“I’m a US Marine, on assignment to the British Royal Marines. We were sent in to rescue the staff of the mission, British citizens. It looks like we were too late.”
“Yes, I am afraid you were too late.” Sambako’s mouth turned down in a deep frown. Moisture welled up in his eyes. “Father Raymond and all the sisters, and all the little children of the mission, more than two hundred souls, were massacred by the Soviet dog and his animals just minutes before we heard the roar of your airplane. The cries of the little ones died out as your rescue ship touched the ground.”
“How did you escape?” Marcus asked.
Sambako looked at the ground, his face flushed with emotion. “I had been in the forest gathering sticks to make kites for an outing we were to take the following morning. When I heard the commotion, I started back to the mission. Shots were fired and I ran through the jungle to save the little ones. In my haste, I foolishly ran my head into a tree branch. I lost consciousness for a few minutes. When I came to, I crawled to where I could see. Those beasts were tossing the bodies of the children into a pile. Some were not yet dead. They were torturing the boys and raping the girls. I lay there unable to do anything as more than a hundred men systematically killed every person they could find.”
Tears overflowed the edges of Sambako’s eyes. They streaked down his dark cheeks and dripped onto his shirt. “As they finished abusing the last poor child, the engine sounds of your plane came from over the horizon to the north. When it got louder, they hid in the jungle and waited for you. I ran and hid from the coming battle, in hopes of finding survivors after they left. You were the only survivor I could find.”
Marcus’s eyes were locked on Sambako. The man looked as if his soul had been crushed. “You were a worker there at the mission?”
“I am a minister. I worked with the mission as a medical aid, even though they are Catholic and I am a Pentecostal Protestant. I was trained in England and worked with an American missionary society from Texas. Father Brandt, the other priest who worked there, was away in Freetown on business, and so was not killed. Father Raymond was a good man, whose only interest was in helping these poor children who have been made orphans by the civil war. Now he, like all of those in his care, is dead.”
“Who is this Soviet you mentioned?” Marcus asked. “The Russians aren’t called that anymore.”
“He is a former Spetsnatz advisor who got abandoned here during the collapse of the Soviet Union. His name, the only name I know for him, is Sergei. He runs a band of marauders, terrible criminals and murderers, who have taken advantage of the civil war to make themselves rich. Sergei and his animals have been ravaging this region for several months now, and will probably stay in the area for a while longer, as the Nigerians have stationed peacekeepers in the next province to search for him. I wish….”
Sambako tried to say more, but the words would not come. Silent tears flowed freely instead, giving true voice to his sorrow.
Chapter 26
Marcus Johnson’s Cabin
Salt Jacket, Alaska
19 December
23:05 hours
Sergeant Choi sat immobile against the ropes that bound him tightly to a straight-backed wooden chair. Eighteen inches away, Marcus’s woodstove glowed red. Choi still wore his parka. Sweat rolled down his face as he baked in the visible heat waves that emanated from the black iron stove.
Forester sat on a wood bench in front of Choi. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder and said in Korean, “So, tell me my friend, what is in the vial?”
“What is in the vial? It is death to you and your countrymen.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Choi said nothing.
“Look, your friends are all dead—there’s no use in holding out.”
“They are not all dead. Some got away, and you will pay for what you have done.”
“So you say,” Forester replied, “but where did they go? What is your rendezvous point?”
No response.
Sergeant Choi was a fairly young man in his early twenties. He was physically fit, but the SEALs agreed that he did not impress them as a commando type. The high-tech gadgets they had found on him led them to the conclusion that he was probably brought on the mission for his technical knowledge rather than his military prowess.
Forester continued the interrogation. “You seem like a smart man. How old are you? Twenty-three? Twenty-four? You probably have a family back home, a mother and father, maybe even a wife or girlfriend, eh?”
Choi showed no reaction.
“You probably have little siblings at home. How can you live with yourself if this chemical you have stolen is used to kill little children? Innocent little children may die because of what you have done.”
Beads of sweat ran down Choi’s face and soaked through his clothing. His skin was red from the heat. “I am too hot,” he mumbled. “Please let me take off my coat.”
“Too hot?” Forester turned toward the others and said in Korean, “He says he is too hot!” Then switching to English, “He says he is too hot.”
Stingle, Andersen, and Forth came forward. Andersen slid a large knife from a leather sheath on his thigh. The razor-sharp blade came into view with an evil sound. The SEALs moved in close to Choi. “Let’s help the little man out of that coat, then,” Andersen said.
Choi’s eyes widened in horror as the giant American approached him with the knife. Stingle and Forth grabbed his shoulders and held him. Anderson extended the knife to the North Korean’s neck. Choi squeezed his eyes shut
