“Done,” Murdock said. “You’re right about the knife work. Ed here is pretty good, but I wouldn’t want to bet my life on his getting a kill from even ten feet.”
“Amen to that,” DeWitt said with a grin.
“Now, Chris, I want you to help us lay out a four-day training sked for the desert. Tell us what elements you want included, and what you think will work best for you to get to know your squad members and to start the bonding process.”
4
Vice President Marshall Adams slumped in the seat of the big Mercedes on the way from Air Force Two to the hotel and another welcoming ceremony, reception, and state dinner. His eyes drifted shut and his head fell almost to his chest. He could never remember being this tired before. Twelve African nations in fourteen days. For a while before landing, he’d been seeing double. He’d give a thousand dollars for a good twenty-four-hour break in which he had nothing to do but eat and sleep.
The limousine hit a pothole in the best highway in town and jolted the VP out of his reverie. Yes, duty, friends to make, cash money to give away in the form of foreign aid, new people to meet, new nations to honor. He loved his job as ambassador extraordinaire for the President, but this was almost too much. His usually immaculate appearance had been reduced to a slightly wrinkled and sat-in suit, he knew, but there wouldn’t be time to put on a fresh one before they got to the welcoming. Maybe before the reception. It had been a two-hour flight from the last country, whatever it was. The VP looked over at the man who sat in the limo with him.
“Wally, a thumbnail of this country again?”
Wally looked over at the VP. A moment ago he had been sleeping. “Yes, sir. Mauritania, an Islamic republic. The President is Maaouya Ould Sidi Ahmed Taya. He’s sixty-nine years old, in office since 1992. Population two and a half million. In size it’s larger than the state of Texas, but not as large as Alaska. Mostly arid except one sizeable river valley. Most of the nation extends into the Sahara Desert. Literacy rate is thirty-eight percent.”
“Thanks, Wally. More than I need to know. I understand we’re here for only six hours, then fly out just before dark. Where is the next stop?”
“Next we go to the relatively new nation of Sierra Bijimi, only a half-hour flight to the south.”
“Any big hoorah there tonight?”
“Nothing but a short welcome, then a whole evening and night of rest and regrouping.”
“Damn good, Wally. I could use a lot of both.”
Sierra City, Sierra Bijimi
It was just after nine P.M. that same day when Air Force Two, with Vice President of the United States Marshall Adams, settled onto the almost-too-short runway at Sierra City, and came to a stop next to a rolled-out red carpet.
“Wally?” the Vice President asked as he headed for the door.
“Sierra Bijimi, broke away from Central Bijimi in 1990. A republic, just below most of the Islamic nations. Ninety-seven percent African. Four million people. A small landlocked country. It has thirty-five-percent tillable land. The rest is dense jungle. Thom Kolda is President of a shaky democracy. A small country of four thousand, two hundred square miles. About twice the size of Delaware. Literacy rate is forty-seven percent.”
The aircraft door opened and Vice President Adams walked out on the steps to be greeted with a blaring band, a dozen floodlights, and a smiling group of black faces at the foot of the aluminum aircraft-access steps. “Here we go again,” he told himself. He waved and walked down the steps to be introduced to President Kolda.
Adams beat back a frown when he saw the nation’s President. He was short, fat, had a seriously large nose and pig eyes. His suit was rumpled and had stains on the front. The hand that came out to greet the Vice President felt soft and flabby.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” Adams said. “It’s good to visit your nation.”
Kolda said something in the strange Wolof language. An interpreter at his side responded immediately.
“President Kolda is delighted to meet you, Mr. Vice President Adams, and welcomes you to our nation. We have some entertainment for you and your security men.”
“Tell the President that’s wonderful, but I’m near exhaustion and need to get to my hotel.”
The interpreter shook his head. “I can’t tell him that. He insists that you come with him for the entertainment or he will be tremendously insulted.”
The Vice President sighed and looked at Wally, who nodded.
“Tell the President that I will enjoy going with him for the entertainment.”
Twenty minutes later a limo deposited Vice President Adams, Wally, and two Secret Service men at a small nightclub with a guard outside the door. There were fifty people waiting to get in. They hooted and yelled when the Sierra Bijimi President and his party and Vice President Adams and his three men walked in the door. They were taken at once around the side of the club, which had a band on the stage and tables filled with people.
They went through two doors and then up steps into a small amphitheater. It was nearly filled with men of all ages. Adams guessed there were about two hundred men there. He didn’t see a single woman in the audience. An usher took them down to the front row, where seats had been saved for them.
“What kind of a show goes on here?” Adams asked the interpreter, who sat between President Kolda and the Vice President.
“Show? Yes, a show. You will see shortly. It does not last long.”
A girl with large breasts bulging from a small bra top and wearing a short skirt served them drinks. There was no charge to the President’s party. President Kolda took three of the drinks and then fondled the girl’s breasts. She smiled as he did it. A moment later one of the President’s aides tucked a wad of bills inside the girl’s bra and she left quickly.
The Vice President looked around the area and realized that there was some kind of betting going on. Men moved up and down the aisles taking bets and giving out slips of paper, red or green. He asked Wally what it was.
“Got me, Mr. Vice President. Not a clue.” Wally asked the interpreter.
The man frowned and leaned away from Adams a moment. Then, with more resolve, he nodded. “Yes, they are gambling. I can arrange for you to make a bet if you wish.”
“What are they gambling on?” Adams asked.
The interpreter frowned and glanced at President Kolda. “You were not told?”
“Not a clue. What’s going on?”
“You bet red or green,” the interpreter said. “Red is the more risky bet, but odds are five to one. Green is safer, but only two to one.”
“That I understand,” the Vice President said. “But what are they betting on?”
Just then trumpets sounded, and everyone turned to stare at a runway with a red carpet on it that came down one side of the arena and ended at a golden chair that sat in the twenty-foot-wide circle stage.
A girl in a flowing robe of pure silk and wearing a crown of diamonds appeared at the top of the red carpet. She posed for the patrons for a moment. If the diamonds were real, they must be worth half a million dollars, Adams figured. He watched as the girl came down the red carpet to the cheers and applause of the group. The men were standing now, so Adams and his men stood as well. They watched the girl come to the stage, go around it once, smiling and waving at the men. Then she strutted to the golden chair. She looked at the men, who cheered more and more. At last she nodded, loosened a tie at her throat, and whipped off the robe. Under it she was naked.
She stood, posed as a model might. She was slender, well formed and not at all self-conscious about displaying her naked body. The music, which had been low-key during the entry, now picked up. The girl sat down in the chair and the stage began to rotate, giving every man there a good view of the woman. The betting along the aisles surged as men waved money at the bet takers. By that time the betting was at a frenzy pitch. Men shoved others aside to get to the bet takers. Money flowed. A fight broke out, which was quickly stopped. Men were shouting and screaming to get to the betting places. The music built again, then stopped suddenly. When the music ceased the betting evidently was over, Adams decided. The men in the aisles with the betting slips and the money vanished through doors that went under the stands.