Rare Earth

by Davis Bunn

  “Excuse me?”

  “For coming out. And not shooting me through the door.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “The mess hall. The colonel wants to have a word.” Rigby carried a manila folder in one hand as he took the stairs two at a time. When he arrived at the doors leading to the lounge and mess hall, Rigby stopped and said, “If it had been me, you wouldn’t have gotten off so easy.”

  “But it wasn’t you,” Marc replied. “And this isn’t about who’d come out on top of a fight that won’t happen.”

  Rigby smirked, as close to approval as the man had ever shown Marc. The aide pushed through the doors, crossed the room, and slipped onto the bench next to the colonel.

  Crowder waited until Marc was seated opposite him to say, “That’s my weapon you’ve got tucked in your belt.”

  Marc pulled the pistol free and set in on the table in front of Crowder.

  “You like a beer?”

  “No, thanks. Don’t drink.”

  “That a fact. Karl, go get the man a cuppa joe. You take coffee, don’t you, Royce?”

  “Coffee’s fine. Black.”

  Crowder waited in easy silence until his aide returned. They were surrounded by Lodestone security forces, who pretended not to be watching and smoldering. Dirk was nowhere to be seen. But two of the men who had watched from the porch were stationed by the bar. Another shot eight-ball. They never looked Marc’s way.

  Marc assumed the colonel was going to discuss his terms of departure. Marc had no idea how he was going to respond. Or how he might find what he needed to do his assignment if he was barred from the compound. Or where he was going to go.

  “I am going to lay it on the line, Royce.”

  Marc sipped at his mug. The coffee was fresh and strong. The Kenyan bean carried a subtle earthiness, a hint of the land from which it sprung. He took small pleasure in what was at hand. A cup of excellent coffee. A safe breath.

  “I need to find a way for you to trust me.”

  Marc set down the mug, eyebrows raised, and stared across the table at Crowder.

  “We’re sitting in the canteen for a purpose,” Crowder said, voice low. “Me and my aide, we’re showing you respect in public for a reason. Most of the men you see here are headed out tomorrow. I want them to take this image with them. So when they return home, they carry this instead of how you wiped the lawn with one of my best men. I want them to remember the three of us are sitting here, talking ops. They need to understand you’re remaining here with my direct approval.”

  Marc took his time responding. “So I’m staying. Here. With Lodestone. In Nairobi.”

  “Unless you’ve got other plans.”

  His surprise must have shown, because suddenly Crowder and Rigby were both grinning. The men at the bar and the pool table caught that as well, as the room’s forced banter gradually faded away.

  Crowder said, “Rigby, show the man your chart.”

  The colonel’s aide opened a file he’d been carrying and extracted a well-worn map. He unfolded it on the table between them.

  Boyd Crowder poked at a spot north of Kitale with a stubby finger. The position was marked in yellow. “Recognize this position?”

  “The refugee camp.”

  “Roger that. These blue dots signify points where I’ve got men on semipermanent station. Watching main arteries, guarding depots, securing valuables.”

  “Our conversation on the chopper.” Marc had realized something. “Your telling me about the chance to rob the towns beyond Kitale. It was all a test.”

  The colonel and his aide showed Marc genuine approval. It must have been a rare sight, for a murmur of surprise rose from the other men around them.

  Boyd Crowder stabbed the map. “This point here. We lost three men. They had time to radio in that they were taking incoming fire. From pros. All African, far as they could tell. Dressed in jungle fatigues. And all wearing the blue armbands.”

  Soldiers in uniform meant a trained operation force. The blue armbands meant they were a UN contingent. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

  “Only there’s a problem,” Rigby said. “There aren’t any UN forces operating in that area.”

  “So they were brought in from another operation,” Marc suggested. “Or security forces on temporary assignment.”

  “I repeat, there were no UN forces within a hundred miles. We checked, Royce. Hard.”

  “And Lodestone is the only outside group permitted to operate security forces in Kenya,” Crowder said. “But you already know that. Don’t you, Royce?”

  He avoided that one by asking, “What about bandits masquerading as UN troops?”

  Rigby answered, “Bandits wouldn’t hit an armed band of highly trained mercs. Where’s the profit in that?”

  Crowder added, “Bandits wouldn’t stand a chance against my men. Much less wipe them out.”

  “Besides which, our guys were playing traffic cops on the juncture between the Trans-African Highway and the north-south artery to Eldoret,” Rigby said. “There were a couple warehouses there, both almost empty. Which they burned to the ground.”

  Marc heard the brassy sorrow to both men’s voices, and liked them for the loss they felt. “Why are we discussing this?”

  “Because yesterday it got a whole lot worse.” Crowder leaned across the table. “I’ve been ordered off the case.”

  “Sorry, I don’t follow.”

  “Two days ago I traveled up-country with Rigby and my best trackers. Found the path the attackers took, both inbound and heading back into the bush. Nothing else. No bodies, no spent shells. Like they had just up and vanished into the African dust.” Crowder’s voice was a feral growl. “Before leaving for your camp, I reported back to HQ. Soon as I returned to Nairobi with you and your pals, HQ ordered me to cease and desist.”

  “Why would Lodestone in Washington seek to override you on an in-country investigation?”

  “They claim the Kenya-based contracts are too rich to risk by riling the natives with questions they won’t answer anyway.” His hands bunched into fists. “Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?”

  “Furious,” Marc said. “You’ve spent your life never leaving a man behind.”

  “These were good men. These were my friends. And some empty suit back in Potomac-land wants me to walk away?”

  “It’s not happening,” Rigby said, grim as his chief. “Not now. Not ever.”

  Crowder said, “Give the man his ammo.”

  Rigby slid the file across the table. “Lock and load, Royce.”

  Crowder went on, “Inside are confidential data on my missing men. I’m asking for your help. Be careful who you tell. If word gets out we’ve discussed this matter, my career is nothing but dust. And I couldn’t guess what’ll happen to you.”

  Marc made no move to touch the file. “I’m not clear on what I’m supposed to do with this.”

  “So you and your secret allies can help us gain some answers.” The coppery glaze returned to the colonel’s eyes. Like an armored lid slipped back into place. Boyd Crowder rose from the table. His aide stood with him. Crowder looked down at Marc and said, “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to give trust for trust, Royce. It’s the only way either of us is going to survive whatever it is we’re up against.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Marc phoned Ambassador Walton from the garden’s rear corner. It was the first time they had spoken since Marc had arrived at the refugee camp. Updating his former boss and head of State Department Intel took over an hour. The local security guard patrolling the compound’s interior made three full rotations before he was done. Marc finished just as the first faint trace of sunrise dusted the eastern sky. His voice sounded slurred with fatigue to his own ears.

  Though it was approaching midnight in Washington, D.C., Walton sounded as alert as ever. Neither retirement nor age nor the hour could touch him. “I don’t like the idea of you trusting this Crowder,” he said “I do
n’t like it at all.”

  “I’m working from as isolated and exposed a position as I’ve ever known,” Marc replied. “I’m still trying to get a handle on who can help us move forward. And my gut tells me . . .”

  Walton gave him a moment, then prodded, “Finish your thought, son.”

  “I think Crowder is on our side. I agree it’s a risk. But I think we should trust the man.”

  “Our intel specifically details Boyd Crowder as working for the opposition.”

  “We don’t even know who this opposition is, sir. Much less who their boots on the ground are.”

  “Crowder had one point right. There are no other mercenaries operating under contract in Kenya.”

  “That we know about,” Marc corrected. “Why couldn’t a group have slipped in from somewhere else?”

  “Because to do so would violate international law and render both the soldiers and their parent group criminals.”

  Marc rubbed his face, trying to scrub off the exhaustion and think clearly. “I’m awaiting your orders, sir.”

  “I can’t tell you what to do from here,” Walton said sourly. “You’re out there because I trust your judgment.”

  “In that case, I’d like a look at Crowder’s file. And Karl Rigby’s as well.”

  “You’ll have them both tomorrow. Anything else?”

  Marc shifted the bulky phone to his other hand. The signal was so weak he needed to mash it to his ear, hard enough to bruise. “Any word on Serge Korban?”

  “Nothing at all. Our contact at UN Security says it can only be so quiet because someone is intentionally squelching all available intel.”

  “I’ll be in touch tomorrow afternoon your time. Royce out.”

  Marc returned to his room, straightened his bed, showered, and was out before his head hit the pillow. The sat phone’s jangling ringtone woke him. It sounded intentionally harsh, as though the apparatus was meant to draw attention from miles away. He fumbled for the button, then croaked, “Royce here.”

  “It’s Charles. Are you safe?”

  “Yes. Hold a sec.” Marc set down the phone, walked to the bathroom, and washed his face. As he seated himself and picked up the phone, he glanced at his watch. To his astonishment, it was four in the afternoon. He had slept all day. “How is Kitra?”

  “Fine, thanks to you. We need to meet.”

  “When and where?”

  “The Sheraton Hotel in two hours. There are people who very much want to speak with you. Will you come?”

  Marc stopped by the front gate and asked the guard to book him a taxi. He then returned to the mess hall and ordered a huge breakfast. Marc was surrounded by a new contingent of security forces, recently arrived from the field. Their hunger and their thirst and their raucous laughter were fueled by the cordite and danger they had just left behind. They crowded the bar and the pool tables and the massive entertainment area. Rock music and frenetic chatter filled the room. Marc ate his meal and did his best to tune it all out.

  Ten minutes later, the colonel’s aide entered the mess hall and winced at the racket. He flashed a hand at his neck and the rock music vanished. Rigby stopped by the chef’s counter for a coffee, then sauntered over and settled onto the bench opposite Marc. “You sleep like a soldier.”

  Marc understood what he meant. A frontline trooper learned to eat whatever was on offer, whenever it was available. Ditto for bunk time. “Where’s the colonel?”

  “He’s traveled out to the front. Settle in the new men, make sure they’re on full alert. Stop any more mysterious vanishings before they happen. He left me as duty officer.” Rigby sipped from his mug. “The colonel has named you as one of the team. He ordered me to stay behind and make sure it sticks.”

  “I appreciate the gesture.”

  Rigby stood and snagged Marc’s empty coffee mug. “You like pie, Royce? They make good pie here.”

  “Sure.”

  The entire room watched the colonel’s aide cross to the chef’s station and return with a slice of pie and Marc’s recharged mug. “So why don’t you tell me what it is you’re really doing here?”

  Marc took his time. Walton’s concerns and distrust rang in his head. But the ambassador was in Washington and this was Nairobi. And Marc’s gut told him he needed to take a risk. So he gave Rigby what he was waiting for. “Let me start with a couple of observations. Feel free to jump in at any time if I get something wrong.”

  “I’m good at that,” Rigby replied. “Telling recruits when they take a false step.”

  “You and Crowder are proud of your operation here in Kenya. You do your job and you bring your men back alive. But there’s a problem. You and Crowder keep catching wind of things not being right at Lodestone HQ in Washington. You’re used to dealing with bureaucrats and top brass. You focus on your job and you protect your men, same as always. Only the signals you’re picking up keep getting worse.”

  Rigby’s face might as well have been made of stone. He sipped from his mug, said, “Go on.”

  “Recently you discovered you can’t protect your men anymore. Not only that, but you have no idea whom to trust. Or who is behind the unseen threat.”

  Karl Rigby’s features were marred by two small scars, one beneath his left ear and another that started above his left eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. “And then you arrive.”

  “Here I am, a guy out of nowhere, turning up at your doorstep,” Marc agreed. “Crowder didn’t buy how I was assigned by a top supplier. The question for you is, am I more of the problem, or something different?”

  “So Crowder ordered you dropped into a hot spot.” Rigby smirked. “We both figured you’d last about forty-eight hours.”

  Marc pushed his plate aside and started on the pie. The colonel’s aide was correct. It was excellent.

  “I told the colonel that trusting you was a mistake. Crowder said he didn’t have any problem putting his rep or his life on the line. But when it came to his men, he runs on a different set of rules. And with three men down, he has to find new allies or pack up his tent and move on.”

  Marc didn’t say anything more until he finished the pie. He knew the next step was his. And it was time to take it. “My primary problem at this point is the missing medic.”

  “Serge Korban.”

  “My superiors think he’s the trail we should be following. A link to something bigger.”

  “What is the bigger issue?”

  Marc put down his fork. “Corruption in your HQ.”

  Rigby mulled that one over. “Interesting how you’re sent down to check on the same thing we’re worried about.”

  “My superiors back in Washington are concerned that you’re not to be trusted.”

  “Are you comfortable with that uncertainty?”

  “My superiors have decided to trust my judgment. And I’m thinking you and Crowder are on our side. So the answer is yes. For the moment.” Marc gave that a beat, then asked, “You’re sure there aren’t other mercs operating inside Kenya?”

  “That was the first thing we checked. Crowder used his old contacts and searched the dark places where the hard cases lurk. I can confirm to you that we’re the only game in town. And to answer your next question, we checked with the Kenyan forces and the UN. We asked our closest allies to give us the straight and dirty. We checked with units operating in the vicinity of the firefight, and here in Nairobi. At the time of the attack, there were no ops within a hundred klicks of our guys.”

  “Tell me about the UN forces.”

  “There are two brigades working in refugee camps on the Somali border, almost a thousand klicks from where our guys went down. Another two working with natives impacted by the recent civil unrest, getting them resettled and keeping them safe from tribal conflict. That’s it.”

  “Then we’re missing something,” Marc said. “Something crucial.”

  “You could’ve taken the words right out of Crowder’s mouth. Between us, Crowder and I have served in Panama,
Bahrain, Iraq, the big dance in Afghanistan. We bring our men home. Crowder’s got the words carved into his heart. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Finding out what happened to his men and making sure it doesn’t happen again is priority one,” Marc said.

  “Roger that.” Rigby reached across the table. “Glad to have you on the team, Royce.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marc’s taxi crawled through rush-hour traffic. Nairobi’s official population was two and a half million. Experts with the international aid groups placed it closer to five million. But these numbers were just estimates. There had never been a decent census, and even this would not have solved the riddle.

  Because of the drought, thousands poured into Nairobi from all over the nation. They entered the slums where their tribal groups were concentrated. They built hovels of plastic wrapping and corrugated iron and wire and concrete and wood. Billboards and fencing never lasted long in and around the city’s poorer districts. They were torn down and turned into homes.

  As a result, Nairobi had outgrown its road network, its power grid, its water system. Traffic jams were the stuff of legends. One could wait at the same stoplight for half a day.

  The city had not had a real water supply for two years. Tankers served the wealthier neighborhoods each week, refilling the cisterns that topped every building. The city had become carved into a series of districts, each dominated by a tanker company who paid kickbacks to city officials so that the water system was not repaired. But slum dwellers depended on bore-hole pumps. Most walked miles every day for fresh water.

  Marc arrived at the Sheraton compound to find Charles standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel’s guard station. Marc paid off the taxi and walked over. Charles offered a solemn greeting and a native’s loose handshake. “Kitra and I owe you our lives.”