by Jeff Buick
And special is not something New Yorkers feel when they walk down a crowded street. But here in Africa, she was a square peg in a round hole. She was different. She was someone to be stared at in bewilderment. She was an outsider, someone who didn’t live in the most populated country on the African continent. She was someone who had a life beyond the daily misery that defined Rwandan society. And for that reason alone, they stared at her with envy.
She arrived at the hotel just after eight and found the four ex-SEALs in the restaurant eating breakfast. She sat down and ordered, waiting until the waiter had left before explaining where she had been since before sunrise.
“I met Hal last time I was in Rwanda,” she said. “He is absolutely trustworthy and will make an excellent guide. He knows the region we’re headed for. He’s spent a lot of time in the mountains on both sides of the border between the Congo and Rwanda. And he speaks the language.”
“You’re sure he’s okay?” Travis asked. “There’s no way he could be a plant?”
“Impossible!” she responded quickly. “He had no idea we were here, and I approached him, not the other way around. This one is not negotiable—we need this guy.”
“Okay,” the team leader said, “he’s in. But he’s on a short leash.” She nodded. Travis finished his coffee and continued. “We have two Land Rovers from Kigali to the border. Once we arrive, Colonel Mugumba will have our supplies in two additional vehicles. We get to keep all four. We lose the support team we have now, but pick up a military escort from Goma to Butembo. After that, we’re in the jungle, and on our own.”
“My geological equipment is with your guns?” Sam asked.
“Supposed to be,” he answered. “According to Kerrigan and Ng. They stowed everything you asked for on the boat the night before we arrived with the missiles.”
“Missiles?” Samantha asked, intrigued.
He grinned sheepishly. “We probably won’t need them. Overkill, you know. When will our guide arrive?”
“I told him within the hour, so he should be here soon. What time do you want to leave?”
“Soon.” He brightened as the concierge entered the restaurant. The man carried a small box and looked quite pleased. He placed it on the table in front of Travis and waited as the team leader poked through the contents. A few moments later, Travis thanked the man and slipped him some cash. He held up a mason jar containing a clear liquid, a handful of flowers, and some thin rope.
“Everything you need to keep the creepy crawlers out of your sleeping bag. Diesel fuel,” he said, holding up the mason jar. He slipped one of the flowers from the box. “Pyrethrum. Mixed with diesel, this stuff is totally repugnant to any jungle creature.”
“What’s the rope for?” Alain asked.
“We’re going to be on army cots,” Travis said. “We’ll have mosquito netting over the cots and draped on the ground surrounding the bed. The problem is, snakes and other poisonous things can get in under the netting, unless you stop them. We soak the rope in the diesel and Pyrethrum mixture and then lay the rope around the edge of the netting on the ground. Presto. Nothing poisonous in your bed.”
“Fucking brilliant,” Dan said.
Philip Acundo entered the restaurant, followed by the three Congolese soldiers assigned to protect Sam’s group. He approached the table, smiling broadly.
“Good morning, my American friends. It is a perfect day for traveling. Not too hot, not too cold.”
Troy Ramage glanced at the thermometer on the restaurant wall. It was shielded from the morning sun, and it already read ninety-two degrees. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “What do they consider hot around here?”
Sam checked her watch as the men threw their overnight bags into the Land Rovers. It was over an hour since she’d left Hal’s house. She walked to the corner and peered down the street. She spotted her friend a block away and motioned for him to hurry. He broke into a swift jog and reached the corner a few moments later. They walked to the vehicles and she introduced him to the team. With his easygoing nature, the guys all seemed to accept him. Samantha felt grateful for that.
“Hal isn’t exactly an African name,” McNeil remarked to the man as they cruised through Kigali. “How did you end up with it?”
“My mother only saw one movie in her life. She wanted me to be smart, so she named me after a computer in the movie.”
“2001: A Space Odyssey?” he asked, and the short man nodded. “Interesting way to get a name.”
“Hal’s an interesting guy,” Samantha said. “Once you get to know him.” She turned away and glanced out the window at the slums that passed for housing. She knew Hal, and she knew exactly how interesting the little man was. Hal survived in a world that killed most. On the surface he was your typical Rwandan, concerned with everyday survival. But under the facade was another man, one Sam would never have known if not for a small indiscretion on Hal’s part years ago.
Hal helped people. In a country where greed and corruption controlled almost one hundred percent of the money, he stood tall in the shadows. For years, he had pried money and goods from carefully cultivated sources and redirected it to the people of Kigali who truly needed it, which was just about everybody. No one knew who the clandestine benefactor was and he kept it that way, fearing for his life and the safety of his family. Displays of wealth in Kigali rarely brought anything but heartache and suffering. When destitute people saw something of value, they took it, and often the one driving the car or wearing the jewelry ended up in a pool of blood. Hal was street-smart and kept his identity from those who received the benefits. He could not, however, keep it from the government officials and corrupt businessmen he blackmailed. And that haunted him.
Hal never condoned the use of blackmail as a means to an end, but it was his only avenue. He had worked for the government in a sensitive department for a few years and had seen the incredible corruption that made the rich richer and the poor poorer. And he had documented it. Pages and pages of information that could destroy reputations and land high-level officials in jail. When he left his post within the government, he used that information to skim some of the dirty money off the top. He picked the vilest of the bunch and demanded they funnel some of the wealth back his way, or else. To a man they capitulated, giving him a source of income that he redistributed as he saw fit. Samantha knew he liked to think of himself as an African Robin Hood. Just shorter, and without the bow and arrow. But it was dangerous and he had many enemies in high places. It was only through sheer coincidence that Sam had stumbled onto an exchange one night four years ago, and Hal had come clean with his agenda. She understood what a good man he was, but it remained their secret.
They were on the edge of Kigali, and, to a person, they were disgusted. The northeast portion of the city was a squatter’s settlement. The shacks were barely standing, raw sewage was everywhere, and small children picked through heaps of garbage that lay strewn about. The stench was overpowering. They rolled up the windows, but nothing could stop the smell from entering the trucks. Babies suckled dry breasts, and the eyes that stared back at them were tired and haunted. Samantha turned away. This was the side of Africa that sickened her—the starving children, lacking even the simplest of life’s necessities. They crested the last of Kigali’s four hills, and swung onto the country road heading northwest.
What had been poor road conditions in Kigali became horrendous. It was mid-May, and the February-to-April rainy season had just ended. The road was unpaved and deeply rutted. In places water still pooled, and the drivers took care to skirt these puddles, not knowing how deep they might be. The going was slow, and Samantha calculated they would reach Gisenyi, on the Rwandan side of the border, just before dusk. An entire day to travel sixty miles.
Ahead of them to the north loomed the Virunga Mountains. Drenched in foliage like an undulating green veil, they both welcomed and threatened visitors. From a distance, the rifts and valleys looked peaceful and serene, but when the group began the uphi
ll climb into the hills, the road became a treacherous series of switchbacks. No guardrails protected the Land Rovers from the sheer drops that punctuated the drive, and the muddy road was slick from the recent rains. Numerous times, the four-wheel-drive vehicles came perilously close to sliding off the road and down the steep hills bordering the canyons.
They crested the southern range at Ruhengeri and began the equally tricky drive down the other side of the pass. This time, the trucks had gravity pulling them toward the edges as they inched forward, and Sam simply closed her eyes a few times, willing the truck to stay on the road. It was more than two hours and a few miles from Gisenyi before they reached level ground. They made good time once on flatter terrain, and pulled into the border town of Gisenyi at four o’clock.
Samantha was taken aback by the condition of the town. Once a destination spot for wealthy European tourists, Gisenyi was now a shell of its former self. The beaches bordering Lake Kivu were still rimmed with glistening white sand, but the backbone of the town was broken. The formerly impeccable stucco hotels that lined the main drag were covered with English, French, and Kinyarwanda graffiti. From what she could read, the messages were hateful and reflected the violence that had previously shrouded the country. Garbage littered the paved streets, and poverty, not affluence, now gripped the village.
Their drivers motored through the town center to the border crossing, stopping or slowing on occasion to allow a wayward potbelly pig to cross the road. Samantha dug around in her pack looking for her passport as they pulled up to the shack that housed the border guards. A young soldier, his military shirt unbuttoned to his navel, moved slowly from the shade toward the Land Rovers. A rifle was slung over his shoulder. Two more border guards exited from the shack, both with their rifles horizontal.
“Can I see your papers?” the guard asked. He spoke French.
“Of course,” Travis answered back in the same language, one of three other tongues he’d learned while with the SEALs. He gathered passports from Samantha and Hal and handed them over. Acundo and his partner also gave the man their DROC passports. The young guard looked flippantly through the DROC papers and handed them back. He studied the American papers closely, then motioned for the driver to turn the truck off. He moved to the second truck and repeated the procedure. As he took the five American passports into the guard shack, he said something to the other two soldiers, and they moved closer to the trucks, the safeties off their weapons.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Travis grew restless with the wait, and when the elapsed time hit twenty minutes, he opened the door and started for the guard booth. Surprisingly, neither of the guards stopped him. He entered the booth, and a minute later emerged with the passports. He spoke to the guards in French, and they lowered their rifles and lifted the wooden arm that crossed the road, allowing the trucks to proceed.
“What happened?” Sam asked as they moved through a hundred-yard stretch of no-man’s land toward the Congo.
“I don’t believe these guys. I go into the booth, and the guard’s asleep. The passports were just sitting beside him, so I took them. Christ, it’s amazing anything gets done in these countries.”
“What did you say to the other guys when you came out? I couldn’t hear you.”
“I just told them that the other guy said it was fine for us to go ahead.” He shook his head in amazement.
The border patrol at the Democratic Republic of Congo was not as tired. There were seven of them, their uniforms pressed, and their AK-47s well oiled. The differences did not go unnoticed by Travis or Samantha. Philip Acundo looked relaxed as he steered the Land Rover up to the nearest officer. He produced his papers, and spoke in what Samantha thought to be Kikongo, one of the four official indigenous languages. She recognized an occasional snippet, but couldn’t make out the overall gist of the conversation. Everything seemed all right, until the guard looked at Hal’s Rwandan passport.
“The border is restricted to Rwandans right now,” he said, handing the papers back.
“He is part of our expedition,” Acundo answered halfheartedly.
“This man is not entering our country,” the guard said forcefully, and began to walk away. Sam started to speak but Travis held his hand up, then pointed to a line of military vehicles parked a hundred yards distant. All six vehicles were manned by members of the DROC military. As they watched, a man exited the armed personnel carrier and strode across the clear-cut area to the crossing hut. He spoke with the official who had refused Hal entry, then the two men turned and walked toward the Land Rovers.
Samantha watched the newcomer as he approached. He was of average height and build, his skin very black, and he sported a small mustache and goatee. A service pistol was strapped to his left side. As he closed the distance, she studied his eyes. She didn’t like what she saw. They were emotionless, almost cruel, and she wondered what horrors this man had seen, or perpetrated, for that matter. He scared her.
“I am Colonel Mugumba,” the man said as he reached the lead Land Rover. The crest on his shoulder sported a small circle with three underlying symbols that mirrored the shape of a detective’s badge—the insignia of an army colonel. “Who is in charge here?”
McNeil extended his hand. “I am. Travis McNeil. Pleased to meet you, Colonel.”
The officer shook hands. “Why is there a Rwandan citizen with your team? I was not informed of this.”
“He is essential to our success, Colonel. He knows the area well, and will be our guide.”
“We have many local tribesmen who can guide your expedition, Mr. McNeil. And I have already assembled a team of twelve porters and guides. You do not need this man.”
“I need him,” Samantha said. She shuddered as Mugumba’s gaze fell on her. “I asked him to join us.”
“You must be Samantha Carlson,” he said, letting his eyes run up and down the length of her body. “Surely you realize we cannot allow Rwandan riffraff into our country. We did so back in 1994, and the result was quite disastrous.”
“You’re talking about a massive humanitarian issue, Colonel,” Sam countered. “Hundreds of thousands of displaced peoples. We’re dealing with one man here—one who’s essential to our expedition.”
Mugumba studied her again, his eyes burning into her. No one spoke for a minute, as the leader of the Congolese military convey weighed the options. Patrick Kerrigan had made it clear to Mugumba that Samantha Carlson was to be treated with kid gloves. Her requests were to be met without resistance. And Kerrigan paid well to have his demands met. Escorting this expedition alone would pay for his retirement. Mugumba shrugged and smiled, pointing at the Rwandan.
“If Ms. Carlson feels this man is that important, then so be it. Issue him an entry visa, good for sixty days,” he said to the border guards. Then he turned to Sam. “Sixty days will be sufficient, I trust.”
“Yes, thank you, Colonel,” she replied. “More than sufficient.”
Mugumba turned to Travis. “Mr. McNeil. I have sixteen crates that recently arrived in Kinshasa loaded on my trucks. The crates have CARLSON GORILLA EXPEDITION stenciled on them.”
“Excellent,” McNeil said. “The crates are still on the trucks?”
Mugumba nodded, and motioned for Travis to join him. Together they walked over to the transports, Mugumba speaking to the soldiers in a local dialect as they approached. Troops garbed in the dark green uniforms of the Congolese army leapt from the trucks and opened the tailgates, revealing the crates recently arrived from New York City. As Travis carefully scanned the boxes, his facial features took on a deeply concerned look. At length, he turned to Mugumba.
“Every box has been opened, Colonel,” he said quietly. There was an underlying harsh tone to his voice.
“Of course, Mr. McNeil,” the colonel replied without missing a beat. “Our customs officials check incoming freight for contraband. As do yours.”
Travis checked the contents of the final truck the troops had opened for inspection. One mor
e vehicle stood off a few yards, the tailgate and tarpaulin still covering the rear cargo area. He motioned to the truck. “I’m missing three boxes, Colonel. All three are the same—about six feet long by a foot high and a foot wide. I assume they’re in the truck?”
“Yes,” Mugumba answered. “But those boxes will not be accompanying you into the jungle. We saw no reason that an expedition searching for upland gorillas would require surface-to-air missiles.”
Travis was ready to go for the man’s throat, but Samantha intervened. “Colonel Mugumba,” she said softly. “Let’s not play games with each other.” The man stared back at her but didn’t respond. “We’re not here to find gorillas and you know it. We’re here to make everyone some money, including you. If the rock formations we’re looking for are denser than the surrounding rock, then part of what we’re looking for will be visible due to erosion. But our target will be covered by an outcrop of extremely dense rock. These missiles will be used to strip away the face of the outcrop and get to the vein. And they’ll do it quickly. Each explosion will blast off about twenty feet of rock. Three shots at it will take us to the sixty-foot depth where the previous expedition hit pay dirt. One hour if we have the missiles,” she pointed to the truck, “or three weeks without them. Your choice.”
Mugumba said nothing. He stroked his chin thoughtfully for a minute, then called one of his soldiers over. This time he spoke in English. “Unload the missiles and give them to Ms. Carlson. But remove the targeting computers first.” He turned back to Samantha. “For such a purpose, you will not be needing the guidance systems.”
