Chapter 51: Guardians

“Hot!”

“How hot?”

“Too damned hot!”

“Can’t argue with that!”

“A cold beer would sure help.”

“Too bad we’re flying”

“Yep.”

“Ever tell you about my Grampa, who flew a crop duster?”

“Can’t remember if you did. Where was this?”

“Apple country. Wenatchee, Yakima, Leavenworth ... north central Washington.”

“Nice country.”

“Yep. Anyway, when things were slow, he’d take passengers up for sight-seeing. It helped to keep the business going.”

“Good plan. How’d it work out?”

“Not bad. He had a spiel he’d give ‘em.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He told ‘em that if they’d try to refrain from screaming in his ear during the flight, he’d refrain from drinking before setting up for landing. Then he’d pull a flask from under his seat and slosh it around a bit.”

“Really? Did it work?”

“Oh, hell yeah! Their eyes might be as big as saucers and their faces white as a sheet, but their lips were sealed tight!”

“Smart man.”

“Yeah. He lived to be ninety-three.”

“Really? How’d he die ... in bed?”

“Hell no. He was shot in the back by a jealous husband, while running bare-assed naked down the guy’s back stairs.”

“That’s tragic!”

“Nope. He always said that’s how he wanted to go!”

Eric Stridehorn smiled across the cockpit at Michael in the Dart’s command seat.

“Funny! Okay, there’s Ngumo’s compound just ahead. He said to set it down just behind the house. Keep an eye peeled for any welcoming committee,” Michael said.

“There’s Ngumo, and two of his people. We’re good to land.”

“Welcome to Tanzania, my good friends,” General Mahmoud Ngumo, commander of the African Union forces operating in central Africa as part of the Sudan relief effort. He served as liaison between the AU relief forces and the Masi’shen Peace Rangers.

“Are the UN Peacekeeper people here yet,” Michael asked.

“Of course. And we have the video conference links set up as you requested.”

“Secure?” Eric asked.

“Of course,” Ngumo laughed. “It’s the communications gear you gave us, so its very secure.”

“Great. Now, last question. Is there any cold beer? Michael keeps bitchin’ that it’s too hot!”

“Plenty of cold beer, my friends. And of course it’s too hot. You’re standing in the African sun! Please, come inside, quickly!” he laughed again.

The three men joined a small contingent of men and women sitting around a modest conference table in Ngumo’s home. They included Ngumo’s chief aide, two Tanzanian ministry officials, and another man and women, both in UN Peacekeeper uniforms. A wall monitor displayed a split screen. Jon’a’ren looked on from one side; Jugiarto Kusnadi filled the other half.

“Thank you, everyone, for agreeing to meet here,” Michael announced as he and Eric took seats at the table. Nods and greetings were exchanged, while two waiters in white jackets brought in ice buckets containing chilled beverages, including several bottles of cold lager. After a few moments of passing out everyone’s selection, Michael asked for attention.

“Since I called this meeting, I’ll get right to it. I have a lot to say, and even more to ask, so you’ll forgive me it we move right along. I’ll ask beforehand that if we get into any sticky business or drawn-out issues, that we agree in advance to table those for special attention after this meeting.

“Jon’a-ren, Sugiarto, is our connection good? You can see and hear us alright?”

Both men nodded and answered, “Yes.”

“Great. Alright, here’s the first order of business. I’m told that our security arrangements were mostly successful in preventing a mass poisoning in our camps. Mostly meaning that we did have two outbreaks, small and quickly contained. Eric?”

“Right. Both outbreaks were caused by careless and frantic handling of the botulinum toxin by the attackers themselves. We had three separate attempts made against our camps over a period of three weeks. There was no incident in the first week; we intercepted them, got a great deal of information from them, and jailed them. The second week we had another nine infiltrators. All were captured, but four of them died three days later. One of them was careless with his syringe while handling it. Apparently these guys aren’t much for washing their hands, and as we all know, they traditionally eat from a common serving dish with their fingers. Sorry to say, death was slow and ... inevitable.

“The same thing happened on the third week. Only five showed up. Our cameras caught them in the act. One of them tried to get rid of the evidence, but only succeeded in breaking a syringe and scattering some of the toxin on himself. We isolated him immediately and he died the next day. Somehow he ingested some of it directly from his hands or clothing.

“We think the threat is now over but we’ll keep the ‘bait’ trucks in place for another month, under surveillance, just to be sure,” Eric explained.

“Where are the bodies?” the Tanzanian defense minister asked.

“We returned them to their colleagues at the Al Queda compound outside Khartoum, in sealed body bags, dropped in from five hundred feet,” Gen. Ngumo smiled grimly. “I wrote a personal note to their commander on a postcard featuring a photo of our largest prison compound: Wish you were here. Please do stop by.”

“Gallows humor, that!” Michael chuckled.

“Speaking of prison camps, how are we doing?” he asked.

“Thanks to the AU cooperation, we have excellent security around a total of eight prison camps, far separated from any of our refugee camps. We’re trying to sort and segregate the prisoners by kind and type, to avoid internal conflicts. But I’ve gotta say, Jon’a-ren ... whichever of your research people came up with the guard droids is a genius! Please, find out for me whatever his or her favorite beverage or food or entertainment might be: we owe them a year’s supply, at least!” Eric offered.

The UN officials at the table looked startled. “What did you call the... droids? You said guard droids?“

“Yes, exactly. A ‘droid’ is a special-purpose robot, an android, highly mobile, with computer intelligence. And armed with an assortment of body and motion sensors, and non-lethal capture devices. Really cool little guys; just amazing, really!” Eric gushed.

“And these android ... robots... guard the prison camps?”

“Well, not entirely ... but mostly, yes. They work with your AU soldiers, who have ultimate control of the guard duties, but they love the little droids, because everything is so much safer and it cuts way back on the duty hours for the soldiers. And we need only a few of the AU guys working with our droids. It’s really reduced the manpower and the risks involved!”

“How so? How does it cut the risk?”

“Our droids never sleep, for one thing. They’re constantly patrolling the prison camp, both inside and out. They’re armored and very mobile. And smart, insanely smart. They’ve got quantum-computer brains and super sensors. Nothing sneaks up on ‘em or fools ‘em. And I’ve got to say this: nobody, but nobody — no matter how stupid or deranged — ever tries to touch or mess with one of those droids more than once!”

“You don’t mean they’re lethal?” the UN representative exclaimed.

“Oh, hell no. Not at all. But when Jon’a-ren’s genius engineers designed these droids, they enhanced their stun beams just a bit! They added a three-step discipline factor to the droid stunner: a mild tractor beam, a pain stimulator, and the normal stun beam.