I suppose, all things considered. Problem is, I have to wonder if the man will become an asset or a liability down the road.”
“Meaning?” Goatee asked.
“Meaning can he be trusted? He’s just like any other megalomaniacal sociopath who’s ever controlled a country in Africa. He wants it all and for number one only. Money. Power. Pleasure. The way I read Katanga, he could make Idi Amin look like an altar boy. What I’m saying, down the road, what’s to keep him from kicking us out of Angola?”
Goatee chuckled. “Try nuclear blackmail.”
And there it was, Baraka thought. He was hardly shocked, but just to hear it said out loud sent a shiver down his spine. They were serious. They would do it.
“And the same goes if America wants to counterattack?” Baraka asked, looking ahead to the possibility he might want to be far away from Luanda in the event the U.S. decided to send in the troops.
“It will be their decision,” Goatee answered. “I mean, how would it look to the world if Uncle Sam tried to remove us by force and we pull the plug by turning Luanda into a radioactive crater?”
“At present,” Cigar Man said, “the United States is on the thin edge of the pond in the eyes of many of their own allies. We do not think they would want to be responsible for igniting a nuclear holocaust.”
Baraka cleared his throat. “If I may?”
“Something troubling you?” Pipe Smoker inquired.
“Our so-called jihadist comrades.”
“What about them?” Goatee asked, a slight edge to his voice.
“I’m not questioning your judgment, but I’m not so sure how wise it is to include them in our plans for phase two.”
“But you are questioning our judgment,” Goatee said, his voice rising a decibel toward anger. “We’re using them, do you understand, as a way in to phase two. We have already paved the way into Yemen, bought power players, contacts, have practically financed an entire fundamentalist army, and they are waiting at our disposal in the desert as we speak.”
“For what exactly?” Baraka pushed.
“As cannon fodder,” Pipe Smoker answered, “in the event of just such an American response as you suggested. They’ll be more than willing to attack and kill American soldiers. By the time Angola is a wrap, Yemen will be under our control. Again, nuclear blackmail.”
“I was more or less referring to the deal in Morocco.”
Goatee leaned up, his gaze narrowing. “Without our contacts in Morocco it is unlikely the package would have been delivered. They were paid…”
“By me,” Baraka stated.
“Yes, by you,” Goatee said, “to give the NKs a down payment. A show of good faith that all would go well. It is their country. Should we have cut the top extremists in Morocco out of the picture it would have only made our task more difficult. And considering the proximity of Morocco to Angola I would state, with no hesitation, that it was a wise decision.”
“And the North Koreans were the only ones available,” Cigar Man said, “and willing to deliver what we need.”
“At what cost?” Baraka asked. “I mean, what’s their angle?”
Goatee chuckled. “Simple. They hate America. They’re already stamped as part of the Axis of Evil, they figure why not go all the way?”
“They want a piece of the action, in other words, once we’ve taken control of the oil and diamonds?”
Baraka wanted to know.
“Why not?” Pipe Smoker said. “They can deliver all the WMD we need. I know, before you say it, it was too risky to seek out our Russian contacts. Their black market is under too much scrutiny to risk involving them.”
“Is there anything else troubling you?” Goatee asked.
“Yeah. What about this Z-Clops? This speed that’s supposed to turn my men into supersoldiers? I’m sitting on a batch of it, but none of my men has used it yet. I was waiting for the nod from you gentlemen.” Baraka watched them closely as Goatee cleared his throat and Pipe Smoker exchanged a look with Whiskey Man.
“You and your men will be in the field, under extreme duress for possibly great stretches,” Goatee said.
During the pause, Baraka sensed they were holding back. “So? They’re professional soldiers. They’re not a bunch of junkies who can’t cut it. I’m standing here, thinking there’s a problem with this stuff.”
“No problem,” Pipe Smoker said. “I would recommend using it, though. It has been tested and approved. I’ll explain it very simply. Before Z-Clops, a man hits a baseball just clearing the fence. After Z-Clops he can reach the upper deck. Superstrong. Supertough. Superenduring.”
“Aftereffects?”
“None,” Goatee said.
“Hey, we’re talking about something that’s not exactly FDA approved.”
“It’s approved,” Whiskey Man said. “As long as your men are in top physical condition, they will suffer no side effects. It is designed to sharpen your senses, your reflexes to near superhuman. Picture the soldier who needs no sleep, no food, can fight all day and all night without relent.”
“The Terminator.”
“If that comparison pleases you,” Pipe Smoker said. “But, judging the report we received, it sounds as if that’s a very close comparison.”
Baraka didn’t like using his men as guinea pigs, but decided he’d leave it up to each soldier whether he wanted to use it. “What about stateside?”
Goatee sounded irritated as he said, “What about it?”
“Our backs covered?”
“They are, indeed,” White Suit said. “The situation has been resolved. Those who were aware of our dipping into the Serpent Tank are no longer among the living. We’re in complete control of the tank. As for the three exterminators, they are, we understand, safely back in Peshawar.”
Baraka didn’t feel one hundred percent reassured. Perhaps it was because he would be the spearhead, out there risking it all while these guys hunkered down in these posh digs, waiting on the final outcome. He watched as Goatee settled a briefcase on the table.
“Now,” he said, “if you will step up, Mr. Baraka, we will go over the final battle strategy and then, sir, you are on your way.”
To what? Baraka wondered, moving toward the table. Glory, riches or death? These men, he considered, were hell-bent on creating a New World Order in their image, one built on the blood and suffering of what would prove to be thousands of men, women and children.
And the possibility of nuclear holocaust.
Ron Baraka wondered right then about his own sanity, and just how far he would
