Skeleton Coast (Oregon Files 4)

“Would you believe we’re stuck in the middle of the ocean on the back of Papa Heinrick’s giant metal snake? And have we stumbled into something weird.”

“You don’t know the half of it, my friend. You don’t know the half of it.”

18

DR. Julia Huxley, the Oregon’s medical officer, had flown out to the wave generation station aboard the Robinson R44 so by the time the nimble little chopper touched down on the freighter’s deck Sloane Macintyre was already hooked up to an IV that was flooding her veins with painkillers, antibiotics, and saline solution for her dehydration. Julia had stripped away her sodden clothes and wrapped her in a thermal blanket. She’d cleaned and dressed the gunshot wound as best she could with the kit she’d brought, but was eager to tend her properly.

Two orderlies were waiting with a gurney when the retractable helipad was lowered into the hold and Sloane was whisked to sick bay, an infirmary that rivaled a metropolitan level-one trauma cent

er.

Hux’s treatment of Juan had been a quick pronouncement that he was fine, a liter bottle of a vile-tasting sports drink, and a couple aspirin. At least Max was in the hangar with one of Cabrillo’s spare legs.

Juan dropped onto a work bench to unseat his mangled prosthesis. The Oregon had slowed her mad dash from Cape Town in order for George Adams to land the helicopter, and now, as he accepted the artificial limb from his second in command, he could feel the ship begin to accelerate again.

He angrily yanked down his pants cuff and started walking quickly, calling over his shoulder, “Senior staff in the boardroom in fifteen minutes.”

His team was assembled by the time he finished a quick shower and a shave that left his face raw from the straight razor he used. Maurice had prepared a coffee service and had a steaming cup at the head of the cherry conference table for him. The armored covers for the boardroom’s windows were opened so the room was brightly lit, contrasting sharply with the dark look of the men and women seated around him.

Juan took a sip of his coffee and bluntly said, “Okay, what the hell happened?”

As chief intelligence officer, Linda Ross took point. She hastily swallowed a mouthful of Danish. “Yesterday morning members of the Kinshasa police raided a house outside the city, believing it was a drug distribution center. They made several arrests and found a cache of arms as well as a small amount of drugs. They also found a heap of documents linking the dealers to Samuel Makambo and his Congolese Army of Revolution.”

“The guy that bought our weapons,” Mark Murphy reminded unnecessarily. He didn’t look up from his work on the laptop Juan had taken from the wave-powered generator.

Linda continued. “It turns out that Makambo was using the proceeds from the drug sales to further finance his activities, which isn’t a big stretch. What caught the police off guard was how Makambo had managed to use bribery to infiltrate the upper echelons of the government. He had a ton of bureaucrats on his payroll, including Benjamin Isaka in the Defense Ministry. For fifty thousand Euros a year paid into a Swiss bank account, Isaka fed information to Makambo about the government’s attempts to locate his secret base of operations. He continually tipped off the rebel leader so Makambo’s army was always one step ahead of government troops.”

Max was seated at the opposite end of the burnished table, his bulldog face more dour than normal. “Makambo knew from the moment we first made contact pretending to be arms merchants that he was being set up. Isaka told him about how the weapons had been fitted with radio direction tags. His first step after we made our escape was to dismantle the AKs and RPGs and toss the tags into the river.”

“Isaka has admitted to this?”

“Not publicly,” Max said. “But I’ve been on the phone with a couple of people in their government. Once I explained who I am and all, they told me the team sent to track the arms reported they never left the dock before they simply stopped transmitting.”

“And when they reached the dock,” Juan said, coming to the same conclusion as the others, “there was no sign of the rebels or the guns.” He looked at Mark Murphy. “How about it, Murph, are our tags still working?”

“They should be for another twenty-four to thirty-six hours. If I can get up to the Congo in time I have a shot of finding them from a chopper or a plane.”

“Has Tiny reached Swakopmund with our Citation?” Juan asked, his mind calculating distances, speeds, and time.

“He should be there by about one.”

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. As soon as we’re in range Murph will chopper to the coast and Tiny’ll fly him up to Kinshasa. From there, Mark, it will be up to you to charter any aircraft you need because Tiny has to fly back for tonight’s parachute drop.”

“I’ll need a hand,” Murph said.

“Take Eric. Max can act as captain and helmsman when we make our rescue attempt.”

Eddie Seng spoke up for the first time. “Chairman, there’s no reason to believe those arms haven’t been spread all over the Congo by now.”

Cabrillo nodded. “I know, but we have to try. If the ten guns we put our tags on are bunched together it stands to reason all the other weapons are there, too.”

“Do you think Makambo’s planning an assault of some kind?” Linda asked.

“We won’t know until Mark and Eric locate them.”

“Gotcha!” Mark exclaimed, looking up from the ThinkPad.

“What have you got?”