McCaskey said nothing. When he had spoken, he was not thinking about the Striker members who had been killed over the years. He was only thinking about his wife.
'Say it again!' Rodgers yelled.
McCaskey could not. He would not. He looked down. All the emotion that had built up in the last day was gone. Unfortunately, he had let it loose on the wrong target. And at that moment, Darrell McCaskey knew who he was really mad at. It was not Mike Rodgers, and it was not Maria. He was mad at himself for the reason Rodgers had said. McCaskey should never have tried to get Maria to agree to give up her work.
'Mike, I'm sorry you took it that way,' McCaskey told him. 'Shit, I'm sorry.'
Rodgers continued to look at him. The men were silent for a moment longer. Finally, Rodgers looked away. Once again, he turned and headed toward the office door.
'I'll be back here after the Kline download,' Rodgers said softly. 'Let me know when you've got something about the Japanese.'
'Sure,' McCaskey said. 'Mike?'
Rodgers paused and looked back. 'Yeah?'
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'For what it's worth, that isn't what I meant,' McCaskey said. 'I know how you feel.'
'I know what's in your heart, pal,' Rodgers said. 'It's been a tough time for everyone. Right now, we're both a part of your wife's support system. Let's see what we can do to make that work in the best way possible.'
Rodgers turned away and left the office. He did not look back at McCaskey. It seemed very, very quiet.
McCaskey made a fist and drove it into his open hand. The slap sounded like lightning. Which was appropriate. He had done what he had really come for. He had let out the pent-up energy. But he had dumped it on an old friendship. One that he feared would never be the same.
FIFTY-TWO
Maun, Botswana Friday, 10:09 P.M.
Except for the occasional bounce, it was silent in the cabin of the truck. Leon Seronga did not complain. The Spanish woman was staring ahead, and Njo Finn was silent. He was gripping the wheel tightly. After the encounter with Maria, the driver seemed glad to be in control of something.
The windows were open. The night air was not cool, but the strong wind felt good. A half hour before, Pavant had passed a six-pack of warm Cokes from the back of the truck. Seronga had offered one to Maria, but she had declined. Seronga was nursing his second can. Each sip of the warm beverage burned his mouth, but the caffeine was helping him to stay awake. There was an open map on Seronga's lap. His left hand was resting on the map to keep it from blowing away. Seronga had drawn a circle with a seventy-five-mile radius. The Vodun base camp was located at the center.
The passage through the dark veldt had given Seronga time to think. And now that he thought about it, this was a very strange place for him to be. Not the plain but the war itself. Until now, Seronga had never felt that he was fighting a religious war. He believed he was fighting a war for Botswana. Yet he was beginning to wonder about that. He was starting to think that Dhamballa might be right, and he could be wrong. It was not a bad feeling, though. To the contrary. It was cornforting to think that 10,000 years of spirit might be greater than the African continent and its civilizations.
Decades before, in the years of the quiet revolution to oust the British, the Brush Vipers did everything that was necessary to free Botswana. Back then, Seronga's vision was clear. So
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were his methods. Above all, there was strength of purpose: the desire to be free. It was backed by strength of arms and the patience to use them only when necessary.
Seronga had felt those same stirrings of purpose when he first heard Dhamballa speak. Religion had not entered into it. The man's words were about Africa and Africans. The truth was, Leon Seronga had no use for religion.
Since childhood, Africa had been his god. There was nothing to compare to the majesty of this land, the terrible beauty of the predators and the serenity of the prey. Or the moods of the place, which were unfathomable. Some days were epic and clear. They made life joyous. On others, depending upon the mood of the land, weather moved in with force or seductiveness. Sometimes rain and wind came from nowhere. Other times they were announced by gentle breezes and cool drizzle. There were baking droughts that lasted for weeks or horrendous floods that came so suddenly people drowned in their sleep. Then there were the nights. Sometimes, like tonight, the skies were so vast and vivid that a man felt as if he were weightless and airborne. Other nights were so close, so choking, that Seronga felt as if he were the only man on earth. On such nights even the crickets seemed as though they were on another world.
If the land had been his god, the lives and accomplishments of his people had been his religion. People invented other gods, he believed, because they feared death. For Seronga, death had always been a normal, accepted part of life. Since he was lucky enough to be part of Africa, he had to accept being part of that cycle. He had never resented it. He had never asked for extensions. Too much of life could be wasted on preparing for death.
Leon Seronga did not doubt the righteousness of what he was doing here. Even if he did not succeed, he would not question what he had done. But for the first time in his life, he wondered if he had been wrong about religion. He wondered if the Vodun gods were behind the spirit of Africa and his people.
Or maybe it is not wonder, he thought. Maybe i? is hope.
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