Read Online The Veiled Threat by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online

of the Zambian army also patrolled the roadways that separated the mountains of material. These multiple layers of security ensuredthat theft and graft were greatly reduced. The private security employees watched the mercenaries, the mercenaries watched the army, and the army kept an eye on the private security employees. Everyone who had contributed to the stockpile was happy with the result—except for the private security employees, the mercenaries, and the army, none of whom could filch any of the stored goods without being reported on by their equally frustrated counterparts.
    Having worked as a mercenary since leaving Joburg at the age of nineteen, there was little Harin Vashrutha had not seen—or at least heard about. But the arrival of the beat-up beer delivery truck at the front gate of the storage yard was a new one in his experience. Lined up behind it were two far more impressive vehicles: a brand-new large pickup and what appeared to be a heavy-duty garbage truck.
    This peculiar convoy was preceded by a jeep in which rode several armed men clad in unidentifiable fatigues. As there were only four of them, plus the beer truck driver, Vashrutha was not concerned. Before he emerged from the comfort of the open-sided guardhouse and its overworked fan, he lowered the volume on the small television he had been watching. He also flipped a silent alarm so that the indicator light above the switch changed from green to yellow. No need, he decided, to go to red. Having followed procedure and prepared for whatever might eventuate, he gripped his Kalashnikov firmly and stepped through the pedestrian portal to confront the unannounced arrivals. The main gate to the supply yard remained closed behind him.
    The men in the jeep looked relaxed. An older manseated in back flaunted stars on the collar of his wrinkled fatigues. Vashrutha was not impressed. Such military insignia could be bought cheaply over the Internet. Of greater significance was the fact that neither the erstwhile senior officer nor any of his soldiers displayed patches indicating that they were members of the Zambian army, the armed forces of Zimbabwe, or any other country participating in the buildup at Makoli. Smiling courteously, the mercenary let one finger gently caress the safety on his weapon as he approached the jeep.
    “Can I help you gentlemen?” His gaze rose to the beer truck and the other vehicles idling behind it. For no discernible reason, the pickup truck was racing its engine. Like most men his age, Vashrutha was as fond as anyone of cars fast and fancy. While the pickup’s lines were not to his personal taste, its engine certainly sounded impressive. No, more than impressive, he decided. Impatient.
    “We are here to pick up certain materials for transshipment.” The “general” ’s smile widened. “Let us do our job and we won’t trouble you.”
    A strange way to put a simple request
, Vashrutha thought. Perhaps the man’s English was as irregular as his uniform.
    “Most certainly.” Cradling the Kalashnikov under one arm, he extended a free hand. “Papers, please.”
    “Papers?” Leaning forward, the officer spoke to the soldier seated alongside the driver. “Lieutenant Masara, do you have the papers?”
    The other man made a show of patting his shirt pockets, then shook his head somberly. “No, General. I have no papers.”
    What kind of joke was this? Vashrutha took a step back from the jeep, wishing now that he had flipped the entrance gate’s alarm indicator to red. Still, without knowing exactly what was going on, it would be best to proceed according to protocol.
    “If you have no papers, I cannot let you in. You will have to go into Makoli town and present yourselves to the proper authorities.”
    “Ah yes,” the officer murmured. “The proper authorities. But that should not be necessary, as we have brought our own authorities with us.”
    Vashrutha blinked, took another look at the beer truck’s cab. It was