“ ‘I don’t feel like a hostage, and certainly not like a person who has been kidnapped, although technically, I guess I was. I’ll be back in touch with you when I have more news. In the meantime, don’t do anything sudden, rash, or bold. General Lawford, there is no reason for any massive military response, at least not right now. Mr. Washington has not told me what to say. He’s listening to me and usually grinning. He says he’s working on a list of demands that he will be sending to you soon.
“ ‘In the meantime, tell my wife and family that I am being treated well and that the food is remarkable, if a little different. We eat lots of fruits here. I’ll be back in touch soon. Sign that: Marshall Adams, Vice President of the United States of America.’ ”
General Lawford snorted. “Hell, he would have to take a poke at me. Never has appreciated me.” He looked around. “So, okay, no massive military strike. What the hell else can we do?”
“Simple,” the President said. “We sit here and wait until we hear from this Washington or from Adams. There seems not to be the extreme emergency that we had thought.”
“Seems like we should be doing something,” the CIA man said. Donaldson scowled. “Hell, we at least could send the SEALs into the capital city and have them sit on their hands if they have to. Better to have some kind of presence there beside our twenty Marines at the embassy.”
Billings, the Chief of Staff, nodded. “Yeah, sounds kosher to me. We send our favorite platoon down there, which certainly can’t be labeled as a massive military response. How soon can they get there, Mr. Donaldson?”
“I’ll check with the Chief of Naval Operations, but I’d say with the business jet it should take no more than twenty-four, maybe thirty-six hours at the most.”
The advisors looked at the President. “Yes, I know some of these SEALs,” he said. “We’ve used them before. Reliable. They won’t go off half-cocked. Yes, Donaldson, let’s get it in motion. Send the Third Platoon of SEAL Team Seven to Sierra City, Sierra Bijimi.”
General Kiffa Assaba paced his office. He had just heard about the slaughter of twelve of his best Army Rangers and the capture of the American Vice President. This had to be the work of Mojombo Washington. His face turned red and he hurled the riding crop he always carried across the room. It hit a lamp, knocking it over and smashing the brittle shade. Assaba didn’t react to the broken lamp. He continued pacing.
How could the terrorist have known where the convoy would be going? There had been some plans made, but certainly no announcement. The general public would have no idea of the motorcade itself or its direction or destination. So there had to be a spy within the top elements of the Army or the government. Which one?
He should take a thousand men, charge up the river, and kill everyone he found. Sooner or later he would run down Washington and his ragtag bunch of misfits. Yes, he must do that. He would talk to the President about it today. This new attack would be just cause. He could say they were going to rescue the kidnapped United States Vice President.
A knock came on the door. Then his aide, Major Kabala, came in. The tall soldier smiled wearily.
“General Assaba, sir. That matter we spoke of early this morning is ready. We have set up a court-martial in the old Supreme Court room. Everyone is there ready to proceed.”
Assaba let out a tired sigh. He rubbed his hand over his wolfish face and blinked large eyes. Then he nodded. “Yes, it must be done. I’m ready.”
They walked out of the office, down the hall of the Government Building, and into a courtroom recently vacated by the Supreme court. Now it was military-oriented. Six officers sat on the high bench, with two tables in front of them. At one stood a prisoner dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit. He was handcuffed and his legs bound together with a short chain. He had not shaved recently, and his beard showed as dirty smears on his more brown than black face.
One man stood beside him, his Army-appointed defense counsel.
General Assaba marched up to the high bench, sat in the empty chair at the center of the six men, and rapped with a gavel that lay in front of him.
“This court-martial is now in session. Will the clerk read the indictment?”
A clerk rose and read a two-page charge against Private Tauba Kidira. General Assaba knew the crimes, which included desertion and stealing government property, namely a jeep. The man pleaded not guilty and the trial began.
The Army prosecutor brought two witnesses to the stand. One said that he saw the accused drive a jeep off the military post without authorization.
“I object,” the defense counsel said. “It was dark at the time the alleged drive took place. The witness was more than thirty yards from the jeep. How could be identify Private Kidira as the driver in that darkness?”
General Assaba scowled at the lawyer. “The man is a second lieutenant in the Army. Officers don’t lie. Objection overruled.”
A second soldier testified that he had talked with Kidira the day he left and that Kidira had sworn that he would be a soldier no more. He would run as far away as he could.
“I object to this testimony, Your Honor,” the defense counsel said, rising quickly.
“On what basis, Counselor?” the general asked.
“This is barracks talk. Every soldier who ever wore a uniform has cursed and yelled and sworn that he would desert. It’s part of being a soldier. Almost none of the men ever do it. This is simply barracks-room talk that has no bearing on the truth of my client’s action.”
“Objection denied. The court will ignore what the counselor has said about the testimony.”
The defense counsel tried to question the witnesses, but was denied the right. The defense counsel said he had no other witnesses. The prosecutor gave a one-minute summary and the trial was over. The officers on the bench stood and conferred briefly, than sat down.
“The finding of this court is that the accused is guilty of high treason, desertion, and stealing government property,” one of the officers on the bench said. “The prisoner is sentenced to death. The sentence will be carried out immediately.”
Two armed soldiers led Private Kidira out of the court. The judges and the general followed him. The condemned man walked to a stone wall just behind the courtroom, and turned to face the wall. When he was completely turned, General Assaba drew a .45-caliber automatic, put the muzzle against the back of Private Kidira’s head, and fired one shot. The blast knocked Kidira down and killed him instantly. General Assaba moved up a step and fired three more times into the dead man’s head as he lay on the ground, then holstered his weapon.
“No one deserts from my Army,” he bellowed at the dozen witnesses. “No one. Any man who tries will wind up like this one did. Remember that.” He turned and marched back into the building toward his office.
7
Platoon Three of SEAL Team Seven enjoyed its second day of “camping out” on the beach just below the Kill House on the Coronado Strand and just north of the Navy antenna farm. Murdock thought about yesterday. They had started with a full-operational-gear jog down the six miles to the antennas in the loose sand. Then, after a five-minute blow, they walked into the sparkling Pacific Ocean surf, dove under the breakers, and swam out a mile due south, then retraced their route. All of the SEALs now had the new underwater Motorola personal radios, good for seven miles underwater and five miles on land. It helped them keep in touch with each other fifteen feet underwater even on a moonless night. After the two-mile trek they worked through the Kill House three times, taking names and times. The new man, Omar Rafii, hadn’t seen the new Kill House.