Before he ate, Murdock and DeWitt talked to Don Stroh, their CIA mother hen.
"The XO tells me they will send six F/A-18 Hornets up to do the job," Stroh said. "That's over forty-five tons of bombs. XO said he'd also have one Hornet go in early to tail you and the Seahawk into Nairobi the last fifty miles or so in case they pick you up on radar and come after the chopper. We're not sure what kind of air power or radar the general still has up there."
Murdock and DeWitt took one more trip to sick bay and talked with Ted Yates. He yelled as soon as he saw them.
"Hear you guys are going out early in the morning. Damnit, wish to hell I was going with you. Why did this have to happen to me? Probably wash me right out of the SEALS."
They talked him down a little.
"Hey, you were in three of the phases already," Murdock said. "Worth at least a Purple Heart. Maybe your leg won't heal up well enough. We don't know that. I heard about a Marine who was in their advance recon outfit. Most elite bunch the Marines have. He lost one leg below the knee on a practice parachute jump when the wind blew him into some power lines. He healed up, got an artificial leg, and qualified again with his unit. He'd come home from a ten-mile hike and pour blood out of the place his stub leg connected with the leather of the metal leg. Now there was one tough Marine."
"Yeah, but he didn't have to do the SEAL tests. Dammit. I'm mad as hell, L-T. You see what you can do for me when we get back. If I wash out of SEALs on a physical, maybe you can wrangle me a quarterdeck job back at the grinder. Can you do that, L-T?"
Murdock took a breath so he could talk normally. The kid was so much a SEAL. "Yes, Yates, I promise you we'll take the best care of you, and try to get that leg to SEAL fitness. If it doesn't work, I'll see about a quarterdeck deal for you. Now, get some rest. Let that leg heal itself up the best it can.
Colonel Jomo Kariuki had taken great care to cover his tracks. Now he stepped into a double-locked section of a little-used warehouse and turned on the lights. Yes! There sat his Mercedes Benz, a two-year-old sedan with civilian plates. It was gassed, had a week's worth of survival food and water, fifty gallons of extra fuel, and three light weapons including an Uzi and six full magazines. He was ready. He quickly changed into his civilian clothes and opened the rear door.
At the east gate, the guard sergeant was curious. He'd never seen the colonel before, so he couldn't identify him. Kariuki had put on horn-rimmed glasses and a heavy mustache, and now had a sporty billed cap on to help conceal exactly who he was.
"Could I see your papers, please," the sergeant asked.
The colonel gave him prepared identification papers showing him to be a civilian supplier of large amounts of fresh fruits and vegetables for the base.
"Is there any problem?" the colonel asked.
"No, I've heard of your company. We've been told not to let any military personnel off base this late. I guess that doesn't include you. Looks like you're heading out for a trip."
"Not really. I always carry some provisions in case I get stalled on my way out to the farms. Is there anything else?"
The guard hesitated. Colonel Kariuki knew the procedure. He'd just never had to participate before. Now he took a five-hundred-shilling note from his pocket and let the sergeant watch him fold it four times. Then he held it out, and shook hands with the sergeant. The money vanished at the same time into the sergeant's palm.
"Yes, sir. That will be all. Have a good trip."
Colonel Kariuki eased the Italian-made Bernardeli automatic back under the sweater that lay on the seat beside him. The little .22 was quiet and deadly. It was his favorite handgun. He was out.
It took him less than a half hour to power through the fringes of Nairobi and then swing out on the north road. He hit Narvasha, and later Nakuru, with no problems. By now he has his military cap on and his military identification in place in case anyone questioned him. Shortly past Nakuru he came to a military roadblock. He pulled into a short line of cars and farm wagons, and waited.
A captain came up and saw the military cap, and then looked at the ID, which the colonel held up and displayed.
"What is the problem here, Captain?"
"No problem, Colonel. Just making a regular citizen check and watching for renegades. With the change in military leadership, some troops took to the hills, and we're watching for them."
"Well done, Captain."
"Begging your pardon, Colonel, but this is a fine car. Is it a part of the new regime's… er… compensation?"
"No, Captain, it's my personal car. I saved for ten years to buy it. Now, if there's nothing else?"
"Of course, Colonel. Please proceed around these wagons. The road is clear now all the way to the take. I'd guess that's where you're going on your vacation."
"Precisely, Captain, and I'm a bit behind schedule. Thank you." He drove around the wagons and honked at the bar across the road, and it was lifted. He breathed easier as there was no pursuit.
Now all he had left was a straight run west to Kisumu and the small port on the bay of the great Lake Victoria that bordered on three nations. He'd get a boat large enough to carry the car, and go south to Mwanza in Tanzania, and then to a small town he knew of that would welcome him and his South African gold with greatest of pleasure. Eventually he might go on to the coastal capital of Dar es Salaam.
He smiled. Yes, he had timed it about right. The Maleceia coup could not last more than two more days at the most. He had taken off just in time, and with everything he had profited from the short-running coup and his former office in the government.
The road here was two lanes of blacktop with numerous chuckholes and narrow places. He saw them, but didn't understand until too late. The narrowed road was crossed with three lines of glinting metal triangular spikes. Two prongs of each one lay on the pavement, but no matter how they fell, one sharp three-inch spike always stuck upward waiting for a tire.
He hit the brakes, but he was too late to swing into the gravel at the side of the road and go around the tire-killers. Two tires on the passenger side missed the spikes, but the other two tires picked them up and blew out in an instant. He fought the wheel to keep the big car heading down the roadway.
He lost the fight, and it angled across the road to the left as the left front tire spun off the rim and the metal ground along the blacktop leaving a deep gash and throwing the car to the left.
By the time he got the Mercedes stopped, it had two wheels in the shallow ditch, and everything so carefully packed inside had erupted forward in a cascading jumble.
He grabbed the pistol and pushed the door open. Some damn road bandits. He dropped the pistol and pulled the Uzi out from under the seat, then looked around. Half-a-dozen men showed themselves in the moonlight from behind trees, then stepped back out of sight. The first round shattered the windshield, and he dove to the floor. When he came up, he triggered a six-round burst out the door, and caught a young man peering inside.
The bandit slammed backward screaming as he died with three rounds in his neck and chest.
A dozen more rounds hit the car.
Colonel Kariuki fired out the open car door again, then too late realized it was a two-front war. A round jolted through the passenger's side window, shattering it. The second round dug into his back just below his lungs, and missed his spine by inches. He bellowed in pain, and tried to swing the Uzi around.
A huge man dove into the car and wrestled the weapon away from him, then dragged him out to the dirt beside the ditch.
Four men leaped into the car and shrilled in delight. They had found the food. Two more bottles of whiskey, and already one was open and being sampled.