Here’s hoping they know their shit, he thought. And they don’t collide. None of them have PNVS gear. (Pilot’s night vision system.)

  Harcourt’s lights became visible as engines roared; the Z-8 rose and banked to the north. It wasn’t long before the city lights gave way to individual pinpoints of yellow blinking lights on cell towers, and large patches of undifferentiated blackness.

  “We penetrated deeper and deeper into the heart of darkness.”

  Joseph Conrad wrote that sentence in 1899, Baxter mused. And while the days of imperialism are over, industrialized nations still want access to the valuable resources found in countries like Nigeria. That’s why I’m on a Chinese helicopter. The bastards are everywhere.

  It had been a long day, and Baxter fell asleep at some point. Lieutenant Dupont woke him. “We’re five out, sir … I thought you’d want to know.”

  Master Chief Riley and Lieutenant Mason were back at the base, conducting regular patrols and maintaining discipline. “Thanks, Lieutenant. I can hardly wait.”

  The light inside the Z-8’s cabin was dim, but Baxter could make out the whiteness of the Frenchman’s teeth. “Welcome to the Legion, sir. We spend a lot of time in swamps.”

  Baxter chuckled. “Just like the 3rd REI.”

  The 3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment was stationed in French Guiana. Dupont nodded. “You are well informed, sir. I served in Guiana for two years.”

  The helicopter was landing by then, and Baxter felt better knowing that his second in command knew something about actual swamps. His own experience was limited to the swamp called Washington D.C. Baxter felt a solid thump as the helicopter’s tricycle landing gear touched down.

  The island had been chosen with great care by the folks at the NRO (National Reconnaissance Office). It was located on the southern edge of the search area, and was large enough to accommodate the Z-8s, with a safety margin between them.

  Meanwhile the thick foliage that grew all around the LZ would provide the S&R team with concealment. There was a rush to unload people and gear from Baxter’s helo, even as Lieutenant Dupont sent legionnaires to establish a 360-degree security screen, and the boats were removed from helicopter two.

  As soon as those tasks were accomplished the Z-8s took off. Engines roared, debris whirled, and they turned south. Once on their way, the pilots turned their nav lights off, and the helos disappeared.

  The next two hours were spent unpacking, erecting four-man tents, and slapping mosquitoes. Every team member had been vaccinated against malaria, and was wearing repellent, but the insects swarmed them anyway.

  In accordance with Dupont’s watch list the men were slated to sleep in two hour shifts with two thirds of the team on duty at all times. It wasn’t much, but some rest was better than none.

  Baxter stood the first watch and made the rounds with one of the team’s guides. His name was Yakuba. He’d been born and raised in the delta, and claimed to know it like the back of his hand. Together they stopped to chat with each sentry.

  The team wasn’t large enough to cover the entire perimeter. So, the emphasis was on spotting trouble, and using their radios to call for reinforcements if necessary.

  Every now and then Baxter heard gunfire off in the distance. Single shots for the most part. But there were bursts of fire too, which according to Yakuba were most likely the result of turf wars. “There are many tribes in this area,” the Nigerian said. “Sometimes they fight. Then there’s Boko Haram and various pirate gangs. Lots of people. Lots of guns. And lots of fighting.” That made the situation considerably worse than Baxter had imagined. Finding the hostages, rescuing them, and getting out was going to be a bitch.

  Baxter tried to sleep during his two-hour break, but woke frequently due to loud snoring, and the discordant symphony of swamp sounds.

  When morning came Baxter felt tired. However, thanks to the excellent coffee produced by Caporal Cerne, and a chocolate bar, he soon felt better. The dehydrated eggs were a none too pleasant afterthought.

  All of the team members were dressed delta style, which is to say, in all manner of branded tees, raggedy shorts, and high-top sneakers. The latter being a must according to Dupont.

  “Flip flops are the norm in Nigeria,” he admitted. “But they’re unstable, they have a tendency to come loose at the worst possible time, and they have thin soles. So, high-tops will stand in for boots.”

  The decision made sense. And Baxter wasn’t about to contradict a man who had survived two years in French Guiana’s swamps.

  Various items of apparel had been added to conceal the body armor, pistols and knives that each team member carried.

  Assault weapons were loosely wrapped in rags, as were the LMGs and grenade launchers, which were concealed in the boat cabins where half the legionnaires were going to ride. It would be a tight fit, but that couldn’t be helped, since most of the local pirogues had only two crew members.

  “Never fear … I’ll rotate my men through the cabins,” Dupont promised. And that would have to do.

  The search began at 0630. Baxter had considered sending the boats out separately to cover more swamp in less time. But, after consulting with Ikande and Dupont, Baxter decided to keep the boats together to ensure that the search party would have the maximum amount of firepower if required.

  It was further resolved that the second pirogue would stay five hundred yards back from the first, but be ready to come up fast, guns blazing if needed.

  Three heavily armed legionnaires were left to guard the encampment. Not enough to repel a serious attack, but sufficient to scare fishermen off, and make sure that the team’s gear would be there when the rest of the team returned.

  The one-square-mile grid search had been laid out by people at the NRO. And thanks to them Baxter had GPS waypoints to follow, aerial photos of the area, and significant landmarks to watch for.

  But, more than that, the team had Yakuba and Okafor. One guide for each boat. And they were invaluable. The locals were quite good at connecting the eye-in-the-sky visuals with the swampscape that surrounded them.

  And, so it began. The process was exciting at first. There were new things to see including crocodiles and exotic villages. They were easy to locate thanks to the pillars of smoke that probed the sky. And they had certain things in common. That included the pirogues drawn up onto the mud, farm animals wandering about, and huts on stilts.

  Fortunately, from Baxter’s perspective, Sneaker One and Sneaker Two drew very little attention. And why would they? The only thing that set the boats apart from others was the fact that they had two motors each.

  But eventually what had been new sights became old and time began to slow. The NRO’s analysts had identified dozens of abandoned oil rigs, half sunken barges, and rusting ships as possible hideouts. But none of them panned out. And, there was nothing to say that Eze and his men weren’t living in or near a village.

  The search grid was designed to bring the boats back to their encampment by nightfall. Another night was spent there. It was nearly identical to the first except that it rained. That caused the surrounding water level to rise, made the ground mushy, and added to the level of misery that the team members were already suffering.

  Fortunately, the tents were water and bug proof. But, being confined to a small space with three smelly men was less than pleasant.

  And rather than have a shelter all to himself Baxter thought it was important to live the way his men did.

  The second day dawned clear, mist hovered over the water, and the silence was broken only by the purr of outboard motors as the team continued to search. This time the grid took them through a maze of motionless pump jacks, past a forest of dead trees, and through a narrow passageway—where they were attacked.

  There was no way to know who was shooting at them or why. Both boats responded with fire from their LMGs, HK416F assault rifles, and 40mm grenade launchers. At least a dozen attackers were killed and many more were wounded.

  The incoming fire ended within seconds. “It’s the motors,” Yakuba said, as the pirogues cleared the ambush zone. “They’re quite valuable.”

  And so it went. They returned to the island. Time was running out for the hostages, and Baxter felt failure closing in around him. He was doing his best, but his best wasn’t good enough. And people were going to die as a result. That likelihood weighed heavily on his mind.

  Baxter was sitting on a tree stump, eating dehydrated stew, when Ikande and Okafor approached. Baxter nodded. “Please remove your shoes. I don’t allow mud in my office.”

  Ikande grinned. “Okafor has been monitoring the fish net since we landed. There hasn’t been any chatter about Mr. Eze. But there’s plenty of talk about a preacher named Billy Sunday, and the church service scheduled for tomorrow morning.”

  Baxter wiped his lips. “So, today is Saturday?”

  Ikande nodded. “Yes.”

  “Time flies when you’re having fun. Why are you telling me this?”

  Ikande turned to the guide. “Tell him.”

  Okafor was shy and found it difficult to look Baxter in the eye. “Hundreds of people will attend,” Okafor said. “We can talk to them. The locals are likely to know where Mr. Eze is. All we need to do is find someone who’s willing to talk.”

  “Money would need to change hands,” Ikande added. “I can handle that.”

  Baxter stalled by sipping some bottled water. Wandering through a crowd asking about Eze reeked of desperation. But that’s what he was: desperate.

  Baxter screwed the cap on. “Okay, that sounds good. I’m ready to try it. Thank you for coming forward, Chidozie. I appreciate it.”

  Chidozie was Okafor’s first name. And the sound of it put a big smile on the guide’s face. “You are welcome, sah.”

  There was a momentary disturbance when a crocodile came ashore during the night. The problem was resolved by aiming a flashlight at it. But other than that, and sporadic gunfire, the hours of darkness passed without incident.

  When morning came Lieutenant Dupont roused his men by going from tent to tent. “Time to get up and go to church you godless bastards. And bring your bibles.”

  Predictably enough, the announcement triggered a broadside of the swearing which Dupont enjoyed.

  The religious rendezvous was only forty-five minutes away for the motorized pirogues. And it wasn’t long before the S&R team was subsumed by the steadily increasing number of boats and rafts all headed for a lagoon called “Purgatory.”

  It wasn’t clear who named the body of water. It could have been oil rig roughnecks, the locals, or Billy Sunday. But Baxter thought the moniker was fitting, because the lagoon wasn’t heaven and it wasn’t hell either.

  In fact, thanks to an early morning mist through which boats passed, it felt as if something supernatural was taking place. And that was when Baxter realized that the lagoon was the church, the closely packed boats were pews, and the get-together was more than a church service. It was a chance to socialize. Something that Ikande, Yakuba, and Okafor took advantage of by boat hopping.

  The fact that people were using the pirogues as stepping stones meant the legionnaires had to remain hidden. But that couldn’t be helped, because if the fisher folk saw the armed men, word of their presence would spread like wildfire.

  A barge supporting a raised platform was anchored at the center of the lake. Speakers were visible at each corner of the structure—a sure sign that everyone would be able to hear what Sunday said. What will he say? Baxter wondered. This could be interesting. Or extremely boring.

  It seemed that the church service was running on what Ikande referred to as “Africa Time” because it began a full forty-five minutes later than was advertised.

  The program began when a person climbed the vertical ladder to the platform. And, when Baxter brought the binoculars to his eyes, he found himself looking at a brightly clad woman.

  The fisher folk cheered. It was obvious that they knew her, and knew what was coming. A mike was available on a stand and she took hold of it. Then she began to sing. Every note was perfect and seemed to float on the air.

  “Amazing grace,

  How sweet the sound

  That saved a wretch like me.

  I once was lost, but now I’m found,

  I was blind, but now I see.”

  Baxter was moved by the a cappella performance, as well as by the lyrics, which had a timeless quality.

  Once the song was over Baxter saw another figure climb the ladder. The woman went over to hug him or her, gave the mike over, and stood to one side.

  That was when the newcomer stepped forward and spoke into the mike. “Good morning! My name is Billy Sunday … And I’m here to ask for God’s blessing on you!”

  That was enough to elicit cries of “Praise the Lord!” “Thank you, Jesus!” and, “We love you, Billy!”

  Baxter brought the binoculars up for a closer look. There was something familiar about the man in the clerical clothing. Then, after consulting the photo that Colonel Martel had given him, Baxter realized the truth. William Eze was Billy Sunday!

  ***

  Abuja, Nigeria

  Nigerian President Abeo Kabir was seated in the back of the black limo, talking on his cell phone, when a huge truck entered the street and forced Kabir’s driver to stand on the brakes.

  Kabir was thrown forward, but the seat belt held him in place. The significance of the near miss wasn’t clear to Kabir at first. But the SSS (State Security Service) agent sitting in the front passenger seat understood the threat.

  The truck had the effect of separating the limo from the lead vehicles. The agent was on the radio, announcing a code yellow, when he heard an explosion—and half of a vacant building collapsed on the SSS vehicles that were stopped behind the limo.

  That was when the smoke grenades went off, and a twenty-five-ton fork lift appeared from the left and scooped the limo up off the street.

  The limo driver was frantic by then, and babbling incoherently, as a boom truck appeared out of the swirling fog. Suddenly Kabir saw shadowy figures rushing toward the car, towing lengths of heavy chain. Cargo hooks … The chains were attached to red cargo hooks … Why? Because they were going to hook them to the limo that’s why.

  Kabir was shouting into his phone as the chains tightened and jerked the car into the air. “There’s smoke … Something has hold of the limo! They’re lifting it up! Send help!”

  But it was too late to send help. The seven-ton limo was five feet off the ground by then and continuing to rise.

  The second agent yelled “Code red!” over and over again, as Kabir tried to unlock the door. Maybe he could jump, run, and hide.

  The limo was swinging sideways. Kabir felt the motion stop as the boom operator released the car. It fell dead center into the truck and bounced. Then, as the smoke started to clear, the truck jerked into motion. The president of Nigeria had been kidnapped.

  ***

  Purgatory Lagoon, in The Niger Delta

  “You’re right,” Inspector Ikande said, as he peered through the binoculars. “It’s William Eze pretending to be a minister.”

  That was true in part, except that as Eze began to preach, it soon became apparent that his alter ego was a minister of sorts.

  As Baxter listened, he recognized what was generally referred to in the United States as “prosperity theology,” the “health and wealth gospel,” or the “gospel of success.”

  The common thread being that financial blessings and physical well-being are subject to the will of God. And through faith, positive thinking, and non-stop donations to the church, adherents could increase their material wealth.

  Except that what Bill Sunday put forward had a weird Nigerian pirate-spin. The sermon began conventionally enough with a quote from Philippians 4:19: “My God shall supply all your needs according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus.” Followed by 3 John 1:2: “Beloved, I wish above all things that thou mayest prosper and be in health, even as thy soul prospereth.”

  Then the sermon segued into a riff about how stealing from the rich is okay—they’ll still be rich after the loss—accompanied by a stern admonition to share some of the booty with those in need.

  And that, Sunday said, was why his flock should line up to pass by the barge where each boat would receive two thousand Nigerian Naira, which according to Ikande was the equivalent of five dollars U.S.

  “It doesn’t seem much to you,” Ikande conceded. “But in Nigeria one hundred dollars can pay a month’s rent. So very few people will ignore the opportunity.”

  “The bastard is bribing them,” Baxter said. “Paying them to remain silent regarding his movements and location.”

  “Exactly,” Ikande agreed. “And that explains why we haven’t heard anything useful on the fish net.”

  Baxter’s thoughts turned to other things. The most important of which was how to follow Eze home. He turned to his ET. “Get Colonel Martel on the horn. Tell whoever you make contact with that this is an emergency. I need to talk with Martel now.”

  ***

  Abuja, Nigeria

  The SSS driver released the door locks and yelled, “Open your door!”

  President Kabir tried. But there was very little clearance. No more than a few inches. So, he pulled it closed. Double thumps were heard.

  “Shit!” agent two said, with pistol in hand. “They’re on the roof!”

  Kabir felt a stab of fear as he heard the unmistakable sound of a gas motor starting up!

  The assassins had a power saw! One that could cut through metal!

  That prediction proved to be true as sparks flew, and the bottom half of a circular saw blade appeared inside the limo.

  The SSS agents couldn’t fire. Not without running the risk that they would hit the president. So, like Kabir, they were forced to sit and watch as the saw finished cutting a rectangular hole.

  “Duck!” agent two commanded. “The roof is about to fall on you!”

  Kabir barely had time to bend over when one end of the roof landed on his back. It hurt. Kabir could hear sirens in the distance.

  The SSS agents were firing up through the hole by then. But stopped when a tear gas cannister fell, bounced off the back seat, and spewed gas into the cramped space. The passengers were incapacitated. The snatch was nearly complete.