the world will not stand by while you violate the property rights of dozens of multinational corporations.”
“I am only obeying the principle of an eye for an eye,” Djemma said. “For centuries they have violated the property rights of my people. They have come here and taken from us precious gems and metals and treasures and given us only pain in return. A cook in one of these companies’ executive lunchrooms makes twenty times more than a miner who toils in heat and danger, risking his life every day. Not to mention the executive who does less work than the cook.”
Djemma laughed as he spoke. A little good cheer went a long way.
“But the mines, the refinery, the infrastructure, these things cost billions of dollars in investment money,” the reporter said.
“And my people have already paid for them,” Djemma said. “In blood.”
The tanks rolled on, rumbling toward the dockside cranes. A small cloud of dark smoke rose into the sky to the west of the port. It was definitely a fire, but Djemma doubted there had been any real resistance.
Perhaps someone had done something foolish. Or perhaps the black smoke had nothing to do with the events. A car or truck fire or some other industrial incident.
No matter, it made for a good visual. “Film the smoke,” he said to the cameraman. “Let them know we mean business.”
The cameraman turned and zoomed his lens, getting a closer shot of the rising cloud. His recording, and the video of Djemma aboard the tank, would play in endless loops on CNN, FOX, and the BBC.
In twenty-four hours people around the world would know all about him and a country most had never heard of. By then Djemma would have most of the foreign nationals rounded up and placed on flights back to their respective countries.
Their nations would bluster and bluff, and freeze Sierra Leone’s all-but-nonexistent foreign assets. They’d demand he explain himself, which he would gladly, again and again if necessary. In his mind the actions were legitimate; why should he not speak of them?
And then they’d come to him, demanding all kinds of things. The negotiations would begin. They would try very hard not to offer anything at first, lest they be seen to be giving in. But it would matter little as he would not budge.
They would grow angry and pound the desk and rant and rave and threaten things. And then it would get dicey, for with the nations of the world finally interested in him Djemma would not give in but instead he would demand more.
He knew the risks. But for the first time in two thousand years an African general was in possession of a weapon that could bring down an empire.
41
PAUL TROUT WAS SITTING UP in his hospital bed. His wife stood nearby. She’d been hugging and kissing him and squeezing his hand nonstop for an hour. It felt good despite all the other pains in his body.
His back ached. His head hurt and his thoughts came slowly, like he’d been overmedicated or had too many glasses of red wine. Still, he felt surprisingly good, considering what Gamay was telling him.
“I don’t remember any of that,” he said after hearing her explanation of the escape from the
“What do you remember?” she asked.
He reached back, clawing at the darkness in his mind. Since he’d awoken, random thoughts had been popping into his head. Like a computer rebooting itself after an unexpected shutdown, it seemed as if his mind was reorganizing things. The smell of food from the commissary brought an odd thought to the forefront.
“I remember that one Thanksgiving in Santa Fe when you burned the turkey and then admitted that I was right about how to cook it.”
“What?” she said, laughing. “That’s what you remember?”
“Well…” he said. “To actually be right about something and have you admit it all in the same day was a pretty rare experience.”
She pursed her lips. “I’ve heard that people with head trauma sometimes come out of it with new skills they never had before. It hasn’t happened with you, my love. You were never a comedian and you’re still not.”
He laughed this time. His head felt as if it was clearing a bit more each second.
“I remember the sun shining off the sea,” he said. “And that we were getting ready to take the
As it turned out they had worked together seamlessly and almost made it back to the surface. He didn’t remember it, but Gamay seemed to indicate that if he hadn’t been there she would have died.
“So what do we do now?” he asked.
She filled him in on the rest of the details, finishing with her next duty. “I’m flying out to an antisubmarine frigate in the Atlantic this time tomorrow. We’ll be working on the sonar tapes.”
Paul stared at her. He understood the call of duty and he wasn’t about to interfere. But he could not shake the great sense of almost having lost her even if he couldn’t recall the details.
He threw the sheet back. “I’m going with you,” he said, swinging a leg over the edge.
She put a hand on him. “Paul.”
“I’m out of the woods,” he insisted. “The doctor said so. Besides, I’ve worked with sonar a lot more than you have. Specifically, the GEO sounder unit on the
He could tell she was against it and worried. After what had happened, who wouldn’t be? But he wasn’t staying behind.
He forced his way out of bed and stood, a little unsteady. He was so tall, the hospital gown looked like a miniskirt on him.
“Don’t these come in long?” he said.
Gamay continued pouting.
“We’ll be on a warship,” he said. “Armor plating, missiles, guns, torpedoes. We couldn’t be safer.”
She shook her head and then exhaled sharply. “Fine,” she said. “I never could talk sense into you anyway.”
He laughed, pressed the buzzer for the nurse, and started looking for a robe or something to cover himself up with.
“One thing,” she said seriously.
He turned.
“I’m not going back in the water,” she said.
He cocked his head. “What?”
“I’m not going back in the water,” she said. “Not in a submersible, not in a dive suit, or any other way. I’m not ready for that.”
As long as he’d known her, Gamay had never been afraid of anything, but the fear was plain in her voice now.
“You don’t remember it,” she said. “In some ways I think you’re lucky on that count. But it was horrible.”
“We’ll stay on deck,” he said. “Or in our air-conditioned quarters. Hopefully, near the mess and the soft-serve ice-cream machine.”
He grinned, hoping to coax a smile from her, but she didn’t offer one, and Paul began to worry about her in a way he never had before.
