Sam Wolo

Novel Excerpt - In the Crosshairs

ONE

The West African Coastline, 12:36 a.m. (local time)

Through the darkness, a middle-aged man staggered down the narrow and poorly lit street in the middle class neighborhood of Sinkor in the Liberian seaside capital of Monrovia, wearing a pair of dirt stained khaki shorts and a tie-dye shirt.  A baseball cap covered his head, and a faded pair of red unlaced Chuck Taylor’s, his ashy feet.  The tall coconut trees along the eerie dead-end street bowed as the brisk winds coming in off the Atlantic Ocean rattled through their thatched leaves.  Tossing his empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s whiskey into the brush beneath the grove of coconut trees, the man continued south towards the beach.  As he stepped onto the white sand, a fine mist of salty water dusted his face.  The drunk blinked and then headed west paralleling the shoreline.

Staggering west, his shoes full of sand, the unsteady man approached a three-foot high culvert and ducked into it.  Crawling gingerly across eight feet of murky greenish-black colored mold embedded into the interior wall of the open drain, the man soon reached the other side of the culvert.  Slithering out, he crept up onto a slightly elevated bed of rocks overlooking a poorly maintained fence-line that bordered the beach.  Struggling to keep his balance atop the rugged incline, the drunk reached into his back pocket.  As the dingy man gathered himself, two agile functionaries moved swiftly across the white sand.  Dressed in shorts and tank tops, their sandals stirred gracefully through the sand as they picked up the pace.

The whistling winds coming in off the Atlantic and the crashing sounds of waves breaking against the sand and rocks brought a heightened sense of alert to the two strollers.  Having parked their government-issued jeep on 19^th Street, approximately six blocks away from the beach, the two men had completed counter-surveillance maneuvers before heading towards the ocean.  Moving artfully through the sand, they closed in on the Lebanese-owned Cedar Recreation and Social Club.  As they approached the south fence-line of the neighboring John F. Kennedy (JFK) Medical Center, they surveyed the perimeter for anything unusual.  The beach was deserted.  The only signs of life were crabs scurrying towards little holes and into the receding foam from the waves.  The half moon in the overcast sky provided an added cover for the two functionaries.

James Barchue and Francis Zoegah were officers in the Liberian Army, and tonight they were taking a bold step towards a very ambitious goal.  Barchue was a twenty-six-year-old corporal.  Zoegah was twenty-five years old and had just been promoted to sergeant.  Four years earlier both men had completed eighteen months of joint U.S./Liberia Green Beret training exercises, and were extremely proficient in the tactics of guerilla war.   A mild mannered personality, Barchue was a fierce competitor and combatant.  He was clean cut, slender, stood six feet two inches tall and weighed two hundred ten pounds.  A strict regimen of sit-ups, pull-ups, jogging, and swimming in the Atlantic, had chiseled him into shape.  His slender appearance was deceiving.  Zoegah on the other hand, had a tendency to be exuberant-a real hell raiser.  A short but fit soldier, Zoegah stood five feet three inches tall and weighed roughly one hundred eighty pounds.  He had a cropped beard and had begun to bald slightly.  Having completed their training at the top of their class, Barchue and Zoegah had both been assigned to the elite Presidential Guard, the force charged with protecting the Executive Mansion and the president’s villa.

Their eyes anxiously sweeping the beach, the two men watched for any signs that they were being followed.  The stakes were high and there was no room for error.  The glow from the hospital’s floodlights was beginning to fade as the beach became darker.  Moving west at a brisk pace, and passing a mold-infested fence behind the medical center, the two talented soldiers suddenly spotted the gloomy figure of a man lurking in the shadows.  He was stumbling and swaying from side to side.  As Barchue and Zoegah approached, the man called out to them as he moved closer.  His speech was slurred.

“Excuse me gentlemen, but do either of you know how to get to Cedar Club?  They say it’s somewhere on this side of the beach, but I can’t seem to find it.”

The two skilled functionaries gave the grungy looking man hard stares as he inquired.  His clothes were shabby; his beard scraggly, and the tilted baseball cap on his head was grimy.  He reeked of alcohol and his eyes seemed glazed over.  Barchue studied the drunk while Zoegah scanned the vicinity once again.  Sensing the perimeter had not been breached, Barchue replied as Zoegah stood down.

“Yes, the club is approximately two hundred yards ahead.  You can’t miss it.”

Appearing not to have the strength to make the trek, the wobbly man dropped to his knees and sat exhaustedly in the sand.  Then without warning, the man’s demeanor suddenly changed.   Wearing a stern look on his face, the grimy man glanced up at Barchue and Zoegah and asked in a firm voice, “Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

“We’re positive,” Zoegah barked back.  “We’re not amateurs.”

Unmoved by the aggressive response, the man smiled and said, “I see you haven’t lost your enthusiasm Zoegah.  Old habits die hard don’t they, my friend?”

Barchue smiled as he extended his hand to help the man to his feet.

“It’s good to see you again Maverick,” Barchue exclaimed.

The man under the baseball cap, disguised as a displaced drunk, was Jim (Maverick) Thornhill, an Operations Officer with the United States Central Intelligence Agency (CIA).  Prior to his new role with Central Intelligence, Thornhill served in the United States Army Special Forces where he earned the nickname Maverick for pushing the proverbial envelope during training.  It was during his stint as an Army Ranger that Maverick first learned of Liberia.  He later served as part of a U.S. military contingent sent to Liberia to help train the tiny nation’s armed forces.  This was also how he met Barchue and Zoegah.  Maverick had been impressed with the two young soldiers since the first week of training.  Their instincts were unmatched by any recruit he had ever trained, and they were quick studies.  Over time, their ability to swiftly catch on to difficult maneuvers and anticipate ambushes amazed him.  Maverick had great respect for the two young officers.

Having returned to Liberia, this time under the cover of a U.S. military attaché, Maverick could generally justify his interactions with his local counterparts.  But his current circumstances would be very difficult to explain.  Why Barchue and Zoegah had requested this meeting was unknown.  As such, he disguised himself as a drunk.  He had rinsed his mouth and throat with whiskey, and poured a fair amount on his beard and shirt.  Just in case things went south and this was a setup, he needed a cover.  Having checked the area nightly, and arriving an hour and a half ahead of schedule, the operative had cased the scene thoroughly.

Using an NVWS-6 long range night vision scope concealed in his back pocket, Maverick had the two soldiers under surveillance since their feet hit the sand.  The scope’s fluorescent green optics had penetrated the darkness and illuminated the two principals as they moved.  Having swept the perimeter, Maverick not only watched his targets, he checked his flanks and his six, looking for any sentinels trying to conceal their presence.  Only after he was completely satisfied that the RV point was secure, did he power down the high-tech 6x Power Generation scope, and reveal himself.

Diggsville Province, 20 Miles East of Monrovia

The black Mercedes 500 SEL sedan traveled down the faintly lit two-lane highway at a moderate speed.  The Liberian flag mounted on the right front fender fluttered in the wind as the luxury vehicle hugged the narrow roadway.  The provincial area was slightly woody and the immaculately paved road was sparsely traveled.  After traveling fifteen miles down the highway, the first signs of life appeared.  As the luxury sedan passed the huge white church on the left, the lights from a massive edifice in the distance lit up the night sky, illuminating the tree tops ahead.  Inside the vehicle were Marvin Coleman, the Liberian ambassador to the United Nations, and Paul Greaves, the Liberian ambassador to the United States.  As the sedan rounded the curve, the sprawling twenty seven-acre compound came into view.  Nestled nicely in the middle of the mildly forested province of Diggsville, the compound was a private hideaway.  The five-foot high white concrete fence surrounding the compound served as more of a decorative component than a security apparatus.  Armed military personnel guarded the bronze gates where the horseshoe-shaped marble driveway connected to the main street.  From the street the lights reflecting off the polished driveway made the marble appear wet.  The dazzling driveway led to a bridge that extended across a nicely decorated moat.  The water beneath the bridge was crystal clear and the polished limestone embankments bordering both sides of the moat sparkled from the bright floodlights around the residence.  Beautiful exotic plants from all over the world complimented the freshly manicured lawn, most of them given as gifts from foreign counterparts.  As the black sedan approached the compound, two men armed with M-16 automatic rifles motioned for the chauffeur to stop.  Then, recognizing the government-issued license plates, the guards gestured for the driver to proceed.  At the gate, a second group of security personnel confirmed and validated the guest manifest, and logged the arrival of both ambassadors.

The black Mercedes proceeded up the driveway, over the bridge and onto the VIP receiving deck.  A third group of security personnel waved the driver to the right, where a ramp descending underneath the residence appeared.  As the vehicle disappeared beneath the villa, a man wearing a black safari suit and matching traditional Liberian hat was making his way from the master suite to the study. His name: Jenkins Allen Diggs, President of the Republic of Liberia.  President Diggs had a mild but stern personality.  Not one to raise his voice, he was well respected by his peers and counterparts across the continent as a consensus builder; one who knew how to get things done.

The President loved spending weekends at his villa.  Having just come to grips with the passing of his wife two Easters ago, Diggs was finally beginning to accept life without his sweetheart of twenty years. When there were no events scheduled at the Executive Mansion on weekends, President Diggs would head to the villa early on Friday afternoons.  It was his place of solace, his time for reflection.  The sheer serenity of the property and its surroundings put him at complete peace.  He could wake up to the soothing chirps of the birds, sit out on the balcony, and feed his horses, giraffes, and the six-month old lion cub given to him by the President of Sudan on his fifty-ninth birthday.  However, this weekend’s visit was particularly distressing.  President Diggs was facing growing pressures both domestically and internationally.  In response to international concerns, he had summoned his ambassadors to the United Nations and the United States home for consultations.  As the president poured himself a drink, there was a knock on the door of the study.

“Come in.”

The door opened and a well-groomed man appeared. “Mr. President, your guests have arrived,” the man exclaimed humbly.

“Thank you.  Show them in please.”

The Shoreline, Sinkor

Anxiously looking around, his senses on high alert, Maverick inquired, “So why are we meeting in the middle of this godforsaken place on a Friday night?  Don’t you guys know any bars or restaurants in town where we could talk over a few beers?”

Zoegah could not wait to respond. “Maverick, if you wanted a beer you should have brought one with you.  There’s no law against drinking a beer on the beach at night.”

Before Maverick could respond, Barchue stepped in. “Pay no attention to this guy Maverick.  As you already know, he can’t help himself.”

Maverick was eager to get to the point.  He didn’t want to be out here any longer than he needed to.   Sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels, he asked again, “What’s the deal gentlemen?  Why are we here?”

Turning to Zoegah, Barchue said, “I’ll take it from here.  You keep your eyes open for anything suspicious.”

Maverick reached into his back pocket, retracted the night-vision scope, and powered it up. “Here, use this.”

“Thanks,” Zoegah replied in appreciation.

Putting his arm around Maverick’s shoulder, Barchue said, “Why don’t we take a stroll my friend?”

The three men slowly walked in the direction of Cedar Club.  Zoegah held up the rear with the aide of the 6x Power Generation scope sweeping the perimeter to ensure their cover was not breached.  The lights at the club could be seen in the distance.  Turning to Maverick, Barchue began to make his case.

“We are here my friend because the same stone that has been in the shoe of my forefathers, and which continues to bring suffering to me and my people, has now found its way into the shoe of your President in Washington.”

“Excuse me,” Maverick exclaimed with a confused look. “What are you talking about Barchue?”

“Come on Maverick.  You know exactly who and what I am talking about.  You have lived in this country long enough to know about the societal rift that exists between the indigenous people and the Americos who govern us.”

“Maybe so Barchue, but I’m not a mind reader and I don’t do riddles very well either.”

“Look Maverick, it is no secret that Diggs is becoming a major embarrassment to your President.  His meetings with Russian officials and his activities with the non-aligned Movement, despite all that Washington has invested in Liberia, are making your government the laughing stock of the international community.  I mean…this guy spits in your President’s face every chance he gets.  This is what these criminals have done to us for the past century, and believe me it will not stop here.  The time has come Maverick.  The indigenous people are tired of being taken advantage of by these arrogant SOBs.  Haven’t you seen the demonstrations in the streets?  The voices of the dissidents just keep getting louder and louder.  The winds of change are here, my friend.”

“Get to the point Barchue,” Maverick insisted.  “What are you suggesting?”

“Listen…Zoegah and I, with the help of seventeen others, have devised a plan to overthrow Diggs and his cronies.  But we need assurances that your government will not come to his rescue.”

Maverick’s eyes narrowed and his heart rate began to rapidly increase.  Looking at Barchue with skepticism, he scanned the perimeter as he spoke. “So why are you coming to me?  I’m not in the business of planning or approving insurgencies.”

Trying to contain his smirk, Maverick said rhetorically, “So you two and seventeen other guys are going to pull-off a military coup?  Damn Barchue, I know we trained you guys well, but coordinating and implementing something like this is really risky business.”

“We know that,” said Barchue in a sharp tone, “but somebody’s got to do it.”

“In any case, who’s to say that Diggs’ replacement is going to be any different?” Maverick asked.

“You have my sworn word and soldier’s honor, and I assure you that I will not go back on it.”

Maverick froze momentarily.  If what he just heard was accurate, Barchue was seeking the blessing of the United States in not only seizing power, but in taking full responsibility for United States national security interests across Africa and the Middle East.  He wasn’t sure whether or not Barchue fully understood the magnitude of his proposition.  This was no small task.

The darkness was beginning to fade as the men slowly approached the glow of the club’s lights.  Stopping a few yards from the luminosity of the lights, and still cloaked in darkness, Maverick looked Barchue in the eyes.  The operative was very uncomfortable with the tenor of the soldier’s discussion and was ready for the group to disband.

“We’ve been here long enough,” said Maverick.  “No sense risking any further exposure.  I’ll take your proposal to someone who might know what to do.  Let’s talk again another time.  I’ll find you.  Zoegah, I need my scope back!”

Diggsville, The President’s Villa

A man dressed in white gently opened the doors to the study and Ambassadors Coleman and Greaves walked in.  The man stood humbly to the side as the two diplomats made their way into the room.  He was the president’s personal attendant. His name was Flomo.

“Welcome home gentlemen,” Diggs exclaimed as he maneuvered his way towards them from behind the bar.

“It’s certainly good to be back, sir,” Coleman replied.

The three men exchanged hugs and the president gestured for them to be seated.

“Can I offer you all something to drink?  I would think you could use one or two rounds after those long flights,” said Diggs.

“I don’t know about Coleman, but I could surely use at least two,” said Greaves.

“Flomo, get Mr. Coleman and Mr. Greaves a Scotch on the rocks,” said the President.

“Yes, sir,” Flomo replied before turning towards the bar.

Heading to his chair, the president said, “Well gentlemen, I’m sure you know why I summoned you home, and requested your presence at my villa tonight.  These are difficult times for us, both nationally and internationally.”

With his preface complete, Diggs got down to the business at hand.  He wanted a personal accounting from his emissaries about the going ons in international circles, and the general consensus towards Liberia.  Wasting no time at all, he began by delving into Ambassador Coleman’s interactions with his UN counterparts.

“So Coleman, what is the mood in the General Assembly regarding our treatment of the Americans, and what are our Organization of African Unity (OAU) brothers and Non-aligned Movement friends saying about our about-face towards the West?”

“Well Mr. President,” said Coleman, “our friends are surprised to say the least.  However, they admire our commitment to NAM -  the Non-aligned Movement, and have a great appreciation for the level of sacrifice we are making.  They advise that we prepare ourselves for the enormous pressures we will undergo in the months ahead and urge that we stay the course no matter what.”

“That’s easy for them to say,” Diggs exclaimed.  Without pause, the president continued his inquisition, “And the Security Council? What kind of feedback are you getting on that end?”

“Sentiment falls along ideological lines.  The Western countries are up in arms, while the Eastern nations appear nonchalant, viewing the situation as an opportunity to woo us,” said Coleman.

Leaning forward in his plush brown leather chair, Diggs pressed on, “What is your impression of the Russians?”

“My view, sir, is that our Russian friends are pleased with our actions and see this as an opportunity to gain favor by possibly offering to assist us in developing and modernizing our infrastructure.”

“I would imagine so, but at what costs?” asked Diggs.

“Right now there are hints that the Russians would front projects that include roads, bridges, hospitals, mining equipment, and additional seaports,” Coleman replied.

The President scooted to the edge of his chair, “Who’s telling you this, Coleman?”

“This is all unofficial, sir,” said Coleman as he took off his spectacles.  “But given our strategic leverage, it is not unrealistic to think that we could command that kind of compensation.”

Putting his eyeglasses in his coat pocket, Coleman continued, “As far as costs to us, the Russians would like to see us open an embassy in Moscow.  Since you proclaimed us a non-aligned nation, freeing us from our sole commitment to the United States, the Russians have been fervently courting us through third party good offices.  Additionally, with your scheduled trip to Libya coming up in the next six months, coupled with your signal that relations with Israel would probably not survive our split with the United States, the fever pitch of Eastern Bloc overtures is overwhelming.”

“Hmmm,” grunted Diggs, as gently rubbing his chin while considering his options. “Let’s play our cards close to the vest for now.”

As Diggs completed his sentence, Flomo approached with a tray of drinks. “Excuse me, gentlemen.  Here are your drinks.”  Having placed the glasses on the table, Flomo faced the president in a humble stance. “Is there anything else I can get for you or your guests, sir?”

“No, thank you Flomo.  You have done well.  I’ll call you if I need you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Flomo exited the room and resumed his post in the hallway just outside the study. With that, Diggs turned his attention to Ambassador Greaves. “What about you Greaves?  How did your meeting with U.S. State Department officials go last evening?”

“To be quite honest Mr. President,” Greaves began, “the tone of this meeting was very different from the previous three consultations.  They are no longer employing persuasion as a means of luring us back.  The conversation was very contentious, and they are demanding that we change course.”

“Or else what?” asked Diggs in his usual stern, but mild voice.

“Well, sir,” Greaves replied, “they didn’t give an or else.  You know how Washington operates. Their pressure tactics are applied in stages.  They will keep twisting our arms, and the more we resist the tighter the twists will get.”

Leaning back in his chair quite nonchalantly, Diggs began to pin Greaves down. “So how far do you sense they will try to go with this?”

“I believe they intend to go all the way on this one Mr. President.  The Americans will take a serious hit if we go through with this policy change.  I don’t foresee them just walking away from this without a fight.  This is going to get very ugly in the months to come, and I…”

“Wait a minute,” Diggs interjected angrily, “what’s going on here, Greaves?  Are you buckling on me?”  Coleman took a drink to disguise the nervous energy that came over him as Diggs appeared to be firming up on Greaves.

“It seems you let the Americans put the screws to you in that meeting,” Diggs scoffed.  “Do I need to pull you out?”

“Not at all, sir,” Greaves replied nervously.  “No disrespect Mr. President, all I’m doing is presenting what I believe to be the current realities under the existing circumstances.”

Diggs stared at Greaves with a scowl. “I hope that’s all it is Greaves.  Now is not the time to get timid.  I mean…if you can’t handle the pressures of the job, you need to tell me now.”

Putting on his most confident face, Greaves responded. “Mr. President, I assure you, sir, you have nothing to worry about.”

Diggs shook his drink gingerly. “Alright Greaves, I’m going to hold you to that.” Then without warning, the president began to vent his frustrations.

“You know, I have done everything in my power to appease those damn Americans.  They wanted to use our old airstrip at Robert’s Field as a transit point for military cargo transfers to operations in Zaire and Angola, and I gave them unfettered access for as long as they desired.  They wanted to build a Voice of America (VOA) transmitter site and I provided them prime real estate on which to build it.  I could go on and on about my cycle of benevolence with these people.  But every time I request assistance for infrastructure or urge them to build factories and other manufacturing plants here at home, I’m told to be patient and that my time will come.  How am I supposed to provide career opportunities for my people if I can’t get the kind of businesses here to meet that objective?  Meanwhile, these ungrateful indigenous folks are running around town organizing demonstrations against me and calling me a crook.  But I blame myself for that.  I’ve tried to give them a little freedom of speech and expression after decades of oppressive and repressive rule under my predecessors, and look how they repay me.  My brother warned me about this, but I wouldn’t listen.  Throughout my time in office, I’ve been fighting to get better jobs for these fools so that they can provide better lives for their families, and now they turn against me.  Well, my patience has run out with these parasites.  And that goes for the Americans as well.”

Diggs turned to Ambassador Greaves. “Greaves, I want you to extend your stay here at home.  As of now, you are unofficially recalled as ambassador to the United States.  You will remain here for an indefinite period of time.  If questions begin to arise about your extended stay, we will address them as needed.  In fact, we’ll blame it on a sudden illness in your family.  If we need to, we will admit your father to the Catholic hospital under the guise that he had a stroke.  Those young nurses can wait on him hand and foot for a few weeks.  I’m sure he would enjoy that.  If the U.S. wants to play games, I will teach them a lesson.  It’s time they learned that there is more than one fish in the sea.”

Continuing his tirade of anti-western sentiment, Diggs drew a line in the sand. “Let’s test the commitment of our new friends.  Tomorrow morning I will instruct the Minister of State to recall our ambassador to Israel.  As for those heathens running up and down our streets disrupting the tranquility of the peace-loving citizens of this nation, I will deal with them personally.”

With that, Diggs called for his attendant. “Flomo.”

The door to the study swung open and the attendant appeared. “Yes, Mr. President.”

“I want you to call the Chief of Police and have him meet me at the Mansion at 8:00 a.m. Monday morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That will be all, Flomo.”  The door closed and Flomo disappeared behind it.

Looking at Coleman and Greaves as they sat silently, the president leaned back in his chair-his eyes narrow and his jaws tight.  Staring at his gold Rolex watch, Diggs asked, “Do you all remember Chea Bulu?”

“Sure,” Coleman responded.

“Wasn’t he one of the young men from the village that we sponsored in an effort to help him get his Doctorate degree?” asked Greaves.

“That’s him,” said the President.

“Did something happen to him?” asked Greaves.

“Not yet,” said Diggs in a disconcerting tone.

Coleman and Greaves were puzzled by the president’s remark.

“What do you mean, sir?” asked Coleman.

Diggs rolled his bottom lip between his teeth as he searched for the right words. “Three weeks ago Bulu returned to the country with a few of the other students that were sponsored under the study abroad program.  They have all gotten degrees in various fields of study, some in economics, others in politics and public health.  Upon their return, rather than come to the Mansion to thank us for sponsoring them, those boys scheduled a meeting with me to ask me to step aside at the end of my term.”

“What?” Coleman exclaimed angrily.

“You see,” said Greaves, “these people are just like crabs.  You can take them out of the ocean and bring them into your house, but they still walk sideways.  They just can’t appreciate the finer things in life.”

Nodding in agreement with Greaves, Diggs continued, “They came to my office to tell me that I had to go because my approach to politics and expanding the country’s wealth was antiquated, and destroying the economy.  They said that if they didn’t hear from me in a month they would orchestrate sit-ins and other forms of civil disobedience throughout the city.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t lock them up,” said Coleman in animated fashion.

“Well, the way things are going, that appears to be the only solution to this madness,” Diggs replied forcefully.

Diggs and Barchue shared one thing in common: frustration about the historical rivalry between their ancestors.  However, each man blamed the actions of the other’s forefathers for the current deteriorated state of indigenous and Americo relations.  The nation of Liberia was born out of a cycle of malice and intrigue.  Since freed slaves from the southern United States were brought to this coastal section of the West African continent, civil unrest had simmered.  Shortly after arriving, the freed slaves assumed the nomenclature of Americo, adopted an elaborate lifestyle, and developed elitist attitudes laced with arrogance.  They ostracized the indigenous people, forcing them to endure utter poverty and neglect.  Their land was stripped away from them, violently in many cases, as the elite’s hoarded large portions of prime real estate for personal and financial gain.  The tribesmen were denied the right to vote and were not allowed to participate in the political, social, or economic systems.   Nonetheless, despite noticeable breakthroughs in indigenous and Americo relations, deep resentment on both sides still remained. 

TWO

Mamba Point, Monrovia

Tucked away in the ritzy ocean front enclave of Mamba Point, high above Liberia’s capital, sat the well secured and sprawling fifteen-acre compound surrounded by a wrought iron and concrete fence.  The trees and shrubbery strategically planted along the fence-line and throughout the compound, obscured most of the interior of the property from public view.  A maze of paved walkways covered the grounds-connecting the embassy’s Consular offices to the Ambassador’s residence, Marine Corps quarters, the helipad, clubhouse, and boat launch.  The rear of the compound sloped onto the rocky shores of the Atlantic Ocean below.  At night, the roar of the ocean could be heard as the vibrant waves smashed against the rocky shoreline.  Inside the front gates of the compound, four uniformed U.S. Marines held their posts behind a circular gold and blue official seal that read, “Embassy of the United States of America.”

It was 8:03 a.m., and Maverick was in his basement office compiling a report of his conversation with Barchue from the night before.  Maverick was scheduled to meet with Ron Kelly, the Case Management Officer (CMO) for CIA West Africa Operations, in an hour and needed to have his ducks in a row.  What Barchue was suggesting would have far-reaching implications, not to mention serious repercussions all the way up the line if the operation got botched.  After all, no one in the intelligence community wanted to see their superiors take that infamous walk up The Hill to sit under the bright lights of Congress.  Members of the House and Senate Intelligence Committees had very little appreciation for the complexities of covert operations.  And whenever sticky situations arose, they were only interested in counting heads.  Careers spanning decades could be devastated and good people who have made grave sacrifices for their country, could be destroyed.

As Maverick cringed from the mere thought of the possible consequences, there was a knock on his door.

“It’s open.”

The wooden door opened and a short and chubby, gray-haired gentleman entered.  A seasoned veteran of Central Intelligence, Ron Kelly had earned his stripes in Eastern Europe playing cat and mouse with his KGB counterparts.  For the better part of his twenty year career, Ron was a member of the Agency’s Black Ops team.  Specifically trained to break the laws of other countries, the squad ignored international borders in their intelligence gathering operations.  A trailblazer in every respect, Ron had set his sights on Africa and the Middle East-the two Superpowers’ new frontline in the war for global geo-strategic posts.  Within two years of hitting the ground in Liberia, Ron had added another stripe to his sleeve.  Lending his expertise to his colleague in Chad, Ron had traveled to N’Djaména, the Chadian capital in 1975 for a brief visit.  With Ron by his side, the CMO assigned to Chad successfully recruited the Army Chief of Staff as his agent.  The asset’s cooperation led to the military coup that overthrew the President of Chad, and brought the Army Chief of Staff to power.  Chummy and unassuming, Ron had a knack for disarming some of the world’s toughest hacks.  That’s why he was so successful at recruiting high value assets.

Walking into the room with his signature smile, Ron placed his coffee mug on the desk, grabbed a chair, and moved towards the window.

“What’s up Ron?” asked Maverick.

“It’s Saturday.  What else can I say?”

Taking a seat next to the window overlooking the ocean, Ron began his inquiry.

“So what’s going on in your world, Maverick?”

“Last night I had an interesting meeting with two former Liberian military protégés of mine.”

“Former protégés?” asked Ron with a look of uncertainty.  “Who are you talking about?”

“I’ve told you about these guys before.  Don’t you remember?”

“Vaguely,” Ron replied.

“Four years ago I was part of the contingent from Fort Polk, Louisiana, that came in to train Liberian troops in guerilla warfare.  During that stint, I met two exceptional recruits whom I took under my wings.  One is James Barchue, a Corporal, and the other is Francis Zoegah, a Sergeant.  They completed the training with flying colors, of course, and were later assigned to the Presidential Guard.  Upon my return late last year, I checked in on them to see how they were doing.  We have kept in touch on an infrequent basis ever since.  A few days ago they requested a meeting with me.  So I set it up for last night-on the beach just off 19^th Street.  Barchue tells me that given the current atmosphere in the country, he may be able to do what our bosses are probably in the initial stages of studying-given the potential threat President Diggs is posing to our national security interests.”

“And what would that be Maverick?” asked Ron with a look of concern.

Looking Ron in the eyes, Maverick replied, “Assassinate President Diggs.”

Visit http://www.dangerousgrounds.com, the author’s website, to purchase a copy of this book.