Free Rogue's March by W. T. Tyler Page A

in the back seat.
    Michaux had been right. De Vaux wasn’t a man of trifling ambition, whatever else he was, no more a man to find release in the hero’s welcome given him by a grateful bush town than he would in the hot, empty silence of a hillside military camp that had rescued him from the President’s paranoia.
    â€œIf not, we can teach them again,” de Vaux added as he climbed into his own jeep, but Reddish only nodded as he went back to his car, still troubled.

Chapter Six
    After Reddish disappeared down the sand road toward the front gate, de Vaux drove to Colonel N’Sika’s headquarters in the center of the compound. Three jeeps, a gray Mercedes, and a weapons carrier were parked in the circular drive outlined with whitewashed rocks. The low whitewashed stucco building had once been a Belgian officers’ club. An outdoor dance floor and open terrace lay to one side under the raffia palms. A few idle para officers sat behind the dusty shrubbery drinking beer. Two corporals stood on the wide porch, caps low over their eyes, watching the road. Inside the building, the NCO at the orderly table had been replaced by two para lieutenants with side arms. More officers waited in the rooms along the central corridor, four and five to an office, sitting on chairs and desks or leaning against the wall waiting, weapons in hand.
    De Vaux entered Colonel N’Sika’s conference room at the back of the hall. The iron shutters had been drawn and the room, airless and warm, was lit by the ceiling fixture overhead. Colonel N’Sika sat at the head of the table, a large man with powerful shoulders, neck, and arms, his glossy black face glistening in the heat, the color and texture of an eggplant. His short-sleeved khaki shirt was wet under the arms and along the V of the neck. On the table in front of him was a holstered side arm. At his side, drawn up on a chair, was a portable radio tuned to a security channel. Three other para officers, all majors, sat along the table in front of him, their holstered arms also on the table. They looked on suspiciously as de Vaux took his seat at the end of the table. On the wall behind him was the portrait of the President in morning coat and the blue and yellow sash of the republic, the colors muddy and indistinct, the face as lifeless as a rotogravure photo.
    â€œHe said nothing, you told me,” N’Sika began curtly, his dark irisless eyes fixed on de Vaux. His voice was deep, carrying effortlessly across the room. “You said nothing has changed. What did he say?”
    â€œHe had a report Soviet guns were hidden in the capital, brought from across the river.”
    â€œHe knows then.”
    â€œHe suspects something.”
    â€œHow does he suspect, why?”
    â€œHe wouldn’t say.”
    â€œFinished then.” Major Fumbe sighed. He was a short moonfaced officer, with bulbous eyes giving him the look of sleepy gluttony. “Finished.”
    â€œSo what will he do?” N’Sika demanded, turning to him. “Send in C-130s, Belgian paras, Green Berets now, like you claim? Like Stanleyville? Crush you like the Simbas. Of course, when you talk like that.” He turned back to de Vaux. “What did he say he would do, what did he threaten?”
    â€œNothing, no threats,” de Vaux said. “We talked. He’s worried about the embassy and his ambassador. His ambassador is worried. That’s all he cares about.”
    The door opened and a major joined them, sweating and out of breath from his jog through the trees from the motor pool, where the trucks were assembled. Seeing the holstered side arms on the table, he unbelted his own and sat down heavily.
    â€œTake off your hat,” N’Sika ordered. Sheepishly, like a forgetful schoolboy, he pulled off his cap. “What else did he say?” N’Sika asked.
    â€œJust that. He’s worried about the safety of the embassy and the ambassador.