The mercenary sergeant turned and wordlessly entered the building, waving his hand for Thomas and Jette to follow him.
The flat roof of the redbrick building turned out to be ideally suited for Thomas’s purposes. There was a small wall, three feet high, more than high enough to conceal a prone body. Every ten feet or so along the wall—presumably to allow rain to drain off—the wall was level with the flat floor of the roof.
Thomas took two pillows marked “Hotel du Lac” from the rucksack, tossed one to Jette, and then, bending it double, laid his in one of the depressions in the wall. Then he slid his Springfield from its case and laid the forearm on the pillow.
When he looked for Jette, he saw that Jette had finished doing the same thing. Thomas reached into the rucksack again, found the two pair of 8 ¥ 57 Ernst Leitz, Wetzlar binoculars and handed one to Jette. Finally, he took out two bandoliers of .30- 06 ammunition in five-round stripper clips and tossed one of them to Jette.
Then he dragged the backpack radio to his left side, checked the frequency, and turned it on.
“One, two, Hunter,” he said to the microphone.
“One, go Hunter.”
“Two, go Hunter.”
“One more time, try not to shoot any white men,” Thomas said.
“My mother warned me there would be days like this,” a voice Thomas thought was probably One—Sergeant First Class Omar Kelly—replied.
There was immediate confirmation of that.
“Hunter, Two.” (Staff Sergeant Leander Knowles). “Say again daylight.”
“Oh-five-fifty-five. It’s getting to be that time. Four minutes.”
“I hope they’re late,” One said. “I really like to lay a machine gun before I shoot it.”
“That’s enough radio chatter,” Thomas said.
He propped himself up on his elbows and studied the vague visible end of the bush. He could see nothing.
Five minutes later, he could.
He picked up the microphone.
“Got what looks like a point man thirty meters from the right,” he said.
“One, got ’em.”
“Two, I got him.”
Thomas set the binoculars down and put the rifle to his shoulder. He glanced at Jette and saw he had already done so.
When he put his eye to the telescopic sight, he could not see the man he had seen before.
Shit, don’t tell me they know how to make like a snake!
He picked up activity at the edge of the bush. Four men stepped into the clearing, then dropped out of sight in the grass.
Thomas moved the scope ten yards into the field and saw movement, then a leg, or an arm.
“Ten meters ahead of the ones who just came in,” he called to Jette.
“I see him,” Jette said.
“Don’t shoot him. Use him to show you where the others are.”
Another man appeared at the edge of the bush and put binoculars to his eyes. Thomas examined him carefully through the scope.
He was black, but probably—because of the binoculars; the neatness of his uniform, and the fact he was wearing boots—a Cuban.
Thomas had already made up his mind to take down only Cubans. They had come here to cause trouble; if they didn’t know what they were letting themselves in for, they should have. Simbas and Rwandans were going to have to be taken down, but let the Congolese do that.
“The man with the binoculars is mine, Jette,” Thomas said softly.
“Yes, Major, sir.”
Thomas found the point man again, and tracked him for a minute or so.
Then he tracked the others. After about five minutes, he was able to judge that about fifty men were making their way across the field, and, in his professional judgment, doing so pretty professionally. None of them—and the light was right for him to get a good look through the Bausch & Lomb sight—looked at all like Dr. Ernesto Guevara. For that matter, he hadn’t seen anyone who didn’t look as if he was black.
“Hunter, One, about fifty, I’d guess,” the radio announced. “And it looks as if that’s all of them.”
“I’m going to let them get a little closer,” Thomas replied. He looked through the scope again, and called to Jette. “The sixth man behind the point man is mine, too, Jette.”
“Yes, Major, sir.”
Thomas reached into one of the pockets of the cotton bandolier and took out the two five-round clipper clips it held, then took another two clips out. He pulled the bolt of the ’03-A4 back, charged the magazine, and then slid the bolt handle forward and down. Then he reached for and took off the safety.
He flexed his shoulders, squirmed around on his belly, and did the