what purpose? Jumbe speaks of enemies and traitors among the leaders of neighboring states, particularly Zambia, whose president, Hugh Manchere, has advocated a multiracial solution in South Africa. Jumbe is flatly opposed to any such accommodation, and apparently obsessed with the need for what he terms a "final solution."
"There is no alternative to the end of white minority rule in South Africa. A negotiated settlement with racist devils is impossible. Economic sanctions will not prevail. Conventional means of revolution, however bloody, cannot succeed. Their government can be removed only by power, an overwhelming, destructive force." Such force, he concedes, black Africans do not possess and are not likely to acquire in the foreseeable–
"Dad, there's a Russian plane–a big one!"
Morgan glanced out the starboard windows as the 707 taxied toward the terminal building. He saw a red star on the tailfin of an Ilyushin-76 supersonic jet transport, which meant it was flown by the Soviet air force and not the civilian airline. The plane was parked well away from the terminal and was under guard, probably by the KGB. It was obvious that someone of importance in the Politburo had arrived in East Africa: another old friend, persuaded to join Jumbe for a quiet weekend in the country?
Ron Burgess swiveled his seat around to face Morgan. He was scowling.
"What the hell is Jumbe up to?"
"Maybe they're here on safari."
"Is something wrong, Dad?"
"No, Len. Unexpected company, that's all."
Morgan was happy that no reporters had tagged along on his "vacation." Since he'd become secretary of defense he'd had a recurring dream. In the dream he would be in the press briefing room at the Pentagon for his weekly conference, facing a hostile audience. At some time during the conference he would become painfully aware that he'd forgotten to put on his pants. His interrogators were never reporters with whom he was familiar; they varied from dream to dream. The questions he heard were always bizarre, unanswerable, despite his best efforts to be prepared. Once he had been questioned by a group of garden-club ladies; they had cursed him most foully when he displayed an abysmal ignorance of horticulture. Another time he was confronted by chimpanzees who demanded a learned refutation of the tenets of Darwinism while they jumped up and down on their chairs and jabbered insults.
Morgan again felt as if he were about to appear in public without his pants. He went back over his recent conversation with Jumbe, looking for insight, some clue as to what he might expect. Maybe the rumors he'd been hearing were correct. Jumbe, it was said, had gone slowly mad from grief following the death of his sons at the hands of white mercenaries. Morgan anticipated some painful exchanges with his old friend, but he hoped that the weekend could be salvaged, at least for Len's sake.
The male flight attendant hurried through the compartment to spring the forward door open. Colonel Brick McMillen, the pilot of the Air Force backup crew that had flown to Tanzania with Morgan, came yawning out of the cockpit. He was fluent in Mandarin and had been in the right-hand seat much of the way down. The rest of the crew, and the two Defense Department security officers assigned to Morgan, had watched Woody Allen movies in the main cabin.
"That Ilyushin touched down about half an hour ago," he said to Morgan. "Party of ten, the tower says."
"Any idea who?"
"No, sir. Could find out for you. Go over and strike up a conversation with the Soviets."
"I don't think it's too important, Colonel. Thanks for a good flight."
"Captain Lan flew 707s for Singapore Airlines. The Chinese run the air wing here–you don't have to worry about how the aircraft are maintained."
Ron Burgess was standing by the open door as a ground crew pushed a stairway into place. There was a warm dry wind blowing across the Sanya Juu plains; to the west were the green foothills of Mount Meru,
"There is no alternative to the end of white minority rule in South Africa. A negotiated settlement with racist devils is impossible. Economic sanctions will not prevail. Conventional means of revolution, however bloody, cannot succeed. Their government can be removed only by power, an overwhelming, destructive force." Such force, he concedes, black Africans do not possess and are not likely to acquire in the foreseeable–
"Dad, there's a Russian plane–a big one!"
Morgan glanced out the starboard windows as the 707 taxied toward the terminal building. He saw a red star on the tailfin of an Ilyushin-76 supersonic jet transport, which meant it was flown by the Soviet air force and not the civilian airline. The plane was parked well away from the terminal and was under guard, probably by the KGB. It was obvious that someone of importance in the Politburo had arrived in East Africa: another old friend, persuaded to join Jumbe for a quiet weekend in the country?
Ron Burgess swiveled his seat around to face Morgan. He was scowling.
"What the hell is Jumbe up to?"
"Maybe they're here on safari."
"Is something wrong, Dad?"
"No, Len. Unexpected company, that's all."
Morgan was happy that no reporters had tagged along on his "vacation." Since he'd become secretary of defense he'd had a recurring dream. In the dream he would be in the press briefing room at the Pentagon for his weekly conference, facing a hostile audience. At some time during the conference he would become painfully aware that he'd forgotten to put on his pants. His interrogators were never reporters with whom he was familiar; they varied from dream to dream. The questions he heard were always bizarre, unanswerable, despite his best efforts to be prepared. Once he had been questioned by a group of garden-club ladies; they had cursed him most foully when he displayed an abysmal ignorance of horticulture. Another time he was confronted by chimpanzees who demanded a learned refutation of the tenets of Darwinism while they jumped up and down on their chairs and jabbered insults.
Morgan again felt as if he were about to appear in public without his pants. He went back over his recent conversation with Jumbe, looking for insight, some clue as to what he might expect. Maybe the rumors he'd been hearing were correct. Jumbe, it was said, had gone slowly mad from grief following the death of his sons at the hands of white mercenaries. Morgan anticipated some painful exchanges with his old friend, but he hoped that the weekend could be salvaged, at least for Len's sake.
The male flight attendant hurried through the compartment to spring the forward door open. Colonel Brick McMillen, the pilot of the Air Force backup crew that had flown to Tanzania with Morgan, came yawning out of the cockpit. He was fluent in Mandarin and had been in the right-hand seat much of the way down. The rest of the crew, and the two Defense Department security officers assigned to Morgan, had watched Woody Allen movies in the main cabin.
"That Ilyushin touched down about half an hour ago," he said to Morgan. "Party of ten, the tower says."
"Any idea who?"
"No, sir. Could find out for you. Go over and strike up a conversation with the Soviets."
"I don't think it's too important, Colonel. Thanks for a good flight."
"Captain Lan flew 707s for Singapore Airlines. The Chinese run the air wing here–you don't have to worry about how the aircraft are maintained."
Ron Burgess was standing by the open door as a ground crew pushed a stairway into place. There was a warm dry wind blowing across the Sanya Juu plains; to the west were the green foothills of Mount Meru,
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