Like the fixer Ash had paid off in Lubumbashi, Jambo had made sure no Bunia airport personnel would interfere with them while they offloaded their gear into the vehicles.
As the team transferred everything over, Harvath handed Ash the car door magnets Beaman had provided. They proclaimed, in black and red letters on a white background, that the vehicles were on official humanitarian business from CARE International. They even included little red crosses.
There were stickers as well that showed AK-47s with Xs through them, and these were placed in the vehicle windows as well. Once the gear was packed inside, tied down to the roof racks, and ready to roll, they left the airport and headed into the capital.
Jambo had secured rooms for them at the best place in town, the two-star Bunia Hotel.
To its credit, it had high walls, a secure gate, beer, and a pool table. By eastern Congo standards, it was the height of luxury. The kitchen even turned out halfway decent Chinese and Indian food, something Harvath hadn’t expected.
Even though the hotel’s motor court was enclosed, Jambo had hired two of his relatives to spend the night with the vehicles.
After checking in and moving the most sensitive of their gear to their rooms, the team reconvened in the lobby. Their first round of beers had just been served when the final member of the operation walked into the lobby.
She was a tall blonde in a tight green T-shirt and even tighter gray REI hiking pants. A pair of Oakley sunglasses hung around her neck and dangled between her breasts. Her arms were buff and she sported a healthy tan. Freckles formed an imperfect bridge over a perfect nose. Her eyes, even in the half-light of the lobby, were a piercing gimlet-green.
Unshouldering her pack, she had dropped it next to the pool table and introduced herself around to the team. Brash and unafraid, right from the jump.
Before becoming a physician, Dr. Jessica Decker had been a war correspondent. She knew all too well what men were capable of doing to each other. Having seen enough suffering, particularly in Congo, she had decided she wanted to do more than just write about it. That’s why she left journalism and had gone into medical school.
She had been working with CARE for less than a year when she was asked to open the Matumaini Clinic on their behalf. She went on to carry out three subsequent missions there. She knew the area and its people better than anyone else.
She was in the middle of opening one of CARE’s two new clinics — a facility outside Kinshasa — when everything was put on hold.
Beaman had thought she could be helpful in the current situation and the Old Man had agreed. It had been two to one, and Harvath was overruled. Decker, Carlton had decided, wouldn’t only be coming along, but she could also be part of their cover.
Not even Ash and his team knew the full extent of what was going on. As far as they knew, they had been hired to accompany a load of medical supplies and two members of CARE International to a clinic in the Ituri Province. It was dangerous territory and the middleman for CARE claimed they had been robbed twice before en route. CARE wanted to make sure that didn’t happen again.
Ash had guaranteed that his team would do everything they could to make sure that didn’t happen. He felt relatively confident this would be a sure thing. Then Harvath had stepped off the plane in Lubumbashi.
The American had “operator” written all over him. Ash could tell right away that there was more to this assignment than he and his team had been told. Quietly, he passed the word to each of his men to be on their guard. When the woman arrived, the complication factor escalated.
She was incredibly attractive, too attractive for Congo — a rough place where people prized commodities above all else and would pay or do anything to get what they wanted. She didn’t belong here, yet she had walked in like she owned the place. Already she was playing with them.
The shirt that showed off her chest, the tight pants that hugged her ass, the careful application of makeup — just enough to make it look like she wasn’t wearing any makeup at all — it all came together and spelled trouble. Ash was beginning to wonder if taking this assignment had been a mistake.
Harvath didn’t know what to think of Jessica Decker either. The woman who entered the hotel was certainly not what he had expected. Beaman had forwarded a CARE newsletter to him with a bland photo taken in the field. It certainly hadn’t prepared him for what she looked like in real life. Not that it would have mattered, much. The fact that she was here was just a reminder that he didn’t have a say in the matter.
After introducing herself around, she had walked over to the bar to order. Harvath fought the urge to watch her, and he watched the security team instead. Ash’s men looked like a pack of wild dogs ready to go to war over a pork chop.
There weren’t a lot of western women in Congo and certainly not many, if any at all, who looked like Jessica Decker.
If Harvath knew that, she had to too, which meant she knew exactly what she was doing. That was fine by him. Some SEALs were notorious for their extracurricular adventures overseas. Why should it be any different for a woman? He knew all too well how hard it could be to maintain a relationship when you spent so much time away from home.
Whatever she did with her personal time was her business. As long as it didn’t become a distraction, Harvath planned to ignore the whole issue.
They ate a good meal, played some more pool, and established a rendezvous time for the morning. Harvath was the first to excuse himself. He had several emails to respond to, and wanted to take a shower before turning in.
He bought two bottles of Primus beer at the bar to go, said goodnight to everyone, and returned to his room.
When Harvath walked into the motor court at four a.m. that Thursday morning, Ash and his men were already there loading and inspecting the vehicles. It was cool, only in the low 50s, and had rained heavily during the night. The dirt road outside the hotel had already turned to red mud.
As Harvath placed his bag inside the Land Cruiser, designated as LC1, Dr. Decker appeared beside him. Reaching out, he accepted her pack and placed it inside as well. She smiled and thanking him added, “Is there any coffee anywhere?”
“Coffee, coffee. Yes, yes,” said Jambo as he stepped out of the hotel with two large thermoses. “Breakfast too,” he stated, nodding toward a staffer following behind with a hot tray of eggs, rice, and cheese wrapped in naan bread, nuked in the microwave and then wrapped in foil for the ride. Harvath helped himself to two.
After the vehicle inspections were complete and all the equipment loaded, Ash give the order to mount up. Once the gates were opened, they splashed out into the road and headed north.
Of the hundred thousand miles of mapped roads in Congo, less than two percent were actually paved. Of those paved roads, only half were in good condition. In short, travelling anywhere in Congo was an incredible pain in the ass. That went double once you got outside any of its larger towns. The few grass airstrips that existed required constant maintenance, and almost all of those that had been carved from the jungles had been abandoned over the years. Missionaries came and left. Nature always reclaimed what was rightfully hers.
In a poverty-stricken country of seventy million, with a landmass the size of the American Midwest, everyone was on the make. This was especially true in the lawless eastern part of Congo, where various rebel factions controlled almost everything. With the average wage about a dollar a day and an AK-47 selling for fifty dollars, locals got creative fast. That “creativity” only added to the stress of traversing Congo by car.
Ash radioed the Brute Squad in the Land Cruiser behind them carrying Jambo and the cargo, “LC1 to LC2. Tollbooth coming up. Fifty meters. Everybody stay calm.”