African Ice (11 page)

McNeil stared around him. The building was a fully stocked repair shop, complete with additional rotors, a spare turbine, and all the necessary tools to maintain the million-dollar machine. He whistled softly at the sight.

“Okay,” he said, turning to Hackett. “You're hired. I'll bring over the gear we need affixed to your machine later today. It shouldn't be too hard to install; I think it's manufactured for exactly this kind of thing.”

“I'm sure we can make it work,” Hackett said, accepting

Travis's outstretched hand. They walked back to the front of the house, where Alain was sitting in the Land Rover, watching for activity. “See you later, then,” the pilot said as McNeil jumped into the vehicle and Porter pulled away.

“Did we get a chopper?” Alain asked.

“Yeah, Alain, we got one,” McNeil said, smiling.

Samantha finished overhauling her gear and wiped the back of her hand across her brow. It left a dirty smudge on her tanned skin. She sat down heavily on a low stone wall, her breathing shallow. Unpacking the exploration gear and checking it was an onerous task, one made even more rigorous by the heat and humidity. She looked up as Travis and Alain pulled the Land Rover into the hotel compound. Travis smiled at her as he got out of the vehicle.

“Finished, Doc?” he asked.

She nodded. “How did it go? You know, getting the helicopter?”

“Perfectly. If there's one part of this mission that's totally acceptable, it's Billy Hackett and his machine.”

“Mission?” Samantha repeated. “You make it sound like a military exercise. We're just here to find some diamonds, not to get in a fight.”

He slipped a cigarette from his pocket and crushed the empty package in his left hand. He lit the smoke and took a long, deep drag. “Whether you want to admit it or not, Samantha,” he said, “this
is
a mission. We're surrounded by hostile jungle and escorted by twenty-some soldiers about whom I have grave concerns. Dan got a quick look inside that truck they keep tarped over. It's loaded with Bofors Carl-Gustaf CGA5 assault rifles.”

“So?”

“The M-16s the guys are carrying around with them are just for show. The real firepower is in the back of that truck. If and when they come gunning for us, they'll have the CGA5s loaded and the safeties off. And trust me, Sam—they're coming. Dan and Troy finished checking the gear and gave me their findings just before I stopped in to see you. The sights on our guns had all been tampered with. Nominal changes, but adjustments that would make hitting a target at any distance over thirty feet very difficult. And they both think that the inside of some gun barrels have been scored. It's tough to tell, but if they have been, it'll throw off the trajectory of a bullet enough to miss the target. These guys sabotaged our gear, Sam. Only people who think they may end up facing off against us would do that. It's not a very comforting thought, but it certainly makes me think that this is beginning to resemble a military mission more than a mining one.”

“Jesus, Travis, this is getting scary.”

“Scary is
not
seeing the signs—not knowing your equipment was sabotaged until it's too late. That's scary.”

Samantha stared straight into his eyes as he spoke. She saw an iron resolve behind the blue facade. She saw a man who had been in this situation before and who had survived. She saw a man she trusted. And she liked what she saw.

The Land Rovers led the way as the team departed Butembo and headed into the jungle. Behind them trailed the twelve porters, each leading a loaded pack animal. The animals were split evenly between horses and donkeys, each heavily laden with supplies and armaments. Travis, with Samantha and Hal in the lead Rover, kept the pace slow. This was more for their own benefit than that of the porters, as the road they were traveling was a series of tangled roots and exposed rocks that threw the occupants of the trucks about. They headed almost due east, cutting across a couple of ridges before joining up with a slightly better road leading south. They made better time for about two miles before Troy waved for Travis to stop and pointed at a tiny, almost impassable road leading back into the jungle.

“That's the quickest way,” he said as they scanned the topographical map together. “If we stay on this road we'll make better time, but we'll end up too far south. We'll lose time backtracking.”

“Okay,” Travis said reluctantly. “We're not going to have the vehicles for much longer by the looks of this. This upcoming low-lying area looks like it could be swamp.”

Troy Ramage agreed and took the lead as they left the road for the narrow jungle path. Umbrella trees and mangos dominated the upper foliage, while thorny lianas interspersed with broadleaf ferns provided the ground cover. An occasional almond or breadfruit tree, laden with produce, punctuated the forest. Trailing vines hung from the taller oil-palm trees that stretched high above the shorter trees and formed the canopy. Epiphytic orchids colored the underside of the palms. The humidity covered the lush greenery with a fine mist, giving the forest an ethereal quality. Samantha stared out the window into the ancient world as they slowly moved through the rain forest.

“You know,” McNeil said as he drove, “I hardly know anything about you. Just what Kerrigan told me, which wasn't much. Feel like talking?”

She glanced over at him. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?” She unscrewed the cap on her bottled water and took a long draw, then wiped her lips on her sleeve and replaced the cap. “I'm originally from Boston, born and raised. Dad was very successful as a field geologist, which meant two things: He was never home; and we had tons of money. I never wanted for anything when I was growing up. Maybe that's why I'm so spoiled.”

“Haven't seen that side of you yet,” he said.

“You may. After high school I went straight into geology in Boston. It seems I had a natural ability in the field. Maybe a learned thing from my father, maybe it was just what I was meant to do—who knows? After I finished my undergraduate degree, we moved to New York.”

“So you could continue your education?”

“No, not at all. My mom was a literary agent and she outgrew Boston. If you want to excel in the industry, you have to be based in New York. Dad didn't care where we lived because he was hardly ever home anyway. So when they moved I went with them. I was twenty-two and probably could have gotten my own place if I'd wanted, but I liked living at home. They bought a huge flat on the Upper West Side, so I could be close to Columbia. Mom opened an office down on Third Avenue, just a few blocks from Union Square. She was really successful, almost cornered the thriller market for new talent. The editors at the publishing houses were calling her to find out what new writers she had in the wings. Usually it's the other way around.”

“It's a tough business from what I'm told,” he said. He lit a cigarette and threw the match out the window. “Why did you choose central Africa for your master's and your doctorate? Surely there were more hospitable places.”

“Africa has always intrigued me,” she answered slowly. “And I'm not sure I've got a much better reason than that. I'd studied so much soft rock geology in my undergrad years that I wanted to work with hard rock stuff, which means mining of some sort. What better than diamonds? And Africa produces a lot of the world's diamonds. But it was more than that. At least I think it was.” She sat quietly for a minute and he remained silent, letting her collect her thoughts. “Something about Africa excited and repulsed me at the same time. It represented the epitome of both good and bad. The people I met had next to nothing, yet they offered me whatever they had. They wanted nothing but to be treated well and a chance at something better for their lives. Or their children's lives. And that's the scary thing. I know their lives won't change and that their children will be sentenced to the same subsistence living that every previous generation has endured. I looked into their eyes and saw desperation and despair behind the vacant stares. And I wanted to make a difference. But I couldn't.”

“So you came back—perhaps to finish what you wanted to do?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But now that I'm here, I see the same wall I ran into last time. Too many people in dire need and no way to help. I've got about four million dollars in mutual funds, real estate and other investments, but throwing money at the problem isn't the answer. And four million wouldn't even begin to make a difference. These people need proper housing with clean water and education for their sons and daughters. They need medical facilities and trained doctors and nurses to staff them. They need the basics, and they don't have them. I feel so . . .”

“Helpless?” he offered as she let the sentence trail off. She nodded, and he watched a tear slowly roll down her cheek. She didn't try to wipe it away, just let it trickle down until it reached her jaw and spilled onto her shirt. He reached over and lightly grasped her hand. “If there's another reason for you being here, you'll find it.” He saw the corner of her mouth curl up almost imperceptibly before he turned his attention back to driving.

A few moments later he changed the subject. “I've got Billy Hackett watching Mugumba and his men. Promised him an extra ten-thousand-dollar bonus for him to arrange a team of locals to keep an eye on what they're up to—especially if they leave the city and follow us into the jungle. We also secured the BritPix to Hackett's helicopter this morning and gave him the first two grids we want him to fly. He's got a radio tuned to our frequency and will call in once he's covered the area. He can download the video images to your computer this evening when we stop moving. Kerrigan seemed pleased with our progress when I spoke to him.”

Samantha glanced over at him, her eyes dry. “You checked in with Kerrigan today?” He nodded. “What else did he have to say?”

“Not much, just wondered how things were going. When we expected to start looking for the formation.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That we were leaving Butembo and heading into the jungle. That's all I know, so that's all I told him.”

Samantha decided to go out on a limb. “I don't trust him. I didn't like the man when I met him, and the more I dealt with him the less I wanted to.”

Travis kept his eyes on the trail, threading the Land Rover through the overgrown trail. A minute passed before he slowed almost to a stop and turned to her. “I don't trust him either, Sam. This is the first time I've worked for the guy. I was referred to him by a mutual colleague who gave me a glowing review, and Kerrigan offered me a deal I just couldn't turn down. And the bonus if we make it back is enough to retire on. But I've really got some concerns about the way things are going.”

“What do you mean?”

“Kerrigan arranged for Mugumba to meet and escort us to Butembo. Mugumba has a truck full of very expensive, and very deadly, guns. And he sabotaged some of our gear. Keep in mind that this is the guy Kerrigan hired. What does that tell you?”

Samantha was silent. He was right. If Kerrigan had hired Mugumba, which he had, then the man most likely knew exactly what his Congolese colonel was up to. The hidden guns, the sabotaged gear and the creepy feeling the diminutive man had given her all added up to bad news. Yet the soldiers had not accompanied them any farther than Butembo. They were alone in the jungle, just the five of them and Hal, and the twelve porters. If Mugumba wanted to keep them close at hand, why wasn't he with them?

“At least the soldiers aren't with us,” he said, reading her mind. “I suppose that's good and bad.”

“I can see how that's a good thing, but bad?”

“Mugumba is going to stay in touch with what we're doing. If he's not physically with us, then he has some other way of tracking our progress. My first guess is the porters. At least one of them is a plant.” He paused for a minute, a troubled look on his face. “But there may be another way.” Another pause, then, “Shit.”

“What's wrong?”

“Something I just thought of. The GPS systems. I'll put money on it that he's tampered with them. We'll get Alain to run a full series of diagnostics on the instruments when we camp tonight. Let's just hope we can find whatever he did to them.”

The Rover hit a particularly large root and the front end dipped violently, smashing the grill into the ground and throwing him and Sam into the windshield. Hal flew over the front seat and hit the dash before sliding onto the floor, unconscious. Travis rubbed his chest for a moment, sore from hitting the steering wheel, and then checked his head. His hand came away with a tinge of blood on it, cut from hitting the edge of the windshield. He grasped Samantha by the arm, and slid her back into the seat. She was only partially conscious, and shaking her head to clear the cobwebs. She nodded that she was okay, and they both grabbed Hal and lifted him off the floor and onto the seat. A four-inch gash across his forehead poured blood onto his face. He groaned as he began to regain consciousness. Sam spilled some of her bottled water onto a cloth and dabbed the wound.

“Sorry,” he said. “I have no idea what we hit. Are you okay?”

Samantha nodded. “Hal's pretty shaken up, though. Let's get some antiseptic on this.” She rummaged through the medical kit, then unrolled her window as Alain Porter appeared. “We're okay. Hal's got a cut, but that's about it.”

“Jesus, you should have seen you guys. The truck just nose-dived into that rut and stopped dead. You're lucky you didn't go through the windshield.”

“No shit,” McNeil said sarcastically. He got out of the truck and surveyed the damage as Samantha attended to Hal. He walked ahead with Alain and Troy about a hundred yards and they quickly made a decision. “Unload the Rovers; we're on foot from here. It's too swampy in the low-lying areas, and we'd never make it up the other side of this cliff anyway.” He pointed to the wall of jungle that confronted them, a few hundred feet on the other side of the swamp.