Rare Earth (14 page)

W
hen the chopper landed in front of the Lodestone hangar, Marc was met by a stocky young woman wearing a dark suit with low-heeled pumps. Her hair was cut short and framed her head like a cap of brown straw. She stood before a dusty Toyota Land Cruiser and chatted with a rail-thin African whose dark curls were frosted by age. Her voice was as crisp and professional as her features. “Marc Royce?”

“That's me.”

“Deb Orlando, Mr. Royce. I'm with State and serve as deputy intel officer for the Nairobi embassy. I've been sent to advise you that your jet is inbound.” She checked her watch. “ETA just under two hours.”

“Did you bring my personal things?”

“In the rear of our SUV.” She eyed the dirty backpack. “I was instructed to obtain samples that are to be sent by diplomatic bag to Washington.”

Deb Orlando appeared extremely competent and very alert. The women Marc knew who had made it up the intel ladder trained twice as hard as most men. He handed over the pack and said, “Leave me at least half of each baggie.”

“Is any of this material hazardous, sir?”

“Not as far as I'm aware.” Marc followed her to the Land Cruiser and retrieved his case. “I'm going to go clean up.”

At the rear of the Lodestone hangar, Marc found a well-equipped ready room. Marc stayed in the shower long enough to wash off at least some of his fatigue. He shaved and dressed in fresh clothes, then entered a bare-bones mess hall stocked with instant meals and a microwave. The coffee smelled as though it had been cooking for years.

Marc ate standing up. A few Lodestone personnel came and went. Nothing was said. But Marc had the distinct impression that things had changed, and not for the better. He had been in the field enough to know that word spread fast out here. People's survival depended on their being up to the minute with any threat assessment. He had been allied to the colonel, who was now gone. Marc was therefore contaminated by whatever it was that had gotten their boss kicked out of there. No one spoke or even met his eye. Marc dumped the rest of his meal in the garbage. He would eat on the plane.

As he left the hangar's shadows, Deb Orlando said, “Sir, your pack keeps ringing.” An irritating buzz emerged from the Land Cruiser's tailgate. “There it goes again.”

Marc unzipped his dusty pack and retrieved the sat phone. “This is Royce.”

“Mr. Royce, this is Lodestone-Nairobi. I've got an urgent inbound for you.”

“Who is this?”

“Simpkins, sir. Temporary comm officer. Everybody else is getting prepped by the new admin chiefs and the suits over from D.C.”

Marc could not fit a face to the name. “Go ahead.”

“Your presence is requested in Kibera. They claim it's urgent.”

Marc squinted into the sun. “Say again.”

The man's voice was flat and toneless, a soldier assigned duty in the comm room, just fighting the clock. “A call came in forty-seven minutes ago, sir. You are requested to return to Kibera. ASAP.”

Marc asked, “Who passed on the message?”

“Sir, I asked the guy four times and couldn't understand the name. It was African, I can confirm that much. He said you're to go back to the church. I asked which one, and he said where you met the elders. He said you'd know.”

“Did they leave a number?”

“I asked for that too, sir. They just said you had to come. Now.” He hesitated, then added, “They said it was life or death.”

Marc thanked him and cut the connection. He turned to where the embassy staffer was peeling off plastic gloves and stowing them in a briefcase with her set of the sample bags. Marc asked, “Are you in contact with the jet?”

“I can be.”

“Call and tell them to wait for me. I've received an urgent request. Can you give me a ride?”

“Where to?”

“Kibera.”

The driver turned and stared at him but did not speak. Deb Orlando said, “Sir, the Nairobi slums are officially off-limits to all embassy personnel. I'll have to call that in.”

Marc watched the heat shimmering off the empty tarmac and felt a subtle gnawing at his gut. Like rats of the slum had emerged to feast upon his day. “Do it.”

It took them almost an hour to cover the eight miles to Kibera. Marc tried to reach Charles twice. But the number the pastor had left with him just rang and rang.

The embassy driver's name was Joseph. He listened to Marc's description of the square rimmed by relief agencies and said dourly, “I know this place.”

Deb Orlando occupied the rear seat beside Marc. She cradled the phone she had used to call the embassy in her lap. “Is it safe?”

The driver's shoulders bounced in a humorless laugh. “Safe is not a word that belongs in Kibera.”

Marc said, “Our destination is a church.”

The driver's shoulders jerked a second time, but he did not speak.

Deb Orlando eyes grew steadily larger as they turned off the highway and bounced their way into the slum. Marc asked, “How long have you been in Kenya?”

“Nine months.” She met the gaze of a woman lounging in the doorway of a wretched bar. “I was raised in Boston. I thought I'd seen some rough places. But this is something else.”

Marc felt the gnawing in his midsection grow stronger. He studied the world beyond the tinted windows and tried to tell himself that it was just the woman's nerves he felt. But something about this situation did not sit right. “Do you carry arms?”

Joseph glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

“Small arms only,” Deb Orlando replied. “And body armor. All in a coded compartment next to the wheel well.”

The driver asked Marc, “You feel it too?”

That was all the impetus Marc required. “We need to gear up.”

Deb stared at him a moment, then swiveled around and reached into the rear hold. Marc shoved himself between the two front seats, gripped the padded rail over the passenger-side window, and pulled himself over. Marc asked the driver, “How far out are we?”

“Another mile, perhaps. It has been some time since I was here.”

“Okay, Joseph. You've been trained in defensive tactics?”

“Every year I am training.”

“Great.” Marc accepted a Kevlar vest and pistol and three clips from Deb. The Smith & Wesson was matte black and reassuringly familiar. The grip was already damp with her perspiration. He worked his arms into the vest and fastened the Velcro straps across his chest. He slapped a clip into place and worked the lever. “You want a gun, Joseph?”

“I am a driver. Not a shooter.”

“Okay, pull up here so you can slip on your vest.” Marc pretended not to notice the palsied jerks to Joseph's hands. “Here's how it's going to play. You will enter the square and make a circle, pointing back out the way we came in. Slow and steady. We'll check things out. If there is any indication of threat, we leave. If everything looks quiet, I will enter the chapel alone. Ms. Orlando, you are backup. If you hear gunfire, even if you see me fall, you are ordered to get out. You will not wait; you will not come in after me. Clear?”

It was Joseph who replied, “Clear.”

“Is this vehicle armored?”

Joseph's forehead bore a faint sheen that defied the car's A/C. “Against small arms. No protection from heavy fire.”

“That's fine. Everybody ready? Okay, Joseph. Let's go.”

As they approached the point where the lane entered the dusty square, Deb asked, “Who
are
you?”

“I've been sent up-country to assess a series of events that may be tied to national security. My principal contacts in Nairobi are elders who operate out of our destination. I received a call from—”

That was when they struck.

T
he attackers had chosen their strike point with deadly care. The alleys from which the two pickups emerged were extremely narrow and flanked by cement block houses with overhanging roofs. The corrugated sheets hid the trucks until the very last moment.

Marc's only warning was a sudden glint of sun off their windscreens and the roar of motors. Then they were struck.

The normal response to incoming threat was to
brake
. But Joseph's training worked now, even when he was only granted a hair's breadth of time. Joseph slammed down on the gas pedal. The car lurched forward. Not far, just a couple of feet. But far enough so that the two trucks collided just behind the rear doors.

The right-hand truck hit first, then the left. Marc and the others were tossed like puppets in a steel box. The side windows over the rear compartment splintered but did not give. He heard a sharp
bang
and assumed a rear tire had exploded. It did not matter. The impact had been strong enough to crumple the axle. They were going nowhere.

Deb Orlando screamed, “What is
happening
?”

“Gangs!” Joseph yelled.

Marc saw the left truck pull back a pace, and knew the attackers were readying for another assault. They would slam and slam and slam until the windows shattered and the doors buckled and the people inside were left unable to resist whatever came next. Marc took the only option available to him.

“Stay in the truck!”

The first rule of defense was to do the unexpected. Unbalance the enemy. Leave their plans in disarray. If possible, inject an element of uncertainty. Uncertainty led to fear, and fear to mistakes.

Marc punched open his door and leaped out. He knew they expected him to run for cover.

Instead, he ran straight at the left-hand truck.

He could feel the attackers in the other truck taking aim. Yet he hoped they would hesitate before shooting at their allies.

He mounted the truck's front bumper, firing as he ran. His first bullet was through the truck's hood. And the second. Hoping to disable the motor. Then one more through the filthy windscreen. Dirt obscured his view. But Marc had a fleeting glimpse of a huge astonished man, who struggled to raise his automatic rifle. Marc jumped onto the roof, firing down into the cab. He knew he had seen that man before. But it was not until he bounded across the rear hold, leaped the tailgate, and rolled in the dust that he remembered. The attacker was one of the men Marc and Kamal's soldiers had expelled from the camp. It seemed like years ago, that dawn raid in the ash-covered forest. Marc's heart was pumping so fast, the adrenaline so charging his brains and sinew, he could splice every second into billionths and recall all this while scrambling through the dust, shooting out the truck's rear tires and planting a final bullet through the rear window before fleeing.

Behind him was bedlam.

Gunfire fashioned a cordite thunderstorm. Marc sprinted down the alley, took a three-point turn to the right. As he rounded the second corner he ejected the empty clip and slapped in another. He turned the final corner and emerged from the shadows into the road the embassy vehicle had just traveled.

Soon as the attack point came into view, he accelerated and took aim.

Three attackers stood by the embassy vehicle and fired rounds at the windows. The glass appeared to be holding. Two more ran down the alley where Marc had vanished. Another waved his gun and shouted orders. Marc thought he recognized all but one of the men. He roared a ferocious greeting to get their attention away from the Land Cruiser and fired.

The scene before him would have been comic had it not been so deadly. They gaped at him in openmouthed astonishment.

Marc ran straight at them, firing his weapon and shouting at the top of his voice. Not caring whether he hit anyone, not even bothering to take aim. He wasn't after strikes. He was after clearing the area of hostiles.

Deb Orlando emerged from the SUV's far side and screamed at Marc,
“Down! Get down!”

Marc tumbled into the dusty road and rolled toward the concrete steps fronting the nearest hovel. Deb planted her arm on the SUV's roof and fired over him. Taking on assailants that had tracked him from behind. The closeness of the assault left him fighting hard for air. As though the bullets had taken him out. As though breathing was no longer an option.

Their attackers bolted. All but one. The man with the tribal scars who had led the attack into the forest was wounded in his left thigh. He crawled across the road, leaving a stain behind him. He did not look so fierce now.

Marc halted the man from crawling further by taking aim with his pistol. When the man froze, he said to Deb, “You all right?”

“Yes. Our ride's totaled.”

“Joseph!”

The driver's door cracked open. Joseph gave him a frightened gaze. “Sir?”

“You okay?”

“Shook is all.”

“Check out that truck to your left, see if it still works.” As the driver ran over, Marc said, “Deb, seal the armaments locker, grab your samples and my pack.”

Joseph called, “This truck appears to function, sir.”

“Deb, come give me a hand with this man. Let's get out of here!”

T
hey dumped the injured attacker in the rear of the pickup. Marc used Joseph's tie to lash his hands together and bind them to the truck. Marc rode in the middle position. Every time Joseph changed gears, Marc had to press his legs over tight against Deb. The tires shimmied and a hissing rattle filled the Nissan's cab. Its front end was badly damaged. But no one complained.

When her breathing had steadied, Deb asked, “What are we going to do with him?”

Marc opened his pack and pulled out the sat phone. It was covered with dirt, as the attack had split a number of the sample bags. Marc wiped the phone with his shirt, taking small comfort from how his hands did not tremble. It did not mean he wasn't scared, only that he managed not to show it. He dialed Charles's number from memory. This time the pastor answered. Marc asked, “Where have you been?”

“Searching out information,” he replied. “Why?”

“We've been attacked.” Marc described the call and the assault and finished with, “We have one of the wounded men with us.”

“I am certain the elders were not behind the message.”

“I agree.”

“They will want to question this man.”

“I won't be party to any rough stuff.”

“Nor will they,” Charles agreed firmly. “They will offer him two choices. Give them answers and be permitted to remain and be granted medical treatment. Else he will be cast out.”

Marc assumed Joseph would have no interest in driving back into Kibera. So he made arrangements for Charles to meet them at the point where the slum's entry road joined the highway. He then signed off and called the colonel.

Boyd Crowder's voice mail kicked in automatically, which Marc assumed meant the man was already in transit. He gave a quick summary of events and hung up. Deb said, “I have to check in. My cellphone is shot.”

Marc handed her the sat phone. “Blame everything on me.” He watched her take a two-fisted grip on the bulky phone. Saw the white knuckles and the tremors that ran all the way from her hands to her chin. “You were great back there.”

“I've never been in a live-fire action before. It all happened so fast.”

“I know.” He waited while she talked with her superior, liking the terse way she dissected the action.

Deb handed him the phone. “My boss wants a word.”

“This is Royce.”

“Your associate in Washington said nothing about jeopardizing the safety of my personnel.” The man's voice was one notch below a full whine. Marc could picture him instantly. The pencil neck, the tendency to duck his head whenever trouble erupted, the well-honed ability to climb the diplomatic ladder on the backs of his subordinates. “I am lodging an official protest over this entire incident.”

“Do what you have to do,” Marc replied.

“I don't like your tone, mister.”

“Roger that.” Marc cut the connection and said to Deb, “How often does he let you out of the embassy compound?”

“Basically, never. He detailed me to meet you because he assumed it was just grunt work.” Deb offered him a shaky smile. “I'd love to have seen him with those hostiles in Kibera.”

The driver laughed out loud.

Marc said, “There's a man in Washington I want you to contact. His name is Walton. Ambassador Walton. He used to be head of State Department Intel; now he serves as an unofficial consultant to the White House.”

“He's the man who spoke with my superior?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder my boss okayed the trip to Kibera.”

“Walton probably ordered him to do whatever I requested.”

“
Ordered
him.” She smiled, liking the sound of that.

“Phone Walton. Tell him I said he needs to help you move into ops. Ask him to call me for details.”

Her eyes shone. “You'd do that for me?”

“You saved my life back there,” Marc replied. “That carries serious juice in my book.”

They dropped Marc off at the airport entrance for private planes. The building was fronted by limp palm trees and sported a newly renovated interior. Marc's arrival caused quite a stir. Several African businessmen paused to gape as he passed. Ditto for the staff behind the counter and the passengers waiting inside the café. His pants were ripped so badly, one strip of cloth flapped against his right thigh with every step. Most of the buttons of his shirt were gone. His elbow was bleeding, as was a scratch on his neck which he had not noticed before. Marc debated cleaning himself in the washroom, then decided it wasn't worth the bother.

The customs officer did not want to let him pass. But a man in a white shirt with pilot's epaulets said, “Marc Royce?” And there was Carter Dawes, grinning at him.

Marc couldn't believe it, and they were soon laughing and slapping each other's backs.

“Heard about the party over here and talked the brass into letting me in on a bit of it.” Carter Dawes had been a vital member of the rescue mission back in Baghdad.

“Hey, man, I can't tell you how glad—”

Dawes held up a palm and smiled at Marc's tattered appearance, then said to the customs agent, “This gentleman is the passenger we've been waiting for.”

The officer sniffed. “This is no gentleman.” But he stamped Marc's passport and waved him through.

Carter said, “You want to wash up?”

“I'll do it on the plane. Let me just stop by the gift shop, see if they have any clothes my size.”

“What's in your pack?”

“Mostly dirt.”

Carter's grin broadened. “You ask me, I'd say you're wearing enough already. You can tell me about it after we're in the air.”