The Hunt for Njonjo

By Jack Kassinger

When three CIA employees go missing, there is only one man willing to find them in the depths of the African wilderness. That man is Jack Casey, a retired CIA operative, and nothing can stop him—because one of the missing men saved his life.

Casey is lucky to be alive after a horrific helicopter crash in the jungles of Zimbabwe. He alone survived, and he owes his life to fellow CIA operative Mike Shocklee. He is alarmed when he learns through the intelligence grapevine that Shocklee and two colleagues have been kidnapped by an African soldier.

Colonel Simon Njonjo, a rebel soldier who is loyal to the ousted former president of Zimbabwe, has mounted a brutal attack on Harare Station, a CIA outpost. The bloody assault leaves many station personnel dead and three missing, including Mike Shocklee. No sign of them can be found in Zimbabwe; no ransom is requested, and it’s suspected the men have been taken into Mozambique for political purposes. It also is suspected that they will be mistreated, and quite probably tortured or killed. But the CIA’s hands are tied when the American president makes it clear that no rescue teams are to search across the border in Mozambique; the unstable political situation there makes the CIA employees expendable.

Jack Casey disagrees; if no one else will go, he will. Despite his retirement status and his settled, comfortable life with his wife, Cherie, he searches for a way to unofficially mount his own search. Returning to Zimbabwe and calling on old friends and allies, Casey is determined to find and rescue the man who pulled him out of the helicopter wreckage. Casey knows the hostages are in grave danger in the hands of Simon Njonjo, a man who will stop at nothing to see his leader returned to the presidency—through any means necessary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brighton Publishing LLC
• Release date: Mar 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781621832034

Jack Kassinger

In terms of spy genre, Jack Kassinger, as an author, is one of the best there is. His novels include: Noble Cause: A CIA Spy Thriller, Storms Over Zimbabwe, and The Hunt for Njonjo and each provides the reader suspense and drama based on real life experiences. PURSUED is his fourth novel to be published, and is a continuation of his masterful writing.As a former United States Marine and CIA veteran, Jack Kassinger spent his formative years growing up in the small rural town of Livermore, Kentucky. After high school, he joined the Marine Corps and served in Viet Nam. He was wounded in action on Memorial Day 1969. Following his tour with the Marines he joined the Central Intelligence Agency and served overseas in various locations. He retired from the CIA in 1995 as a Senior Intelligence Officer.During his service with the CIA, he received numerous awards for valor and heroism. His awards include the Intelligence Medal of Merit, twice awarded, the Intelligence Star for Valor, and certificates of appreciation from the Joint Special Operations Command.He currently resides in Fair Oaks Ranch, Texas with his wife Cherie. They have two married children.

Book preview

The Hunt for Njonjo

A sequel to: Storms Over Zimbabwe The OPCON Finding

Jack Kassinger

Brighton Publishing LLC

435 N. Harris Drive

Mesa, AZ 85203

www.BrightonPublishing.com

ISBN13: 978-1-62183-203-4

Copyright © 2013

eBook

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Cover Design: Tom Rodriguez

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious and the creation of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to other characters or to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The Central Intelligence Agency requires all former employees to submit their work for review, before publication, in order to prevent the disclosure of classified information.

CIA Disclaimer

All statements of fact, opinion, or analysis expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the official positions or views of the CIA or any other U.S. Government agency. Nothing in the contents should be construed as asserting or implying U.S. Government authentication of information or Agency endorsement of the author’s views. This material has been reviewed by the CIA to prevent the disclosure of classified information.

Prologue

It was the third week of June, and the crack of thunder and large black clouds that suddenly appeared from nowhere gave Mike Shocklee cause for concern. He stepped outside the 1st Infantry Brigade Headquarters building and looked westward, in the direction of Livingston and Victoria Falls. Shocklee was struck by the speed with which the storm had formed. The remarkable beauty of the black and purple clouds, ominously marching eastward in formation, temporarily suspended his sense of awareness regarding the ongoing operation.

Another loud crack of thunder and a lengthy bolt of lightning announced the arrival of a torrential downpour. He stood, seemingly lost in thought, as he watched the rain beating down. The more the lightning set the sky on fire, the harder the rain poured down to put it out. Minutes later, he turned and walked back into the building with a renewed concern regarding the effects of the storm—not so much for the problem the rain would cause for Colonel Marcus Ncube and his troops as they made their final push toward Harare, but for the safety of Jack Casey, who had left earlier in the day aboard a Black Hawk helicopter flying directly into the path of the storm.

He recalled Casey’s last words: By the time you guys get to Harare, I’ll be resting at the safe house in Lusaka. So long, guys, and good luck.

At Shocklee’s direction, and shortly after Casey was airborne, the command element of the rebelling forces departed for Harare to continue coordination of the ongoing military offensive to take control of the capital. There was a more direct route to the capital from their location, but Ncube suggested they stop in Bulawayo, two hundred and twenty-five miles southwest of Harare, to pick up ZAMEGAPHONE/1 (M/1), the CIA crypt for Albert Matapa the head of the opposition political party and the man the CIA intended to install as the new president of Zimbabwe. Matapu, with a platoon of Ncube’s forces providing protection, had been broadcasting information about the coup from a radio station in Bulawayo.

Shocklee agreed; there was much more to be gained, in terms of the public accepting Matapu as the new president, by having him broadcast information about the coup from State House rather than a radio station in Bulawayo.

They had picked him up and were on the outskirts of the city, heading north, when Ron, Orion Six, the U.S. military special ops officer detailed to the REDEMPTION operation and part of the Eagle Six field team, heard the mayday transmission by Casey’s pilot. He was riding in the lead vehicle with Colonel Ncube, who had been encrypted by the CIA as REDEMPTION/1 (R/1). Ron, stunned by what he had just heard, informed Ncube of the mayday transmission.

We need to let Shocklee know what the hell has just happened, colonel, he said.

Ncube agreed and immediately ordered the lead vehicle to pull over and stop. Minutes later, Ncube, Ron, and Shocklee were shielding themselves underneath a thatched roadside bus stop from the pouring rain.

Has there been any word from our military in Zambia regarding a search party? Shocklee asked, wiping the rain from his face.

It was a question the special ops officer was expecting, but he was short on answers. No, nothing yet, Mike, Ron replied. I imagine the storm has grounded all aircraft. Now that it’s dark and with the storm still raging, it’s doubtful they’ll put anything in the air until first thing in the morning.

Why didn’t the pilot turn around and get the hell out of the storm? Shocklee asked.

Beats the hell out of me, Ron said. I’m a ground pounder, not a pilot. Could be that he was close enough to Zambia that he thought he could get through the storm and on to Lusaka without any problem.

Storms like this have a way of popping up unexpectedly in this part of the country, Ncube said. Sometimes they are short lived, but they have been known to rage on for hours.

How long do you think it would take us to drive from here to the area where they went down, Marcus? Shocklee asked.

It’s at least four hundred kilometers from here to the border, but according to what Ron has told us, we don’t know exactly where they went down—or even if there are any survivors.

Yes, I know, but Jack Casey is a hell of a Marine and a survivor. He’s still alive out there somewhere, and I intend to find him.

All right, then, replied the colonel. It will take about five hours in a Land Rover—maybe six in a larger troop carrier.

Can I have two trucks and two squads of your men?

Yes, of course, but I think you are fighting some unbelievable odds, trying to find him tonight in weather like this.

It’s almost nineteen hundred hours. With a little luck, we could be looking for him by zero one hundred—maybe a little sooner if the rain stops. That’s a hell of a lot better than first light, Marcus, Shocklee said, squelching any further attempts by the colonel to change his mind. Ron, you stay with the colonel, but work with our military air controllers in Zambia and see if you can get a fix on where they think that Black Hawk went down.

Reflecting on their communication capabilities, Shocklee wished this was one time that the U.S. military and CIA equipment worked off the same satellite. Marcus, I’m assuming the squad leaders going with me will have radio communications with you.

Yes, and since you and Ron cannot talk to each other, I’ll forward any update that Ron gets as soon as he receives it. Ncube turned and began issuing orders to an aide.

Moments later Shocklee was in a radio conversation with CONTROL at CIA headquarters. Everyone listening to the CIA net at Langley and in Zambia now knew that Eagle Five was planning a rescue mission to search for Eagle Six, who had gone down somewhere in Western Zimbabwe in a helicopter accident. As he finished updating CONTROL, two trucks pulled out of the main convoy and drove to the front of the column, turned around, and stopped by Ncube’s lead vehicle, heading in the opposite direction.

I am sending two of my best lieutenants with you, Ncube said. They are under your command. One’s in the back with the troops and the other is in the cab. He will maintain radio communications with me at all times. Good luck, keep us posted, and we’ll do the same.

Roger that, Marcus; let’s move out. Shocklee climbed inside the cab of the truck. It was a large one with plenty of room for Shocklee, the driver, the lieutenant.

Let’s roll, he said.

***

It seemed to Casey that he was resting about thirty minutes between each attempt to unzip his backpack so that he could secure a Leatherman tool he recalled placing just inside the main compartment. It was a multipurpose field tool with a cutting blade and a screwdriver, and, when opened, it could be unfolded into a pair of pliers. On each of Casey’s attempts to reach for the backpack, the broken rib pushing against his lung shot agonizing pain through his torso.

The backpack was hanging downward, and it swayed each time he attempted to reach the zipper pull, which was on the far side of the backpack. It took him a couple of tries to get the small flap covering the zipper lining folded back where he could reach the pull. Finally it was exposed, and he managed to raise his arm, reach across the backpack, and grab hold of the pull. The zipper seemed to be stuck. He cursed himself for not buying the new backpack he had been considering, one with latching straps instead of a zipper. Again, he mustered enough strength to reach for the zipper; he grabbed it and exerted a hard, continuous pull. He felt the zipper move in his direction. He released the pull, and his arm fell limply to his side. The broken rib that had been causing him so much pain finally punctured his left lung. He passed out from the pain as the lung slowly deflated, resting against his ribcage.

It was well after midnight, maybe even 0100, when he regained consciousness; he had lost track of the time and his senses. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the water level inside the fuselage had risen about a foot and was now covering his feet and lapping halfway up his calves.

He attempted to reach for his backpack, but the movement caused his collapsed lung to scrape across his ribcage, causing him severe pain. Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he again lifted his arm in the direction of the backpack. He searched for the Leatherman tool and found it near the bottom of the backpack, secured within a web casing. He peeled the Velcro strap back and gradually inched the tool out of its casing.

His body had begun to fight the infection setting in as the result of the wounds he had received, and fever caused sweat to drip from his forehead as he attempted to open the tool inside the backpack. It was too risky to try to open the blade on the outside of the backpack with one hand. One slip, and the only chance of cutting himself free would fall from his hand and into the water below. He rested again before giving it another shot.

***

They had been driving for less than an hour when Shocklee received word regarding the probable location of Casey’s downed chopper. The OPERATION MORNING DAWN air controller had informed Orion Six that they had gone down about halfway between the small river cities of Livingston and Kazungula on the Zimbabwe side of the border. OPERATION MORNING DAWN was a cleverly designed joint training exercise between the United States and Zambia, but the real purpose of the operation, from the U.S. perspective, was to provide clandestine military support to the rebel forces intending to overthrow the government of Robert Mkipii, the president of Zimbabwe.

That’s a forty-mile stretch, thought Shocklee, tuning back in and listening to the words being spoken by the young lieutenant.

We’ll have to go through the park, the lieutenant said. We have conducted many training exercises inside the park. It is a very large area, but I believe we can get to a campsite that is about a mile from the river and fifteen or so from Kazungula. From there we can walk down to the river and begin our search. It will take us about an hour to get there once we enter the park, and even though it’s raining heavily again, we won’t have any problems driving through the park in these trucks.

It’s midnight now, Shocklee said. We’re wasting time. Let’s go.

They arrived at an old campsite, inland and about one mile from the river, at 0130—much later than Shocklee had expected. It was still raining, but the rain had tapered off considerably from the earlier downpour. Shocklee kept one squad with him and sent the other searching upriver toward Kazungula.

Maneuvering along the river’s edge while looking for any sign of a downed helicopter was a slow, difficult process. After almost an hour without any sign of the wreckage, they stopped to rest. At 0230 they resumed the search. Shocklee was in the middle of the stretched-out column, trying to keep his footing on a slippery grade, when one of the soldiers up front let out a yell.

Shit, thought Shocklee, it’s either a croc or a hippo, and either way it’s going to slow us down.

Shocklee headed to the front of the column, moving as fast as he could, losing his footing once in the process.

***

Jack Casey heard the soldier when he yelled and realized that someone was close by. He could hardly breathe to let out a yell of his own, but finally he managed to do so, although it was not loud enough to be heard by anyone outside the wreckage.

Fortunately for Casey, what had scared the soldier and caused him to scream wasn’t an attack by one of Africa’s dangerous night creatures; it was the sight of green streams of fluorescent light shining through the cracks of the helicopter. When the soldier first spotted the thing, it appeared to him to be a river monster of some sort. As his fright subsided, he stood dead still, watching as the thing silently moved in small swaying motions out on the water. The soldier had heard of such monsters but had never before seen one. He recalled, as a young boy, hearing stories told by the spirit medium from his village.

Beware of the river monster that strikes at night; it will drag you to the depths of the river and swallow you up.

The soldier had since discarded such stories as nonsense, but now he thought the old woman had been telling the truth.

There, stated the soldier, as Shocklee and the lieutenant approached his position. See that, he said, pointing out at the river.

Casey heard the voices and attempted a louder yell.

Shocklee heard his muffled voice and started making his way down the bank and through a cluster of rough river scrubs. He could see light emanating from the wreckage as he reached the water’s edge. He jumped in, wading toward it as fast as he could.

We’re coming, he yelled. Hang in there, Marine.

When they removed Casey from the wreckage he was barely able to talk, but he knew one thing for certain: he would never have been able to pull himself out before becoming submerged under the water and drowning, as had the crew chief. Thanks to Mike Shocklee, he would live to see another day.

Chapter One

It is typical in Africa that most rural bus routes service the agrarian farming community—people who live in sparsely populated areas and raise vegetables to sell at the local markets. On this particular road there were very few farms and not many lights along the way; the exception was the one they were currently stopped at, which was less than a few hundred feet down the road from a paved turnoff that led to a gated compound situated a half mile back from the main road. In the past, people often had disembarked at this particular bus stop; they were servants who worked inside the compound. The residence was well known to the poor people who lived in the surrounding area.

Simon Njonjo wore dirty, dingy clothes. He hadn’t shaved in three days. To the casual observer, he appeared to be just another African farmer returning home from a trip into town. He watched intently to see if anyone got off the bus, and then he took a second look at the road leading back to the protected compound to reassure himself that no one was in the area. Two stops later, he stepped off the bus and swung a black plastic bag, the equivalent a poor man’s African suitcase, over his shoulder. The suitcase contained a roll of black plastic bags, several sets of clothing, and a good torch—a flashlight—that he would need in order to find his way to the rendezvous point.

Njonjo watched as the driver pulled the dilapidated old bus back out onto the road. He stepped beneath the makeshift roadside covering that served as the bus stop and shielded his face to mitigate the effects of smoke and diesel fumes that permeated the air. He opened the bag and retrieved the flashlight, but he waited until the bus was out of sight before he stepped out into the rain. He looked in both directions before turning toward the tree line situated a few yards back from the road.

Because he was the first to arrive at the rendezvous point, he waited several minutes to make sure he had not been followed. He then began to uncover the weapons and other paraphernalia that had been cached there months earlier. He took the tarp that had been used to cover the cache and erected a temporary shelter, tying the loose ends to nearby trees. He changed clothes and sat silently beneath the tarp, in the dark, waiting for the others to arrive. The peaceful, rhythmic sound of the falling rain eased his mind, and moments later he was in deep thought—first thinking of the unit he had commanded and his men, and then of the events that had destroyed everything he had cherished in the past.

The 6th Brigade was a well-known commando unit formed on the orders of Robert Mkipii shortly after he became president of Zimbabwe. The commanding officer was answerable only to the president and not to the normal army command structure. Some officers of the defense forces considered them to be a renegade unit that operated with complete autonomy. He knew that, but he didn’t give a damn what they thought. Their uniforms, radios, and equipment were not compatible with those of other army units. That was the way Mkipii wanted it; they were his men, and they were capable of taking down any person or any group, civilian or military, opposing his rule of government.

By design, the 6th was much smaller than a regular military brigade. The president wanted a loyal unit, but not one the same size as the other five brigades that constituted the depth of the Zimbabwe Army. A smaller unit with brigade status and a loyal commander was ideal in his way of thinking. It would enable him to keep the unit updated with the best and latest equipment without creating an abnormal drain on the overall defense budget. When finally constituted, the 6th comprised three companies and was garrisoned at a base located in the highlands east of Harare—Shona tribal land and home district to Mkipii.

Njonjo had been with the unit his entire military career and was only the second officer to command the unit. His predecessor had died as a result of nagging war wounds. Njonjo came up through the ranks and was a company grade officer when Mkipii gave him command of the brigade. His performance during the Matabeleland uprising was the determining factor for Mkipii. An opposition group had armed itself and was using violent tactics to gain control of the region. Mkipii sent the 6th to take care of the problem and they did: his company was responsible for killing hundreds of people in order to quell the uprising.

After being given command of the 6th, Njonjo made it his business to kept track of local politics and the growing international criticism directed at the president— due especially to the way white Zimbabweans were being treated as the result of Mkipii’s land redistribution program. The more the West cried foul over Mkipii’s policies, the more Njonjo became concerned for the president’s safety; his approval ratings were dropping domestically, and outrage from the international community continued to grow. Njonjo feared a West-supported coup would eventually be attempted, and he needed a plan to safe harbor the president in the event his concerns became a reality. He came up with a plan after hearing an aging Edwin Tevere, also a revolutionary soldier, tell how he and Mkipii had escaped Rhodesian forces and fled across the border into Mozambique.

According to Tevere, he and Mkipii were driven to a small farm near the border with Mozambique. A local insurgent and his wife, who happened to be a spirit medium, were there to meet them. They rested for two days before having to relocate. Rhodesian forces were scouring the area looking for them and advancing on their position. They fled the area and headed higher up the mountain toward Mozambique.

Later, the spirit medium insisted they all join together in a