” said Chris. “But I would like to go over the new weapons and ammo list with you after dinner.”

8.
     
    The flight from Virginia to Canada was via private CIA jet. Once there, they switched passports and boarded a commercial flight to Spain, where they had to change planes to South Africa. Once in South Africa, it was a smaller plane to Luano Airport in Lubumbashi. All in all, from Virginia to Lubumbashi was over thirty hours, and no one was in a particularly good mood when they arrived at the sweaty Luano Airport customs line. It was over eight-five degrees inside the airport, which might have been cleaned once or twice in the last ten years. While there were a few fans visible in the terminal, not one of them was operational. The weary travelers stood in line fanning themselves with their counterfeit Canadian passports as a bored looking man stamped them in front of a security guard carrying an ancient machine gun. Hodges, the resident marine sharpshooter leaned over to his buddy Earl Jones and whispered in his southern drawl that if the guy fired his weapon, it would blow up in his face. He was probably correct.
    After the group cleared customs, they walked down another dirty hallway to freight pickup. They cringed as they watched a half dozen sweaty men manhandle their large crates into the airport. The crates were heavy, having double and triple interior walls to hide weapons, ammunition, and other equipment that would get them arrested. The lead lining to shield from x-rays made them even heavier. The men were screaming at each other in frustration trying to deal with the weight of the crates when an official looking man in a military looking uniform walked over to find out what all the fuss was about. He approached the group, the only ones in the area, and asked what they were importing.
    “We aren’t importing anything, sir,” said Chris. “We are actually in the export business—live tropical fish export. This is SCUBA diving equipment and materials we need for our business at the lake.”
    The official looked at the manifest list on the outside of one of the crates and mumbled to himself for a while as he pretended to understand what he was looking at.
    “Extra heavy packages like these are subject to import taxes. Are you in charge of this group?” he asked Chris.
    “Yes,” he said, sensing the impending shakedown. The official had Chris follow him down another dirty hallway to his small office. When they walked inside, it had an ancient wooden desk and one chair, and nothing else.
    The official was tentative. “You have American dollars?” he asked.
    Chris shook his head. “No, sir. We’re Canadians. I only have Canadian currency.”
    The official rubbed his chin. “How