Hood let that thought soak in before continuing.
"Edgar, we don't have enough information to allow an air strike to take place," Hood concluded. "At least-at the very least-give our people the time to finish what they were sent to do."
"Paul, I don't know," Kline said. "Even if I wanted to, I don't know if I can make that happen."
"Try," Herbert said.
"Your say-so will get the Spanish soldiers to delay entering the camp," Hood said. "If they don't go in, the Botswana choppers won't strike for fear of killing Father Bradbury."
"You can tell them the camp is moving," Rodgers^aid. "It's true. They might miss it altogether."
"Paul, they may be in there already, with the Brush Vipers," Kline said.
"Then, Edgar, we can't afford to waste any more time," Hood pressed.
The silence that followed was tense, exaggerated. The hum of the computer fan sounded like a turbine.
Finally, Kline spoke. "I will do what I can. I'll ask them to hold," he said. "But I cannot answer for the Botswana military."
"They may not attack without knowing that Father Bradbury is out of danger," Rodgers said.
"I pray you're right," Kline replied.
The Vatican officer hung up.
"Well. All it took was three of us beating him with morality to get him to budge," Herbert said.
"I've had to use more than that to get you to move sometimes," Hood said.
"Yeah, but I'm usually right," Herbert said.
Calmer now, Herbert left the office to see what Darrell McCaskey might have discovered about the Japanese connection. Rodgers looked at Hood.
"I pray we're right, too," Hood said.
"Yeah," Rodgers said. "You want to make that official?"
Hood smiled. "Are you serious?"
Rodgers nodded.
"It's been a long time," Hood said.
"Then I'll lead," Rodgers replied.
The general slid off his chair and lowered himself to one knee. Hood did the same. Rodgers said something about God looking after the people in the field, especially those who were risking themselves for others. Rodgers knew from countless missions that the words themselves did not matter as much as the sentiment. His heart and soul were definitely in this. Not just because he felt they were right but because he understood the political crisis Botswana was facing. And he believed that only divine intervention could save Dhamballa and the Brush Vipers from being slaughtered.
Chapter Fifty-six
These were the hours that made life worthwhile. They were the challenges for which Captain Antonio Abreo had been trained. They were a chance to pit himself against an unfamiliar environment and a new enemy.
They were an opportunity to savor life by risking it.
His nonmilitary friends and relatives told him it was a crazy way to make a living. They were all farmers and fishermen and tour guides. They had comfortable lives. They would probably have long lives. Eighty years of boredom did not appeal to Abreo.
Risk, and planning for that risk, did.
Captain Abreo had felt there was a better chance of getting to the priest with two men rather than an entire unit. Dressed in camouflage greens, Abreo and Sergeant Vicente Diamante had decided to jump to the site described by Father Bradbury.
The two men had taken off from Maun. They flew on a twin-turboprop EMB-110 that had been flown in from Gaborone. The Brazilian-made aircraft belonged to the Botswana Meteorological Research Department. The government had loaned it to the Unidad Especial del Despliegue to make the incursion. Though Gaborone was not happy to have foreign soldiers operating on their soil, their involvement would remain a secret. It was more important to restore order absolutely. At the same time, the remaining members of the team were making their way to the swamp in the company of the Botswana military.
The BMRD had detailed maps of the region. Captain Abreo had used them to pinpoint the likely location where Father Bradbury was being kept. Then he and Sergeant Diamante had parachuted to the nearest small island, which was about a quarter mile away. There, Diamante deployed a small rubber raft. The men carried that plus a pair of night-vision goggles, a radio, two M-82s, and a pair of nine-inch hunting knives.
While the sergeant inflated the raft, Captain Abreo hid the parachutes behind a clump of vines. Then he scanned the darkness for signs of a camp. He found it with no problem. Lights, sounds, activity. He did not even need the night-vision glasses to see them. After dabbing mud on their faces and hands, the Spanish officers put the raft in the water. Then they made their way swiftly and silently toward the deserted northern side of the small island. All of the activity seemed to be centered in the south. It was clear that the Vodunists were breaking camp. There were several small huts on the island. Abreo spotted one where there was no activity. Where the windows were closed, despite the heat. That was probably the shack where Father Bradbury was incarcerated. Once the two soldiers had recovered the priest, the plan was for them to head north. When they were a half mile from the island, they were to radio the commander of the Botswana strike force. The attack would commence soon thereafter. When it was finished, one of the helicopters would retrieve the two soldiers and the priest.
The sergeant was crouched in the rear, rowing. First on one side, then the other. The dark water rippled gently around the raft. The captain peered ahead. He ignored the few gnats that clouded around his ears and cheek. Swatting them away would accomplish nothing except to distract him. It was surprisingly quiet out here. The only croaking and clicking they heard had been around the island. The officer was aware of all of it. The sounds, the smells, the gentle current under the raft. Once a mission had begun, Captain Abreo became a part of his environment. Alert, patient, defensive rather than offensive. Growing up on a sheep farm in the Basque country, he had learned a very simple lesson from foxes. The ones who got away were the ones you never saw coming.
As the elite soldiers neared the target, the radio blinked. It was a dull brown pinpoint flash that would not be visible more than a few feet away. Abreo picked up the headset. He attached the subvocal microphone to an elastic band he wore around his throat. Then he plugged the small disk-shaped microphone into the band. The tiny receiver plucked vibrations directly from his voice box. It would enable him to whisper and still be heard.
"Abreo," he said.
"Captain, this is CHQ," said the caller. That was the code name for Corporal Enrique Infiesta, the group's radio operator. Infiesta spoke fluent English and was liaison with the Botswana military.
"Go ahead," Abreo replied.
"Sir, the VSO liaison has asked us to postpone the operation," Infiesta informed him.
"For how long?" Abreo asked. The order had killed the captain's internal engines. He had to start them up again. They were still in a danger zone.
"Two hours," the caller replied.
"What's the reason?" Abreo asked.
"There is a simultaneous operation. That one has been given priority," Infiesta replied.
"Priority? By whom?"
"I don't know, sir," the caller told him.
"There is no one around but cult members," Abreo replied. "Do you know if this other party infiltrated the Brush Vipers?"
"I do not know, sir," Infiesta told him.
"Are they Spanish or Botswanan?" Infiesta asked.
"I don't know that either, sir," the radioman replied. "Do you want me to call and ask?"
"No. That won't change anything," Abreo replied.
Abreo looked out at the island. The cultists were running around loading the boats. They were so intent on leaving, they were not watching their flank. That was the problem with young movements. Leon Seronga was obviously the chief strategist. He was not here. Whoever was the number-two officer did not have the experience to mount a successful retreat. Or perhaps they felt they were not going to be attacked here.