forth. Satisfied that it was ready, he slapped a banana-curved magazine into place.
"Now we wait," McPherson said.
"How long?"
"Until dusk. Let them get their dinner fires started."
Alexander felt his guts fluttering. "Suppose they have patrols out around here?"
"They do," McPherson replied with a deprecating little smile. "But they won't find my men. I promise you that."
"Why'd you make me check weapons now if . . ."
McPherson laid a hand on Alexander's shoulder.
"Wouldn't do to be caught unready to fight, just in case somebody does stumble on us."
"But you said . . ."
"I know what I said, Cole. But it's always best to be prepared for every contingency. Remember that."
Feeling like a student facing a fatherly schoolmaster rather than a mercenary soldier getting ready to attack, Cole nodded and lapsed into silence.
He worried about his exposure to sunlight; solar ultraviolet could trigger skin cancers, or worse. His leukemia was under control as long as he took the pills, but Alexander looked on the sun as an enemy. Shamar's gift to me, he thought angrily. Something else he's taken away from me.
But if we nail him here it won't matter. The UV dose will be a small price to pay for killing the son of a bitch.
For hours he scanned the village with his binoculars, turning up the electro-optical gain to its highest, until he could make out the faces of the people. Hard to tell the villagers from the guerrillas, he realized. Except for the tattered camouflage uniforms they wore, there was no real difference among the brown-skinned men. Some of the women were in dirty mottled uniforms, too, with assault rifles slung over their slim shoulders. The village women wore long colorful batik skirts and Western-style loose blouses, all of them shabby and tattered.
This was not a rich village. The paddies out on the other side where the helicopters were hidden seemed pitifully small and scrawny. Even the few water buffalo Alexander spotted looked emaciated.
Why is Shamar here, when he's being paid to organize the rebel guerrillas in West Irian? Cole wondered. Is he
actually here, or is this a ruse—or worse yet, a trap?
And then his heart leaped. He saw Jabal Shamar. The man calmly stepped out of one of the larger cinder-block buildings in the center of the village, squinting at the lowering sun and raising his hand to shield his eyes. It was him, all right! Alexander knew that face, even though he had never met Shamar.
Seeing him live, instead of a picture, brought surprises.
Shamar was shockingly young for a general, a youthful forty at most. Practically my age, Alexander realized. He wore desert tan fatigues, unadorned by insignia or any mark of rank. Vigorous, brisk movements. As he spoke he gestured vividly; his hands were never still. Yet he was much smaller than Alexander had expected, a stunted marionette of a man, slim and hard-faced, with a trim dark mustache and a livid white scar that ran from the bottom of his right ear along the jawline almost to the point of his chin.
"The murdering son of a bitch is there," he muttered, passing the binoculars to McPherson.
The Kiwi took them for a moment, then handed them back with nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement.
The largest building, in the center of the village, was obviously where the meeting was taking place. Alexander clicked on the sub-miniaturized video camera built into the binoculars as he watched the men gathering around Shamar, bowing to him or shaking his hand. They all seemed so subservient to this mass murderer. The men from Jakarta wore lightweight, light-colored Westernized business suits; bureaucrats through and through, dressed almost identically to their brethren around the world. The guerrillas wore rags and tatters of old army uniforms they had decorated with bright head scarves and armbands.
Alexander videoed it all as he watched, waiting impatiently for sunset.
The shadows lengthened. Spires of smoke began to rise from the roof
"Now we wait," McPherson said.
"How long?"
"Until dusk. Let them get their dinner fires started."
Alexander felt his guts fluttering. "Suppose they have patrols out around here?"
"They do," McPherson replied with a deprecating little smile. "But they won't find my men. I promise you that."
"Why'd you make me check weapons now if . . ."
McPherson laid a hand on Alexander's shoulder.
"Wouldn't do to be caught unready to fight, just in case somebody does stumble on us."
"But you said . . ."
"I know what I said, Cole. But it's always best to be prepared for every contingency. Remember that."
Feeling like a student facing a fatherly schoolmaster rather than a mercenary soldier getting ready to attack, Cole nodded and lapsed into silence.
He worried about his exposure to sunlight; solar ultraviolet could trigger skin cancers, or worse. His leukemia was under control as long as he took the pills, but Alexander looked on the sun as an enemy. Shamar's gift to me, he thought angrily. Something else he's taken away from me.
But if we nail him here it won't matter. The UV dose will be a small price to pay for killing the son of a bitch.
For hours he scanned the village with his binoculars, turning up the electro-optical gain to its highest, until he could make out the faces of the people. Hard to tell the villagers from the guerrillas, he realized. Except for the tattered camouflage uniforms they wore, there was no real difference among the brown-skinned men. Some of the women were in dirty mottled uniforms, too, with assault rifles slung over their slim shoulders. The village women wore long colorful batik skirts and Western-style loose blouses, all of them shabby and tattered.
This was not a rich village. The paddies out on the other side where the helicopters were hidden seemed pitifully small and scrawny. Even the few water buffalo Alexander spotted looked emaciated.
Why is Shamar here, when he's being paid to organize the rebel guerrillas in West Irian? Cole wondered. Is he
actually here, or is this a ruse—or worse yet, a trap?
And then his heart leaped. He saw Jabal Shamar. The man calmly stepped out of one of the larger cinder-block buildings in the center of the village, squinting at the lowering sun and raising his hand to shield his eyes. It was him, all right! Alexander knew that face, even though he had never met Shamar.
Seeing him live, instead of a picture, brought surprises.
Shamar was shockingly young for a general, a youthful forty at most. Practically my age, Alexander realized. He wore desert tan fatigues, unadorned by insignia or any mark of rank. Vigorous, brisk movements. As he spoke he gestured vividly; his hands were never still. Yet he was much smaller than Alexander had expected, a stunted marionette of a man, slim and hard-faced, with a trim dark mustache and a livid white scar that ran from the bottom of his right ear along the jawline almost to the point of his chin.
"The murdering son of a bitch is there," he muttered, passing the binoculars to McPherson.
The Kiwi took them for a moment, then handed them back with nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement.
The largest building, in the center of the village, was obviously where the meeting was taking place. Alexander clicked on the sub-miniaturized video camera built into the binoculars as he watched the men gathering around Shamar, bowing to him or shaking his hand. They all seemed so subservient to this mass murderer. The men from Jakarta wore lightweight, light-colored Westernized business suits; bureaucrats through and through, dressed almost identically to their brethren around the world. The guerrillas wore rags and tatters of old army uniforms they had decorated with bright head scarves and armbands.
Alexander videoed it all as he watched, waiting impatiently for sunset.
The shadows lengthened. Spires of smoke began to rise from the roof
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