The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  In world news, no recent stories on Andris Simko’s activities. Not a surprise—the cat kept a low profile and used proxies for his dealings. I stretched, performed a few calisthenics before the day heated up, then off to work.

  Two miles due east, and I arrived at Exponent’s site. Heavy earthmoving equipment rumbled, vehicles scooted around a several square-mile area, and small-scale industrial processing equipment started their low mechanical hum. Exponent had assembled two Quonset huts at the site—one for an office and assay lab, while the other was a mechanic’s shop and small supply warehouse. A generator shack droned its low-frequency rumble nearby.

  Peterman greeted me at the office and offered fresh-brewed coffee and a site tour. I agreed to both and insisted on driving. His vehicle didn’t have an assault rifle in the back seat.

  “I suppose the first thing you should understand is modern society functions in no small part because of rare earth material,” Peterman said as we rolled along at a leisurely pace, windows down, coffee mugs in hand. “There aren’t many people who know that, but it’s true. All the computers, gadgets, and gizmos require it.”

  This guy was a miner. He moved dirt and extracted ore. His perspective on gadgets and gizmos brought a smile as he and his ilk were far removed from the high-tech marketing and hype world. He delivered societal backbone stuff.

  “Now, rare earths aren’t all that rare,” he continued. “It is just that the concentration is so low. A rich find, one with a high concentration, still has many rare elements in the one or two parts per million range. That’s what we’re driving on top of now. A high concentration.”

  “So that explains all this earthmoving,” I said as we passed massive bulldozers and backhoes hard at it. Bolivians operated the machinery, and Peterman exchanged out-the-window waves with them as we rolled past.

  “We trained these guys to become equipment operators,” he said, pride evident. “But most of what we’re doing now is removing overburden.”

  “Overburden?”

  “The dirt above the rare-earth-bearing subsurface. That’s another beauty with this find. We can go down five or ten meters and hit pay dirt. Plus there are very few hard-rock structures below the surface we have to deal with.”

  “How do you deal with them? These dozers won’t make a dent in hard rock.”

  “We blast. But again, there isn’t much need for it.”

  “So you dig up the good stuff. Then what?”

  “Then we mill, crush and grind, and separate. We don’t know yet whether we’ll process final concentrate ore here or off-site. What we do know is this is a rich, rich area.”

  “And KDB’s site doesn’t have the same concentration?”

  “No. We drilled numerous core samples in their area before settling on this location. They are seven miles away on the mountain’s other side, which has a different subsurface geology.”

  “When did they show up?”

  “Several months ago. They saw us increasing production and performed geologic due diligence all around us, same as we had done. Their conclusion was the same as ours—this spot is it.”

  “So they packed up?”

  “The geologists and drillers did. Then those armed men showed up and took their place.”

  “The mercs.”

  “I suppose. At first, they just used intimidation tactics. They would drive into Santa Ana in the evenings and hang around the town plaza carrying rifles. They still do occasionally.”

  “I understand their primary focus in town these days is the whorehouse.”

  “Well, yes, which at least keeps them away from the town’s center. You saw how these people gather and walk about. I think it is a pleasant custom.”

  “And then things escalated. When did that start?”

  “Ten days ago. They started taking random shots at the bulldozers while our people operated them. You know, shots at the front blades, acting like jerks.”

  “Peterman, live fire aimed in your general direction is a step or three beyond ‘acting like jerks.’”

  I left it at that. This guy moved dirt and processed ore. Dealing with mercs who had a cutthroat boss named Simko wasn’t within his realm of understanding. One item was clear—the killing would continue.

  The day began heating up as machinery-induced dust lifted and drifted with the steady breeze. As we continued our tour, another fact was clear—Exponent’s investment wasn’t a small-potatoes endeavor. The earthmoving equipment and processing equipment and associated logistics were a major chunk of change. Ramping up beyond their current operations would involve many millions of dollars and likely include substantial Chaco highway rebuilding. Big league and big money activities.

  “Can you show me the shooting locations? And do me a favor. As we travel, stay in the work area, a fair distance from the brush and tree line at the perimeter.”

  “Sure. What’s a fair distance?”

  “Too far for a decent rifleshot.”

  He threw me a look and shook his head. The two previous killing events had taken place in the afternoon. There were no assurances the mercs would follow the same pattern.

  Both spots were at the work area’s northern edge, the closest proximity to KDB’s location. Both were between two and three hundred yards from the brush line. I retrieved the rifle and chambered a round.

  “Do you need that?” Peterman asked at the first location.

  “Yeah. Do me a favor and stand with the vehicle between you and where I’m heading.”

  I entered the dry vegetation a few paces and searched parallel with the brush line and small collections of stunted trees. It didn’t take long. A single spent brass cartridge in 7.62 NATO. My Brazilian IMBEL was chambered for the smaller 5.56 NATO round, which left me at a disadvantage when it came to punch. Not a big deal as accuracy won the battle, but judging the distance from where I stood to the parked vehicle, at least one merc could shoot.

  I went through the same exercise at the next spot and found two spent cartridges also chambered in 7.62. On the slow drive back toward Exponent’s Quonset hut, I tried registering the situation’s gravity with Peterman. My hopes weren’t high.

  “The killing won’t stop.”

  “We’ve hired several lawyers in La Paz. Headquarters is convinced they have solid connections in the Bolivian government.”

  “I’m not crawling your ass, bud. But the reality is that won’t do a thing. We’re on the Chaco. So forget any high expectations for law and order. And I have strong doubts your headquarters team is prepared to outbid Andris Simko for the affections of Bolivian officials.”

  We rolled past a small collection of pickups; the Bolivian drivers huddled together having a smoke break. They each raised a hand as greeting.

  “At what point do you pull up stakes and leave?” I asked.

  “It’s unclear. As a last resort, headquarters may have initiated discussions with KDB. They may even talk with Simko himself.”

  “That SOB doesn’t give a rat’s ass about dead Bolivians or have any interest teaming with your outfit or arriving at some mutual agreement. He’s only interested in winning. Whatever it takes.”

  Peterman remained silent with a forlorn stare out the window. I felt for the guy. Rock, hard place. I dropped him off at his office and headed back toward Santa Ana until I arrived at a well-used dirt track on my right. The road to KDB’s operations and, for them, the road into Santa Ana for evening revelry. I skirted the mountain ridge base and turned west toward their base camp. Billowing tire dust announced my arrival long before I arrived at a single military-style vehicle parked on the road. A Renault Sherpa, the Humvee’s French equivalent. I was a good quarter-mile from their area and could make out white structures. Large tents, maybe.

  What wasn’t a maybe were the two locked and loaded Chechens standing expressionless alongside their Sherpa, weapons across chests. I slowed and eased up my approach, a large fake smile plastered on. The rifle remained on the back seat as I exited, grinning
like a fool.

  “Buenas tardes,” I said, stopping five paces short.

  Both had Slavic features, not Iranian. They remained expressionless and silent. Their weapons were Heckler & Koch assault rifles, top of the line kit.

  “Habla español?”

  No response. Okay, so Spanish was out.

  “How about English? Do you fine gentlemen speak English?”

  Still no response. I edged closer for an intimate view, stopping three paces away. One pointed his weapon toward me. They held 7.62 caliber rifles. No telling if these were the shooters that had killed the Bolivian workers, but someone in their camp did.

  “Chechnya?” I asked.

  That caught on. The two Chechens glanced at each other before returning a dead gaze my way. I began hand-signaling as I spoke.

  “I’d like to travel past you,” I said and indicated my vehicle driving toward their camp. “And I’d like a chat with the big boss, whoever that is.”

  They understood the driving toward their camp request. One gave a half headshake. The other created his own hand signals and implied I should get the hell out of Dodge. I was wasting my time.

  “It’s for your own benefit, guys. I don’t want to call in the Apache attack helicopters.” I pointed toward the rocky mountain ridge. “They’ll come over the ridge and light up your sorry asses. It won’t be pleasant. Nossir. So I need a chat with your commander.”

  I indicated again my desire for a camp visit. Their answer entailed aiming both weapons toward me. One used his weapon’s barrel and pointed back down the road. Time to leave.

  “Okay, okay.” I held up both hands, palms out, still smiling. “I’ll leave. Perhaps I can drop in on you two at the whorehouse. When you’re not pointing weapons at me. I’m pretty sure you studs wouldn’t find that experience fun. Not one little bit.”

  I turned and climbed into my SUV. In the middle of a four-point turnaround I smiled, waved, and left them with an, “Adios, asswipes.”

  Not a good day at the office. When I returned to Santa Ana it was cocktail hour, or near enough. Chambers already sat at the same table outside the tavern. I was sweaty and covered with dust and pissed off. Before I sat, having retrieved my old friend Grey Goose from the SUV, Chambers asked the owner for another bucket of ice. An untouched beer bottle occupied the table.

  “How was your day, Lee?”

  “Your side is screwed.”

  Chapter 10

  “I’m a simple observer on the global stage. I do wish you would stop referring to me as a partner with Exponent’s endeavors,” Chambers said.

  “Cut the crap, and save it for someone who might buy it. My advice is you’d best call the home office and ask for well-armed help.”

  I waved at the owner and asked for two glasses.

  “Not our style, I’m afraid. We leave the scorched earth option for you Americans.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me their camp was nothing more than a staging area for mercs to operate? They drive Renault Sherpas and carry military arms.”

  “I take it your brief foray into their turf was less than satisfactory?”

  I didn’t respond. The MI6 spook rubbed me the wrong way occasionally, although it was less personal than acknowledgement that his profession sucked. The young man toting the ice bucket made his way across the still-empty dirt plaza. I waved him over, filled the two glasses a quarter way with ice, and topped the cubes off with vodka. We both sanitized the glasses’ rims with Grey Goose.

  “Who hired me, Chambers?”

  The organization that had contacted my Swiss client knew damn well what was going on in the Chaco. “Investigate and provide a report of the physical and political issues encountered,” my ass. Whoever they were, they’d asked for someone with specific skills. Delta Force or Seal Team skills. And they may have asked specifically for me. While I’d never know, I knew they were barking up the wrong tree. Hired guns were a dime a dozen—the gang on the ridgeline’s other side were a living example.

  “This is a redundant conversation, Lee. We have been over it, and the answer is the same. I don’t know. But thank you for the refreshment.”

  He lifted his glass toward me, sipped, and began packing his pipe. Either the Canadians or the British were the obvious candidates. The US didn’t have a dog in the fight. Unless the US, and the CIA, wanted to back the British and Canadians on general principles. But that wouldn’t wash. The CIA did nothing on general principles.

  “Well, in keeping with the redundant theme, if you find out who hired me let them know I’m not in the armed regulator game.” The vodka went down smooth, and Chambers never looked up from his pipe ministrations. “And tell them to stop watching so many westerns. A Chaco mining operation is a far cry from High Noon. Oh, and Peterman said his outfit has hired lawyers in La Paz. That’ll have Simko quaking in his boots.”

  I poured myself another drink.

  “One does what one can, sport.”

  He lit his pipe, smiled in my direction, and asked, “How close did you get to their operations?”

  “A greeting committee met me on the road a quarter mile away. How do they communicate with people here? Someone must speak some Spanish.”

  “I would assume so. May I?” He pointed toward the vodka bottle. I slid it across the table. “As for their communication during their evening activities, one can only assume the language of love suffices.”

  He smiled and chuckled. I didn’t.

  “I have a job to do. Part of it entails scoping out their operations. And at a minimum, assess their strengths.”

  “Up close, old sport,” he’d said, tipping his glass toward the mountainous divide. “It’s your best bet, I’m afraid.”

  “Yeah. You’re right. They won’t expect that.”

  “Quite the little jaunt, up and over.”

  “I don’t have any plans for tomorrow. It will fill the day. And the exercise will do me good. Does the elderly proprietor offer food? Other than the carob bread?”

  “Indeed. I planned on dining here myself.”

  We drank too much and ate rice with an unidentified stew over the top joined with two hard-boiled eggs, already peeled. Peterman and his two guys joined us later, the evening promenade around the plaza carried on, and I couldn’t unwind the knot in my gut. Those bastards over the ridge had gotten to me.

  I took off early the next morning. The hike’s flatland portion sweated out the booze from the previous evening. The uphill climb, steep and with treacherous footing, turned enjoyable with a dramatic change in the weather and flora and fauna. It cooled off. There were dips, small valleys, as I gained elevation. Several held tiny spring-fed streams. The vegetation became lush, the trees and plants very unlike the arid plain stretched below me. There were lianas, the woody-stemmed vines that used trees as support, gaining access to the sun. And broad-leafed plants that may have fruited during certain seasons. As I dropped into a tight valley, a troop of monkeys descended the trees and collected at the water source, their prehensile tails pointed straight up as they walked. A different world, an island upthrust on the Chaco.

  I dropped down the other side and sought a rock outcrop that provided visibility for their camp. Once I was situated, lightweight binoculars provided the intel I sought. A dozen large military-grade tents, a small elevated water tank, several large fuel bladders, and a makeshift latrine and shower. Their gravel runway for fixed-wing aircraft ran east to west, a small orange windsock at one end. Plus the Lama helicopter and portable building, the latter serving as a maintenance shop. Three Sherpa vehicles in camp, the fourth stationed down the dirt track approaching the camp. It was hard getting a head count as quite a few mercs were in tents. The largest tent must have been a mess hall. Chambers’s assessment of an estimated fifteen appeared right, counting the chopper pilot and mechanic. How the MI6 spy knew this was unknown and would remain that way. High odds he’d either made the same climb over the top before I arrived, or a British spy satellite had informed him. />
  I remained and watched for over an hour until two events happened. Two mercs, rifles in hand, climbed into a Sherpa and headed out. They may have left on a scouting trip, although there was little at Exponent’s operations left to scout. Smart money was on them headed off for another Exponent worker assassination. A killing trip. As several other mercs milled about, one of them scanned the mountain ridge and spotted me. It wasn’t a challenge. I sat with elbows braced on knees for my binoculars on an exposed rock section far above them. A half-dozen gathered weapons and started uphill. No worries. They had a helluva climb and I’d be long gone when they arrived at my location.

  A single shot whined a ricochet off my stone platform five paces away, a solid signal it was time to vamoose. Soon after, multiple shots began popping foliage as I removed my rifle from the daypack, assembled it, and began a return climb through thick vegetation. The Lama chopper’s turbine whine carried through the still air, marking a new threat.

  Then the ending vignette where I shot the bird toward a chopper-delivered merc—and he reciprocated by showing me his ass. The downhill trek toward Santa Ana took longer than the uphill. Most climbing injuries come during descent, and the last thing I needed was a twisted ankle, broken arm, or worse. It was unforgiving turf. Hand- and footholds were precious, so I disassembled my weapon again and stowed it back into the daypack. On the way down, a single-engine airplane flew low over Santa Ana, headed for Exponent’s gravel runway. I considered how easy it would be for a similar plane to bring in a hired gun cadre and change the dynamics. Instead, this plane likely carried replacement machinery parts or another Canadian to relieve a site manager or both. Mundane stuff, business as usual.

  One item stood clear. KDB had no interest working their claim. They had instead inserted killers into the situation with a single intent. Run Exponent off. Their mission was simple—do whatever it takes. It was the Chaco, and they had free rein. Exponent had two options. Call it a day and focus on their Nevada find, or fight back. The second option’s harsh reality highlighted a mandatory strategy. It required a definitive statement. Not piecemeal defenses or attacks. That would only ensure Simko sent in more mercs. No, if Exponent fought, big bang was the lone option. Kill them all. Such an act would send Simko a crystal-clear message—keep your ass out of Bolivia. I couldn’t see it happening.