"There will be no attack or threat of attack on Kenya soil by U.S. forces. Any such attack will result in the execution of one hostage for every hour of any such attack.
"The United States has forty-eight hours to start delivering the gold, the merchandise, the ships, and planes as demanded. If this schedule is not met, one hostage will be executed and the video beamed to the world on television every hour until delivery starts.
"There is no alternative. I know of the wealth and squandered goods and riches in the United States. The people of Kenya are starving for such goods and food. It will be delivered on schedule or the dire measures will be carried out.
"This is General Umar Maleceia, Premier, President, and Commanding General of the great nation of Kenya, ending his proclamation."
General Umar Maleceia toured the ambassador's private quarters and bounced on the bed. He chuckled.
"I will sleep here tonight," he told his aide, a major who had taken advanced lessons in kowtowing.
"Yes, General," the major said, recognizing the new rank the colonel had granted himself.
Maleceia smiled at the man. "You'll go far, Major. What was your name again?"
"Ralston, General. An English name my parents liked when I was born."
"Too bad. Yes. Now, the kitchen. Send for the chef. Bring him from the basement. Tonight I will feast on roast duck or maybe a roast turkey dinner with all the trimmings like we had twice a year in Texas. Yes, a roast turkey dinner."
Five minutes later, the cook, a smiling little Italian man from the Bronx, explained the problem. "General, sir. We have no turkey, no duck. I can prepare a feast for you from some chicken breasts, stuffing, mashed potatoes, giblet gravy, cranberries, peas and carrots, with fluffy dinner rolls and strawberry jam."
General Maleceia frowned. "I can't make a turkey appear. All right, the chicken dinner. You have an hour. Now get to it." Back in the ambassador's suite, he broke open the locked liquor cabinet, selected a fine scotch, and poured himself a shot. That was so good he had two more. He didn't offer any to the major.
"Oh, yes. Now, Major, we visit the hostages below."
In the basement room, the general looked over the people. Some were still crying. He selected a young blonde girl he guessed was a secretary, and a slightly older redhead who looked to have some fire. Both were young and slender.
"You two, go with the major."
The women pulled back. The First Secretary, Frank Underhill, now in charge of the embassy, started forward.
"At ease, all of you," said the general. "I'm not going to shoot these hostages. There's some secretarial work I need to take care of. Both you women can read and write, I assume?"
They nodded.
"Very well, go with the major."
Upstairs in the ambassador's suite, the general closed the door, dismissed the major, and pushed the women into the bedroom.
"Now, ladies, I want both of you to undress without a lot of tears or anger. As they used to say in Texas, you might as well relax and enjoy it. One way or another you're going to get fucked. Clear?"
"You have no right…" the redhead began. His look of anger and rage cut her off.
The blonde girl began crying softly.
"No," Maleceia thundered. The roar stopped her weeping. Slowly both disrobed. They turned their backs as they took off their underwear.
"Turn around," the general demanded. They did, and he smiled. "Nice, extremely nice. I like big tits. You'll enjoy tonight. I've never disappointed a woman in my entire life." He watched them both, then moved first toward the blond woman. "You have a name?" he asked.
"Sally," she said so softly he could barely hear.
He faced her, and she shivered. The redhead behind him moved forward without a sound. He had taken a stance with his feet apart in front of the much shorter Sally, and reached both hands for her breasts.
Marilee Zilke, a C-2 Field Agent with the CIA, moved the last few feet silently and kicked with her right foot as hard as she could. Her foot scraped past his thigh, and slammed into General Maleceia's crotch with crushing force. Only his thick military pants saved him from a shattered testicle. He lunged forward, almost lost his feet, then righted himself, and bent over for one long agonizing moment. Marilee darted forward, swung both of her hands made into one fist at the back of his neck, and drove the big man to his knees. She was about to kick him again when he turned, lifted his pistol, and fired six rounds into the CIA agent. She jolted backward three steps and crashed to the floor. He fired once more into her head, and turned to the weeping Sally.
General Maleceia could hardly talk. He pointed to the bed, and Sally sat down on it.
"No more trouble," he squeaked out. Sally had never seen a human being die before. She had shrieked in horror when the bullets hit Marilee. Now she couldn't utter a sound.
The general pulled off his clothes, and stared down at the softly weeping secretary from Elbow Bend, Wisconsin.
"Like I said, little lady, I've never disappointed a woman yet."
6
Third Platoon had landed at Wahhabi ten minutes ago. There was a rush on, but Murdock led the SEALs in a ten-minute double-time workout around the edge of the taxi strip. Then they loaded into the U.S. Navy C-2A Greyhound, a two-engine turboprop cargo plane that had the ability to land on an aircraft carrier.
The plane took off as soon as the SEALs had buckled in. Don Stroh had gone on the jog with them, and had been talking with Murdock. Now he motioned to one of the Navy airman on the ship, and he brought out box lunches for all seventeen of them from the base galley.
"Not much, gentlemen, but something to last you for a couple of hours." The airman passed around chilled cans of Coke, and the SEALs grinned.
Later, Stroh called the SEALs around, and waved at the familiar faces and the two new ones.
"Another walk in the park, gentlemen. The President is really pissed about this one. We train this mountain of a man, and he goes back home and grabs control of the army and then takes over the whole fucking country. Promotes himself to general.
"You know he knocked over the Roy Turner. Then he assaults and captures the U.S. Embassy in Nairobi. That just isn't done anymore. Not after Iran. So we move in and get some payback. He's asking for a hundred billion dollars in goods and materiel. Ransom. I guess he hasn't heard that the U.S. never pays ransom no matter who is kidnapped or taken hostage. That demand was B as in billions. The United States does not pay for hostages, not even two hundred of them. We also don't send bundles of goodies to dictators.
"We'll be landing on the aircraft carrier USS Monroe in about three and a half hours. She's steaming south along the Somalia coast. Kenya is just south of Somalia. The captain of the carrier tells me he should be off Kenya or within chopper-infiltrating distance at about two A.M. tomorrow morning."
Murdock took over. "Don, we've kicked this around during the past twenty hours, and the only way we can see to get in and get out of that embassy is with choppers. We'll need at least three, maybe six. That means protection to keep any snipers down and out of business until we can get in, take over the place, get our people freed and on rescue choppers. The birds will probably have to come in one at a time. Then we get the choppers safely in the air and head for the carrier."
Stroh rubbed his face. He was the CIA contact between the platoon and the President. He outranked everyone from admirals right up to the Vice President.
"I talked with Captain Prescott of the Monroe about an hour ago," Stroh said. "Given the three hundred miles between the coast and Nairobi, his thoughts were along the Same line as yours. There'll be no trouble getting cooperation from the admiral. His ship is at your disposal. I'd guess he got a special call from the President."