“Nine-three, the winds are negligible. I haven’t the foggiest idea what the barometer says, but it’s a beautiful day here in Stanleyville. You are cleared as number one to Runway Two-six. There is no other traffic.”
“Understand number one to two-six,” Captain Portet said, as Major George Washington Lunsford, who was wearing the camouflage fatigue uniform of a lieutenant colonel of Congolese paratroops touched Jack’s arm and pointed out the hole where the control tower window had once been. The 707 was in sight.
Jack nodded, handed Peters the microphone, and started down the stairs from the control tower. Lunsford followed him.
Colonel Jean-Baptiste Supo was standing just outside the terminal building with a small group of officers and soldiers of the Congolese Army.
Sergeant Major Tesio Chil and Sergeant Paul Joe, Supo’s driver and bodyguard, were really in the Congolese Army, but Major Jemima and Captain Tomas were not.
There were—and had been, since first light—two companies of Congolese infantry on the field. All roads past the airfield had been closed and would remain so until further orders. In addition, three-fourths of the infantrymen formed a perimeter guard around the field. The remaining troops would be used to push the 707 from where it would be stopped on the taxiway to a recently emptied hangar.
Pushing the 707 was going to be necessary because the three aircraft tractors once stationed at the field had all been vandalized by the Simbas, and the jet exhaust from the 707 would (a) almost certainly set the dry uncut grass near the hangars on fire and (b) very possibly blow one or both of the tin-sided and tin-roofed hangars down if they tried to taxi the aircraft.
Captain Portet set the 707 down smoothly a moment later, taxied to the terminal, and shut it down. A dozen Congolese soldiers pushed the stairs to the rear door. The stairs were mounted on a Chevrolet pickup truck, the engine, glass, and tires of which had also been vandalized by the Simbas.
Master Sergeant Thomas/Major Tomas had managed to get the hydraulics of the stairs themselves working again, and removed the shot-up tires. It now rolled on its rims, but it rolled.
The cargo door of the 707 opened, and Lieutenant Geoff Craig appeared at the door, in uniform, carrying a cut-down Remington 1100 12-gauge shotgun in his hand. He glanced around, made a “follow me” gesture with his hands, and started down the stairs. Everyone had more of less expected that, but no one expected that the first person to follow him would be a Green Beret just barely meeting minimum-height regulations, carrying an Uzi submachine gun, and wearing colonel’s eagles on his collar points.
“Jesus,” Major Lunsford/Lieutenant Colonel Dahdi said. “Felter! ”
Lunsford was waiting at the foot of the steps at attention, his hand raised in a crisp salute, when Felter came down there.
“Lieutenant Colonel Dahdi, sir,” he barked. “Welcome to Stanleyville. ”
Felter returned the salute shaking his head.
“Let me guess, Colonel,” he said. “Daddy as in Father, right?”
“It’s spelled Dee Ay Aich Dee Eye, sir,” Father said. “It was Colonel Supo’s idea.”
“And who’s that? The Good Humor Man?” Felter asked on spotting Jack in his white clothing.
“That’s Captain Portet of Air Simba, Sir,” Father said. “That was General Mobutu’s idea.”
“And, just as soon as you found the time, you were going to tell me all about this, right?” Felter said.
“Sir, the commo and crypto equipment is on this airplane,” Father said. “I was going to make all of this part of my very first report to the colonel, sir.”
Felter looked at him a long moment, then smiled.
“Okay, that round goes to you, Father—excuse me, Dahdi,” he said, then walked up to Colonel Supo and saluted.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, sir,” he said in French. Then he spotted Doubting Thomas.
“Line them up, Sergeant,” he said, gesturing at the team coming down the ladder.
“That’s Major Tomas, Colonel,” Thomas said. “All right, you guys. If anyone has a round in the chamber, get rid of it. And then form on me.”
When the team had cleared their weapons and were lined up, Tomas called attention, did an about-face, saluted, and barked, “Sir, the Detachment is formed.”
Felter returned his salute, then saluted Supo again.
"U.S. Army Special Forces Detachment 17. At your orders, sir.”
Supo returned the salute, then walked to the double rank and shook the hand of each man.
He walked back toward Felter.
“Okay, the parade’s over,” Thomas barked, hands on hips. “You know the drill. Get the aircraft unloaded.”