Read Online Target Response by William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone - Free Book Online
Authors: William W. Johnstone, J. A. Johnstone
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sealed lid could not contain the foul smell that emanated from the can.
The flies liked it, though. They weren’t as thick here in the middle of the river as they were on land, but the cannister—or rather its contents—drew them like a magnet. They swarmed around it, buzzing and droning, vainly seeking an entryway into the can.
Just as well, though. If the flies hadn’t been drawn to the cannister, they would have turned their attentions to the crew, biting them.
Sesto and Hamid had positioned themselves as far away from the metal cannister as it was possible to be while still staying in the boat compartment and not climbing on the foredeck.
The boat pilot and forward gunner occupied the bucket seats in the control cockpit. Sesto sat leaning back in the left-side pilot’s seat, bare feet perched up on top of the instrument panel’s console and planted on either side of the wheel. He, Hamid, and T’gai, the three crewmen, all went barefoot on board the launch, claiming that there was less risk of slipping and falling than if they wore shoes.
A shapeless canvas hat was pulled down covering Sesto’s eyes. Whether Sesto slept or not, Thurlow couldn’t tell, nor did he give a good damn.
Hamid sat in the right-side seat, swivel chair turned to the starboard facing the junction of the Kondo and Rada and the base camp on the point. He had a long, sharp-featured face, heavy-lidded eyes, and a wispy, goatish mustache and chin whiskers. He chain-smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, wreathing his head in a halo of nasty-smelling smoke that seemed to have some success in keeping the insects away.
T’gai, the stern gunner, sat amidships with his back propped up against the portside bulwark. His legs were bent at the knees. Folded arms rested on top of his knees, pillowing his head.
Colonel Krentz stood at the starboard side, using a radio handset to communicate with various river- and land-based elements of the Nigerian troops. He conducted a running dialogue with varied bursts of squawking gibberish emanating from the handset.
Gibberish to Ward Thurlow, that is, who, despite a prolonged posting in Lagos, had failed to master more than a few phrases in any of the several major dialects spoken throughout the land. But that was why Krentz was here, to serve as interlocuter between Thurlow and the Nigerians.
Part of the reason, anyway. Krentz was a contract employee of MYRMEX, which, like Thurlow, had good reason for wanting the liquidation of the man called Kilroy, last surviving member of the DIA team that had been probing their mutually illicit and now demonstrably treasonous alliance.
Krentz was in his late forties, a few inches above medium height, compact and dense textured. He was balding, with a horseshoe ring of hair, and had a spade-shaped face with a dark goatee.
Krentz was a career mercenary, a South African Boer in self-imposed exile from his homeland due to several outstanding warrants for his arrest for conspiring to overthrow the government. For two decades and more he had plied his trade in a series of brushfire wars and revolutions throughout the continent.
His rank of “colonel” was one he’d awarded to himself; he’d never advanced higher than lieutenant in any conventional military force, Thurlow knew. As far as the CIA agent was concerned, Krentz could call himself anything he liked as long as he got the job done.
And quick.
Krentz was fluent in various major northern and southern dialects of the Nigerian tongue, enabling him to communicate with the troops now combing the swamplands for the fugitive.
Thurlow gave the orders and Krentz carried them out. Knowing next to nothing of military matters, Thurlow was content to leave strategy and tactics to Krentz, whose orders by now could be boiled down to the simple imperative:
Get Kilroy!
Krentz finished speaking and slipped the handset into a hip pocket of his cargo pants. He went to Thurlow, who stood leaning up against the portside
The flies liked it, though. They weren’t as thick here in the middle of the river as they were on land, but the cannister—or rather its contents—drew them like a magnet. They swarmed around it, buzzing and droning, vainly seeking an entryway into the can.
Just as well, though. If the flies hadn’t been drawn to the cannister, they would have turned their attentions to the crew, biting them.
Sesto and Hamid had positioned themselves as far away from the metal cannister as it was possible to be while still staying in the boat compartment and not climbing on the foredeck.
The boat pilot and forward gunner occupied the bucket seats in the control cockpit. Sesto sat leaning back in the left-side pilot’s seat, bare feet perched up on top of the instrument panel’s console and planted on either side of the wheel. He, Hamid, and T’gai, the three crewmen, all went barefoot on board the launch, claiming that there was less risk of slipping and falling than if they wore shoes.
A shapeless canvas hat was pulled down covering Sesto’s eyes. Whether Sesto slept or not, Thurlow couldn’t tell, nor did he give a good damn.
Hamid sat in the right-side seat, swivel chair turned to the starboard facing the junction of the Kondo and Rada and the base camp on the point. He had a long, sharp-featured face, heavy-lidded eyes, and a wispy, goatish mustache and chin whiskers. He chain-smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, wreathing his head in a halo of nasty-smelling smoke that seemed to have some success in keeping the insects away.
T’gai, the stern gunner, sat amidships with his back propped up against the portside bulwark. His legs were bent at the knees. Folded arms rested on top of his knees, pillowing his head.
Colonel Krentz stood at the starboard side, using a radio handset to communicate with various river- and land-based elements of the Nigerian troops. He conducted a running dialogue with varied bursts of squawking gibberish emanating from the handset.
Gibberish to Ward Thurlow, that is, who, despite a prolonged posting in Lagos, had failed to master more than a few phrases in any of the several major dialects spoken throughout the land. But that was why Krentz was here, to serve as interlocuter between Thurlow and the Nigerians.
Part of the reason, anyway. Krentz was a contract employee of MYRMEX, which, like Thurlow, had good reason for wanting the liquidation of the man called Kilroy, last surviving member of the DIA team that had been probing their mutually illicit and now demonstrably treasonous alliance.
Krentz was in his late forties, a few inches above medium height, compact and dense textured. He was balding, with a horseshoe ring of hair, and had a spade-shaped face with a dark goatee.
Krentz was a career mercenary, a South African Boer in self-imposed exile from his homeland due to several outstanding warrants for his arrest for conspiring to overthrow the government. For two decades and more he had plied his trade in a series of brushfire wars and revolutions throughout the continent.
His rank of “colonel” was one he’d awarded to himself; he’d never advanced higher than lieutenant in any conventional military force, Thurlow knew. As far as the CIA agent was concerned, Krentz could call himself anything he liked as long as he got the job done.
And quick.
Krentz was fluent in various major northern and southern dialects of the Nigerian tongue, enabling him to communicate with the troops now combing the swamplands for the fugitive.
Thurlow gave the orders and Krentz carried them out. Knowing next to nothing of military matters, Thurlow was content to leave strategy and tactics to Krentz, whose orders by now could be boiled down to the simple imperative:
Get Kilroy!
Krentz finished speaking and slipped the handset into a hip pocket of his cargo pants. He went to Thurlow, who stood leaning up against the portside
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