The American Mission by Matthew Palmer

attacks to the Hammer of God, but it wouldn’t surprise me at all if they were responsible. I suppose we’ll find out soon enough what Manamakimba’s after.”
    â€œHow so?” Alex asked.
    â€œThey’ve asked for a parley,” Fessler explained. “Based on the demands on the table, we don’t think that there’s a deal to be had, but there may be a chance to buy some time. There’s a group of Pakistani UN peacekeepers moving into position to execute a raid to secure the release of the hostages. They need at least twenty-four hours to deploy, however, and Manamakimba is threatening to shoot one hostage every hour beginning at dawn if we don’t meet his terms. We’re hoping negotiations can go on long enough for us to get the Pakistanis in position. It’s a gamble, but it’s likely the only chance this group has.”
    Alex could envision the risks, not only for the hostages but for the negotiating team as well. A hostage rescue operation was complex anddifficult under the best of circumstances. Factor in the lack of operational intelligence and the peacekeepers’ lack of experience and appropriate training, and the most likely outcome of this exercise would be massive loss of life on all sides. It could work, though, with the right negotiator. The negotiator would need to string Manamakimba along, selling him on the idea that there was a deal on offer if he kept talking a little longer. It was a difficult and dangerous task that fell somewhere between the role of bait and sacrificial lamb. Alex did not envy whoever drew the short straw for that assignment.
    â€œWho’s doing the actual negotiations?” Alex asked Spence. “The mining company or the UN?”
    â€œI thought that was clear,” the Ambassador replied. “You are.”

7
    J UNE 20, 2009
    B UMBA
    T he first obstacle was the helicopter. The Congo was vast, about the size of Western Europe, and there were few paved roads. Air transport was the only practicable means of traveling the long distances. In central and eastern Congo, most of the air links were controlled by UNSAF, the unfortunate acronym for the UN Security Assistance Force that was inevitably mispronounced “unsafe.” An UNSAF charter plane flew Alex, Jonah Keeler, Rick Viggiano, and a few of the RSO’s local security people to Bumba in north central Congo. From there, they would have to take a Russian Mi-8 helicopter to the UN resupply base near the confluence of the Congo and Aruwimi Rivers. The tough and reliable Mi-8 was the workhorse of African air transport.
    For Alex, the challenge was not a fear of flying, or even a fear of crashing. It was a fear of ghosts. Since Darfur, the sight and sound of helicopters had been enough to trigger panic attacks and flashbacks to the butchery in Camp Riad. Dr. Branch had helped him understand these episodes as symptoms of an underlying condition rather than as asign of weakness or moral failure. PTSD was a subtle disease that responded to changes in the environment. It was possible to identify the triggers, however, and develop effective coping strategies. Yoga was part of Alex’s regimen. So was avoidance. The Sea Knight flight out of Western Sudan was the last time he had been on a helicopter.
    Deplaning, he could see three Mi-8s clustered on the runway. In repose, the massive rotor blades drooped precariously close to the tarmac. It was only when they were spinning that the blades would straighten out and stabilize into a flat disk. As the team walked across the tarmac toward the helicopters, the rotors of the lead Mi-8 began to turn, cutting through the humid air with a characteristic rhythmic thrum.
    Alex’s heart rate soared and a trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. He could hear his breathing grow heavier and faster, and he made a conscious effort to control it. The yoga was supposed to help with this. He tried
ujjayi pranayama
, a technique