Free Deadly Force by Keith Douglass Page A

coming at them from the dense growth was murderous. Not even their .50-caliber cutting swaths through the jungle with the large-caliber bullets could slow down the Vietcong firing. More than once they had to turn downstream and race away from sudden death.
    Adams looked at Mojombo Washington. “You won’t tell me what to say on the SATCOM when I talk to the White House? You won’t advise or pressure me in any way?”
    â€œAbsolutely not.”
    â€œGood. How much farther to your camp?”
    â€œAnother hour, almost seven miles up this river.”
    â€œIt doesn’t look that deep out there.”
    â€œThis is a water-jet-powered boat,” Mojombo said. “It can keep moving in less than a foot of water. No propeller to worry about, just a powerful jet of water rushing out the tubes in back.”
    Adams watched the young man. He was confident, he was intelligent, and he evidently had some military training. But could he lead a ragtag bunch of citizen soldiers in a virtual revolution against the entrenched and powerful current government?
    â€œYou must have had some military training.”
    Mojombo nodded. “Yes. Since I wasn’t a citizen, I couldn’t enroll in ROTC at college, but they allowed me to audit any courses that I wanted to. I took them all, so theoretically I’m at least a first lieutenant by now.”
    â€œYou do plan ahead, don’t you?”
    Vice President Adams heard shouting from the shore, and he looked out the window. There was a rickety dock along a strip of open land. He saw many fires and huts and one frame building.
    The boat eased up to the dock. Mojombo went out of the cabin and shouted at the people. They shouted back and chanted something over and over again.
    Adams went aft to see better. Quickly the people on shore brought baskets of goods to the boat and handed them on board. Mojombo spoke to the thirty people who had gathered at the landing. Most were men, but there were afew women and children. Adams had a feeling that the whole village had turned out for the event.
    After Mojombo spoke, he moved back a step on the boat and waved. Men on the dock cast off the lines and the engine revved up, and the boat edged back into the current, then powered upstream.
    Mojombo came back into the cabin smiling. He carried two cold Cokes with him, and handed one to the Vice President.
    â€œThose are some of my supporters. Whenever we pass going upstream they give us food and any supplies they think we might need. There are a dozen or so groups like this along this river and the larger one downstream. You asked if the people would support a revolution. What do you think?”
    â€œImpressive, Mr. Washington. It couldn’t have gone better if you had staged it for my benefit.”
    â€œDo you think I staged it?”
    Adams watched the black man. He had never grown up around African Americans. Over the years he had made some contact with the black caucuses and other black groups in his political dealings, but he’d never had a good black friend. He knew he had a lot to learn, and a lot of prejudices to unfetter that had been foisted on him by his parents. He tried hard to evaluate this situation.
    â€œNo, Mojombo, I don’t think you staged that little rally. It seemed to come from the heart. It was impressive.”
    â€œI’m pleased. Enjoy your Coke before it gets warm.”
    Ten minutes later, the jet-propelled craft skidded over two sandbars. The engine powered up, and Adams could feel the flat hull of the boat nudge the bars and the bottom slide over the sand, scraping it all the way.
    Mojombo grinned at the sound. “That is the noise of a perfect defense,” he said. “No boat with a propeller could possibly get over those sandbars or another one upstream.”
    Vice President Adams nodded slowly. He was becoming more and more impressed with this young revolutionary, this Loyalist Party leader.
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