Free Covert by Carolyn McCray Page B

the front of the line. He obliged.
    Through the filter of wide fronds, Brandt could make out the small village in front of them. Really, it was a tiny shanty town thrown together with scrap wood and corrugated tin roofing. The population was doubled by gunmen, and tents made of animal skin were erected along the periphery.
    Finding a fortune’s worth of uranium had created a mini-boom town. Although Brandt doubted that the villagers saw this as any kind of boom. It was the local chieftain who hoped to profit from the discovery, not the villagers.
    It was common knowledge that Hitler had had mines in the Congo, searching for the fuel he needed to create his A-bomb. Their exact locations, though, were highly secret. And the one mine that had produced enough weapon-grade uranium? Supposedly, only ten people in the world knew where that was located.
    Except for the workers, of course. Knowing first-hand what Nazi rule would feel like, the villagers had risen up, killed their guards, and caved in the mine. This had effectively stopped Hitler’s A-bomb in its tracks.
    Flash forward sixty years, and now the uranium was up for grabs again, and the United States’ enemies—and even a few allies—were on the hunt for it.
    “I’ve got thermal imaging online,” Lopez said, handing Brandt the tablet.
    The feed was sketchy, since the satellite wasn’t directly overhead yet. Just about all eyes had been pointed at the Middle East. Why should anyone be scouting over the western jungles of the Congo?
    The reds and bright yellows of the villagers stood out against the dark screen. Although Brandt wasn’t interested in them. He was much more interested in the small scattered readings around the periphery of the village.
    Those were not villagers. Those were other teams dispatched to either obtain the uranium or blow the mine, depending on which side of the nuclear line they fell on. Given that weapons-grade uranium was the single most limiting factor in building a functional nuclear weapon, many, many countries had joined the party in the Congo.
    Iran, of course, was here. A Quds team—Iran’s special forces—had been the first to head south to Africa. As soon as their wheels had lifted off, the Israelis had been right behind. The Quds didn’t go anywhere without a Mussad team ghosting them. Brandt doubted the Israelis even knew what they were going after—they just followed them on principle.
    Then, of course, Egypt and Saudi Arabia had each sent a team. Probably the only Middle Eastern country not represented was Syria. Not that they didn’t want the bomb, they just didn’t have the luxury of sending any teams. The only other oddball team that had been dispatched to the area was from Brazil.
    Supposedly, they had sworn off nuclear weapons in the 70s, just as they were on the cusp of developing them. Apparently, signing several dozen treaties hadn’t stopped them from wanting to be a player in the nuclear game. Or perhaps it was just the military that had wanted the Uranium and dispatched the BSO Brigade. The Brazilians had a long history of military coups, and they had a functioning centrifuge. Not good.
    “My bet?” Lopez asked. “Those are the Turks.” The corporal pointed to a set of six dots in the jungle. Seven sat around one central dot that was larger than the others.
    “Why?”
    “Obviously, they are using a flameless heat source...”
    Probably a heat stick. They were all carrying one. The fuel cells were hot enough to boil water without a flame to give you away. “And your point?”
    Lopez grinned. “Making coffee, of course.”
    Brandt did not even grin at the supposed joke. Although he wouldn’t mind some of that syrup-like coffee right about now.
    “He could be right,” Levont said, then rushed on. “Not about the coffee, of course. But they do have the best seat in the house.”
    About that, Brandt couldn’t argue. The team in questions had taken the high ground. In theory, the Turks should have