“You can’t be serious,” the ambassador responded curtly. “You steal the world’s property and then demand that we collectively give you sixty billion dollars a year in free money?”
“It is a small amount,” Djemma assured him. “You gave your own banks seven hundred billion a few years ago. You spent a trillion dollars on Iraq, twenty billion a month. What I ask for is a fraction of that, and no one has to suffer. In return, we will allow American corporations to handle many of the construction projects. You may consider it a stimulus program.”
By now Djemma was smiling like a madman. For so long he had listened to the Europeans and Americans lecturing poor nations on fiscal responsibility. Hypocrites, he thought. Look what they had wrought upon themselves. Now he would throw it back in their faces.
The ambassador’s face was turning red. “Your reach is stretching beyond your power to grasp, Mr. President,” he blurted. “This will not stand.”
“The Saudis still stand,” Djemma said. “Chávez still stands. So does Castro. You will find it easier to negotiate than you are letting on. And if you don’t… I warn you there will be consequences.”
This was the first hint of a threat that Djemma had made. He needed to be subtle. By the sudden focus on the ambassador’s face, he knew he hadn’t been too obscure. But when the ambassador began to chuckle, Djemma felt his own ire rising.
“What is so funny?” he demanded to know.
The ambassador settled down, but a smile remained on his face. “I feel like I’m in a production of The Mouse That Roared,” he said. “I could take over this country with a group of Boy Scouts and a few state troopers, and you think you can threaten us?”
The laughter returned, and Djemma snapped. He brought the riding crop down on the desk in a stunningly swift move. The ambassador jumped back at the sound, shocked.
“Your arrogance betrays you, Mr. Ambassador,” Djemma said. He stood, drawing himself up to his full six-foot-two-inch height.
“For too long you and the other rich nations have mocked countries like mine,” he said. “Whether you believe it or not, those days are about to end. The industrialized world will support us, not in dribs and drabs but in substantial amounts. You will help us stand or we will drag you down into the mire with us! Only then will you see the truth. We are not mice for you to play with. Sierra Leone is the Land of Lions. And if you are not cautious, you will feel our teeth in your soft, decadent necks.”
Djemma didn’t wait for a reply from the American ambassador. He pressed the intercom button, and a group of guards entered the room.
“See the ambassador to the airfield,” he shouted. “He is to be deported immediately.”
“This is an outrage,” the ambassador shouted.
“Take him!” Djemma ordered.
The ambassador was hustled outside, and the door slammed behind him.
Djemma sat alone, fuming. He was angry with the ambassador’s arrogance and disdain. He hadn’t expected it so soon. But he was even angrier with himself for jumping at the bait and voicing his threat so forcefully. He hadn’t planned to speak so soon. Now there would be no negotiations. Unless…
He had no choice. He had made a claim that the Americans would assume to be a bluff. He had to demonstrate his power, otherwise they and the world at large would only scoff and laugh with disdain as he ranted and raved: another mad dictator in a banana republic.
He would unleash his weapon in all its glorious power and leave them no choice but to treat him with respect.
48
Washington, D.C., July 6, 1330 hours
DIRK PITT HAD A FRONT-ROW SEAT in the Situation Room at the Pentagon. Cameron Brinks of the NSA was putting on a show. The President wasn’t there, but his Chief of Staff, military brass from all four branches, and several members of the cabinet were present. As was the Vice President of the United States, Dirk Pitt’s former boss, Admiral James D. Sandecker.
With the bizarre actions in Sierra Leone over the past few days, followed by the threats coming from its President, Brinks had totally embraced the possibility that Sierra Leone was involved in the scientific kidnappings and the creation of some type of energy weapon.
How else could they have the gall to threaten the world and America in particular? After several days of searching with his satellites, Brinks claimed to have identified the location of such a weapon, calling it a clear and present danger.
At the front of the room, on a screen that was just a fraction smaller than some Jumbotrons he’d seen, Pitt studied a satellite feed. It showed an area off the coast of Sierra Leone, a shallow bay ten miles across, home to an oil production zone known as the Quadrangle because of its dimensions and the four evenly spaced platforms. On a wide angle they showed up as four pinpoints of gray. At closer ranges, those points were easily identifiable as huge offshore oil rigs.
Other data was being overlaid on the screen, numbers and codes that Pitt wasn’t familiar with. In some respects he wondered why he was even there. NUMA was peripherally involved in the search, but for the most part any action at this level would be well out of their hands.
With the participants given a few minutes to review the files in front of them, Dirk studied what he’d been given a second time. One thing that caught his attention was the fact that the entire field and the four rigs were owned by the government of Sierra Leone and always had been, unlike all the structures taken just days before in the sweeping nationalization.
Another red flag that stood out was the fact that oilmen the CIA had spoken with insisted there was no oil beneath the shelf where the Sierra Leone government was drilling. It was a boondoggle, they insisted. A waste of the money the IMF was pouring into the country.
Add to that the continued presence of construction barges and constant deliveries of equipment well after the construction of the platforms was completed, and something odd seemed to be going on.
Pitt closed the file in front of him and looked up to see Brinks and Vice President Sandecker walking his way. They stopped and chatted with the Navy’s chief of staff before wandering over to where Pitt sat.
Pitt stood and shook hands with both men.
“I told you your man was off on a wild-goose chase, looking for this mercenary,” Brinks said.
Pitt smiled and his green eyes showed nothing but pure joy, despite a desire to punch Brinks right in the mouth.
“I honestly hope you’re right,” Pitt said. “After all he’s been through, Austin could use a vacation.”
“Well,” Brinks said confidently, “we’re about to give him one.”
As Brinks moved off, Sandecker took a seat next to Pitt.
“Thanks for the invite,” Pitt said, sarcastically. “It’s like a pool party with sharks and alligators.”
“You think I wanted you here?” Sandecker joked. “Brinks dialed you up.”
“Why?”
“Probably wants to gloat.”
“Nothing like a sore winner,” Pitt said.
Sandecker agreed. “I hear you shot him down pretty hard the other day.”
“He was asking for it,” Pitt said.
The VP chuckled and leaned back, focusing on the screen. “I bet he was.”
Pitt appreciated Sandecker’s support. Always had. “You know it’s weird for me to see you without a cigar in your mouth,” Pitt said.
“No smoking in the Situation Room,” Sandecker replied. “Now, pipe down and you might learn something.”
Up front, Cameron Brinks stood and began his presentation. After explaining what Dirk had already discovered in the file, he went on to elaborate.
“I’ll make this as quick as I can,” he said. “We all know the situation in Sierra Leone is spiraling. What we didn’t know until now is whether there was any credence to the threats leveled against us. We now believe, based on information uncovered by various sources, that there is. As odd as it sounds, Sierra Leone, one of the poorest countries in the world, is now in possession of a weapon of incredible destructive power.”