“What he was, though, was a big part of Kennedy’s power base. Not only is this going to be a major emotional blow for her—to the degree that bitch has emotions—but it’s going to significantly weaken her political position. Her ability to virtually guarantee the success of her operations is right now lying dead somewhere in the Ugandan jungle.”

33

SOUTHWESTERN UGANDA

THEY were only a few klicks to the north of the supposed landing site, but all Rapp could see was unbroken jungle in the moonlight. He manipulated the chopper’s collective and felt the aircraft obey his command. It wasn’t always the case. On a scale of one to ten, he’d put his piloting abilities somewhere in the four range. Fred Mason had suggested on more than a few occasions that it might be an optimistic estimate.

“There,” Gideon Auma said, pointing through the windscreen to a flicker of firelight ahead. He sounded unusually subdued for God’s representative on earth, but it was understandable. Joe Maslick had spent hours designing, building, and attaching a radio-controlled explosive to the African’s scrotum. Not powerful enough to kill him, but enough to launch his balls a good twenty feet.

The hope was that it would keep him obediently following the plan Rapp had devised. And in return, he would be delivered—alive and well—to The Hague. There, he would be put in a nice clean cell, fed three times a day, and tried for crimes against humanity. All in all, a more attractive fate than watching his testicles careening into the forest or what the Ugandan government would do to him if they got the opportunity.

But would he see it that way? Once surrounded by his adoring disciples, would Auma start to feel invincible again? Would he lose his fear and go on the attack? If so, it was going to be an exciting—and likely short—evening.

Rapp circled the clearing, looking down at the tiny campfires that defined its edges. Mason could have easily landed a chopper twice this size in the available space but Rapp preferred LZs that could be measured in acres, not yards.

The winds remained calm as he eased the aircraft downward, watching to make sure he stayed dead center and that his rotors were nowhere near the surrounding trees. In the end, it was a pretty decent landing. A better start than most of his plan Bs enjoyed. No derailed train cars, collapsing buildings, or avalanches.

He began shutting the bird down, keeping an eye on the vague human forms already busy putting out the fires that had acted as primitive runway lights.

“Are you still clear on your role?” he asked.

“Yes,” Auma responded in a lifeless voice. Not really the right tone for what they were about to embark on, but it was unlikely anyone would notice.

“Tell me.”