The Siberian yanked a hand radio from the hip pocket of his white jungle suit. He keyed the microphone and snarled in English, “Tell that idiot to clear the runway, or we’ll take off right now.”

“Oh, yaasss, b’wana,” a voice replied over the radio in singsong English.

“No insolence, Da’ana, or I’ll cut your heart out and feed it to those pagans.”

The radio popped softly as the man at the other end of the transmission keyed his microphone, acknowledging the command from his boss.

“Stay in the cockpit,” the Siberian ordered the pilot in Russian. “Keep the brake set and power on the props.”

“What if one of the rebels backs into them?” the pilot asked.

“Haven’t you heard? Stupidity is a capital crime.”

He turned and growled orders into the cargo area, using serviceable Bulgarian. The Bulgarian loadmaster began undogging the wide double doors just in back of the cockpit.

The Siberian grabbed an Israeli-made submachine gun from beneath the jump seat and headed back into the cargo area. He stood in the open doorway while the first truck arrived and backed into position, its tailgate lined up level with the floor of the plane’s cargo area.

Two lean, bare-chested black Africans in tattered camouflage shorts sat in the back of the truck. Beneath their thin butts were burlap bags crammed full of cargo. One of the guards held a Kalashnikov casually in one hand. The other had a Russian-made sniper’s rifle slung over his shoulder.

The Siberian switched frequencies, lifted the hand radio to his mouth, and spoke to the rebel commander in French. “I take off in twenty minutes. If you want your merchandise, work fast.”

A second truck pulled up beside the first. A gang of sweating black laborers jumped down and mounted the first vehicle. Quickly they boosted heavy burlap bags into the cargo bay and started to scramble aboard the aircraft.