Trial By Fire. Don Pendleton

time, then, won’t it?” Pieter asked.

      “Yeah, but then they’ll probably eat you.”

      “Hope they choke.” Pieter grinned past his bloody teeth. “Or at least get indigestion.”

      Bolan smiled. The copilot was a brave man.

      “Well, your choice, then, mate. Burn me, bury me, leave me for the dipsticks. Reckon I’m fine with any of it.”

      “Mighty reasonable of you, Pieter.” Bolan nodded. “How would you feel about all three?”

      3

      Arua, Uganda

      Alireza Rhage looked out of his office window across the sea of lights just outside Arua proper. The constellations of campfires were a cosmos of misery. The twinkling lights were the result of thousands of refugees burning whatever flammable garbage they could find. Arua was swollen with those who had fled the internecine fighting in the Democratic Republic of the Congo and Sudan. The refugee camps were swiftly becoming suburban shantytowns rife with violence and despair.

      They were fertile recruiting grounds.

      Ostensibly Rhage was a businessman investing in Uganda’s northern tea cultivation. Years of corruption and warfare had turned that industry into a shadow of what it once was. In his year and a half as a tea exporter, agricultural attaché Rhage had never turned a dime of profit. That was of no consequence. In reality, Captain Rhage was an exporter, and what he exported had reaped untold dividends in blood and human misery.

      Rhage turned to his personal secretary. “You say there has been no report of a crash, and Flight 499 never arrived at Wonderboom Airport in Pretoria?”

      Sergeant Major Pakzad shook his head. “No, Captain.”

      “Have there been any reported emergency landings?”

      “There have been seven emergency landings by private planes reported in sub-Saharan Africa within Flight 499’s flight window, Captain, but none was reported by Flight 499.”

      “Given the nature of the emergency, could they have landed under false identification?”

      “That is possible, of course, but none of the emergency landings recorded in the last forty-eight hours were made within reasonable distance of Flight 499’s flight path.”

      “Does it strike you as odd, Sergeant Major, that a private flight full of American military cadets, one of them the son of a United States senator, appears to have disappeared without a trace?”

      Pakzad smiled with pride. “Well, Captain. We did shoot it down.”

      Rhage smiled in return. It had been Sergeant Major Pakzad’s plan. He was a brilliant intelligence officer. He and his staff constantly processed information and devised scenarios. In the sergeant major’s fertile mind, Flight 499 and its passengers had gone from a nonactionable item of mild interest to an opportunity. “Yet, no international outcry. No rescue or salvage mission mounted that we know of. What does that tell you?”

      “It says that perhaps the crash occurred in a place the United States cannot easily reach. A bad place, where they have no assets. So they are keeping the situation quiet.”

      “Which implies that the cadets may be alive.”

      “It is possible, given the nature of the emergency, the pilots did not get out a distress call. By the same token, it is possible that the United States has the power to suppress the situation. My best guess is that the plane crash-landed. If there are survivors they most likely used their cell phones to call for help, which we could not monitor or intercept. The United States has no realistic way to project force into the Congo, much less do so without creating an international incident. The northeastern corner of the DRC is one of the most violent, lawless places on Earth. The United States would not want to advertise they are missing people in the region. Any number of groups hostile to them could retrieve the survivors. A hostage situation involving U.S. military school cadets in Equatorial Africa would be a worst-case scenario for them.”

      Rhage glanced at the tri-corner border region of Sudan, Uganda and the DRC. “The best they could immediately manage would be to drop in Special Forces operators.”

      “Yes, but from where?” Pakzad pondered. “The United States? Divert them from operations in Afghanistan?”

      “Nevertheless, I am taking this continuing silence to mean the Americans are up to something.”

      “Very well, Captain. Let us assume the Americans have somehow dropped in a rescue team. That leaves them trying to walk out of the Congo. In that case, their best option would be to make for the Ugandan border.”

      The corner of Rhage’s mouth quirked up. Pakzad’s plan was growing more momentous by the minute. “Straight toward us.”

      “Yes, Captain, and if you are correct, then I suspect the CIA station in Kampala is quietly arranging a team to meet them.”

      “I want you to quietly assemble a team of our own, and we will need native trackers who know the area.”

      “Yes, Captain!” Pakzad smiled. “We shall herd the little ducks and then pluck them!”

      “You are confident, Sergeant Major. You are aware of the fact that U.S. Special Forces operatives are the best in the world.”

      “Yes, Captain. Yet I doubt they could have mustered a full Delta Force team, and they will be saddled with children.”

      “Military students, Sergeant Major.”

      “American teenagers,” Pakzad scoffed. “Soft cadets.”

      Rhage smiled tolerantly. “Did you know that I attended academy in my youth?”

      “No, Captain. I did not.”

      “Oh, I will admit, the greater proportion of my youthful studies stressed the glory of the Revolution and utter loyalty. Nevertheless, it was at academy where I first learned to read a map, use a compass, route march, and fire and field strip an automatic rifle.”

      “Yes, Captain. I understand,” Pakzad’s smile suddenly turned sly. It was a smile Rhage knew all too well, and it always meant something was afoot in the man’s mind. “Captain?”

      “Yes, Sergeant Major.”

      “I have an idea.”

      “I look forward very much to hearing it.”

      “I am reminded of the siege of Troy…”

      THE CADETS SQUATTED in the morning mist and made a cold and meager breakfast of the individually wrapped cress-and-cucumber finger sandwiches that they’d despised during the flight, the few packs of peanuts and remaining odds and ends. The cadets had changed out of their dress uniforms and wore the T-shirts and shorts or casual pants they had packed for South Africa. Jovich eyed his tiny sandwich that consisted mostly of leaves. “Man, who is that guy, Rambo?”

      Cadet Shelby ate the last honey-roasted peanut. “Sarge rocks.” She carefully opened the empty foil pack like a letter and licked the salt and dust from the inside.

      Metard and King immediately followed her lead and began licking foil.

      Jovich shoved his sandwich into his mouth and glanced around to see if the sergeant was lurking. “And what’s with the fraternity pledge names?”

      Johnson licked mayonnaise off his fingers. “Actually, I kind of liked it when he went all Heartbreak Ridge on us.”

      Eischen took a swallow from the last can of Coke and passed it on. His eyes narrowed slyly. “He’s taking a ragtag band of pubescent cadets and turning them into a well-oiled fighting machine.”

      Several cadets laughed. Rudipu eyed the battered ladder-sight of his Kalashnikov dubiously. “Man, I sure hope so.”

      Bolan appeared out of the mist with the plane’s