“Ward’s been working on them, but they don’t want military aircraft being seen this close to the DRC. So, they’re happy to run on at the mouth about how supportive they are of this rescue effort but when you try to turn that talk into action you hit a brick wall. It’s not the end of the world, though. We can get by with civilian aircraft. Some of it’s military surplus, so retrofitting weapons and armor isn’t too difficult. Particularly with Ward passing out blank checks.”

“What about this place? Is it secure?”

“We’re mostly counting on natural barriers, but they’re pretty significant. Getting people up the side of this mountain in enough numbers to attack us would be almost impossible. And even if they did manage it, we’d see them coming in plenty of time for a leisurely evacuation. The only way you’re going to hit this place is from the air, and Gideon Auma doesn’t have that capability. You know, other than the fact that they say he can fly and shoot fireballs out of his ass.”

They entered a tent full of communications gear and Coleman fished a couple of Cokes from a cooler before throwing one to Rapp.

“What are we hearing about the US team?”

Coleman dropped into a folding chair and put his feet on a table. “Nada. I’ve talked to my SEAL friends, Delta, you name it. No one knows anything about the operation. Are you sure your information’s good? I’m finding it a little hard to believe a bunch of guys I’ve never heard of just walked into the jungle a few days ago with no support.”

“I hear what you’re saying but I talked to Irene and she seems to think it’s real.”

Coleman frowned and ran a hand through his blond hair. “Okay, then it probably is. But it’d be nice to have a few more details. If we’ve got friendlies wandering around in our operating theater, better to know about it now than after we accidentally shoot them.”

“Have you talked to Dan Lombard about it?”

“The head of Africa Command? That’s your social strata, man. I’m just a simple sailor.”

Rapp pulled out his satellite phone and found the number he’d thought to program in before leaving the Cape.

“General Lombard’s office,” a woman on the other side announced.

“Is he in? This is Mitch Rapp.”

“One moment, please.”

Rapp polished off his Coke and tossed it in the direction of a trash can on the other side of the tent. It bounced off the rim and landed in the dirt.

“Mr. Rapp,” the woman said when she came back on. “The general has asked if he can call you right back. Is this a good number?”

The inflection she gave to the word good suggested she meant secure.