by Jeff Buick
Northwest Congo was mostly savannah with an occasional woodland thrown in. Easier to navigate, but hotter than Hades. Below Butembo to the south was the route they had come in on, rugged and unforgiving plateaus and rift valleys. But nothing could compare to the volcanic Virunga and Ruwenzori Mountains that sliced down the eastern border of the Congo like a jagged scar on a plush green field. Pic Marguerite, the highest peak in the Ruwenzori, topped out at almost sixteen thousand feet. Their target area was somewhere in the seventy square miles that lay to the south of this monster.
Samantha turned from the window, left the room and joined her crew in the restaurant. They ordered chicken, but from its texture they were pretty sure it was not chicken that arrived at their table. They appreciated that the meat was edible and cooked, and between the five of them cleaned the platter. The sun had slipped beneath the western savannah by the time they finished the last few drops of rye whisky Alain had brought to the restaurant. The trek had taken its toll, and they drifted off to their rooms shortly after to get a decent sleep. Dawn came early in the tropics.
Travis and Troy were engaged in a heated argument when Samantha arrived at the restaurant the next morning. They stopped as she arrived and it took fifteen minutes for her to find out what they had been discussing. Strippers. McNeil held the view that when the woman left a piece of clothing on, it added to the performance. Ramage disagreed. Everything off was better. Samantha just shook her head—she was surrounded by a bunch of schoolboys. Eventually, the conversation touched on securing a helicopter.
“There’s a guy in town who rents his machine out by the hour,” Dan Nelson informed them. “But the fellow I was talking with told me the pilot will give customers a good break on weekly rates. He’s an excellent pilot from what I hear—Billy Hackett. He’s on the east side of town, maybe ten minutes in the Rover.”
“Okay, after we finish eating, Alain and I will check it out. Dan, I want you and Troy to open our gear and give it the once-over. Strip the weapons down and rebuild them. Run diagnostics on all the communications gear, especially the GPS systems. Sam, you should break open the crates and check your geological apparatus. Make sure everything’s operational.”
Travis took care of the breakfast tab, then headed out with Alain in search of Billy Hackett and his helicopter. Sam joined Troy and Dan in a compound adjacent to the hotel, where the expedition gear had been offloaded from the military trucks. Five uniformed soldiers stood watch over the crates. The remainder of the military force was nowhere to be seen. Samantha watched the ex-SEALs as they methodically disassembled each weapon, made notes on a pad of paper and then returned each piece of equipment to a workable state. There were no wasted movements, no hesitation as to which piece fit where. She knew from watching them that these men were the consummate professionals—at killing people. Despite the numbing heat, it made her shiver.
Sam cracked open her crates and began to poke through the geological gear Gem-Star had provided her. For the most part, it was her first look at the equipment. She was impressed with what she saw. Gem-Star had spared no expense.
Aside from the usual binocular microscope, hand lens, geological pick and sample bags, was a mobile spectrometer.
The hotel manager, smiling eagerly, approached her as she repositioned her gear. The arrival of the team was a boon to his monthly take, and he wanted to personally meet the attractive woman who headed the team. He held out his hand.
“I am Martine Abouda,” he said pleasantly, enjoying the feel of her skin against his. “I am the manager of the hotel. If there is anything you need . . .”
“Sam Carlson,” she responded, “and I think we’re okay. Your staff has done a wonderful job of making us feel welcome.”
“Sam Carlson.” He laughed. “You don’t look at all like Sam Carlson.”
She chuckled. “It’s short for Samantha. And thanks for stopping by.” She returned to checking her gear, and the man left.
A few minutes later Samantha snapped the final case shut and stood up. She swayed slightly as her equilibrium threatened to leave her, but caught hold of a nearby palm plant. The heat was outrageous and her temples throbbed as she fought to regain her balance. Don’t stand up so quick, she reminded herself as everything came back to normal and she let go her grip on the palm. She walked back into the hotel, wondering how Travis and Alain were progressing with the helicopter.
Billy Hackett was laid out on a hammock when Travis walked around the side of the thatched hut that served as Hackett’s house and his business address. A half-consumed sun-baked beer rested on his chest and an open package of cigarettes lay on the ground. Numerous butts and burned matches peppered the immediate area. Travis stood over the man for a moment, his shadow covering the pilot’s face. He knew exactly what he was looking at.
Billy Hackett was ex-Nam—Travis had seen hundreds of these guys. Americans who had seen the dark side of humanity and lived to remember it. The war had been a travesty for all the troops, but the chopper pilots had been subjected to every conceivable act of violence on and above the battlefield. Bringing in the wounded, limbs torn from torsos, napalming suspected Cong infestations, knowing full well that innocent people lay below the propellant that scorched human skin and sucked the oxygen from the air. The machine guns that poked out the side of the Hueys rained death on anyone inside the target areas. From a hundred feet up, it took too much time to decipher between a child and a man with a gun. Every pilot had seen atrocities and had perpetrated them. They lived with the memories, none of them pleasant. They did what was necessary to survive—physically and emotionally. And that’s what made them the best damn pilots on earth.
McNeil cleared his throat and watched the man’s eyes slowly open. He shifted slightly and his shadow moved off Hackett’s face. Hackett shut his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun and groaned. He sat up and rubbed his free hand across his face. He still clutched his beer with the other hand. He squinted at McNeil for a minute, then set the beer on the dusty ground and stood up.
“Your wife sent me around. Told me you’d be back here,” Travis said.
“Yeah, she does that kind of thing,” Hackett said. “What do you want?”
“I need to hire a helicopter and a pilot for some recon work. You available?”
“When do you need me?”
“I’ve got some specialized gear that needs to be loaded in the machine. Spherical imaging stuff of some sort. I’d like to get that done today and have you running a grid by tomorrow.”
Hackett nodded again. “I charge eight hundred American dollars a day. Fifty percent payable in advance. How many days do you need me?”
“I’m more interested in your weekly rate,” McNeil replied. “You’ll be covering an increasingly small area as we zero in on what we’re looking for. The more precise your search becomes, the more time you’ll be spending on the ground. But I still want you working exclusively for us. You have to be ready to fly when we need you. What’s the weekly rate for that?”
Hackett rubbed his chin and pursed his lips. A minute later he responded, “Four thousand a week. You pay me in advance for the week, a week at a time. If you find what you’re looking for halfway through a week, I still keep the money.” He paused for a minute. “What are you looking for?”
“Differences in vegetation coloring for mining purposes,” McNeil said, studying the man. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Hackett shook his head. “What’s a white guy doing here in the middle of Africa?”
Billy Hackett laughed, and Travis couldn’t help smiling with him. It was almost contagious. The pilot was McNeil’s height, but quite slender. He was pushing fifty-five and still sported a full head of blond bushy hair. He was unshaven, and gray hairs interspersed the thick five o’clock shadow that covered his prominent jaw line. His teeth were white, but crooked in a few spots—something that might have been easily fixed with rudimentary orthodontics. His eyes were deep brown and devoid of the haunted look so many ex-mili
tary pilots wore. They sparkled with a life of their own, telling the observer that a fertile mind existed beyond them. McNeil found himself instantly liking the man.
“What’s a white guy doing in the middle of Africa?” Hackett repeated. “I married that wonderful woman who sent you back here to find me. I met her in Kinshasa ten years ago and we were married two weeks later. We went back to the States, but she hated the weather. Montana is just too fucking cold when you’re used to this.” He waved his arms about as he spoke. “We tried California, but she couldn’t stand the pace. So here we are, living happily in the Congo.”
“Third-world living,” Travis said. “Is your chopper in decent condition?”
Hackett looked insulted. “Most certainly. You want to have a look?” McNeil nodded and Hackett motioned for the ex-SEAL to follow him. A narrow path led into the jungle immediately behind the house, blocking out the sun and cooling the surrounding air. It felt good. Forty yards into the rain forest, they suddenly broke out into a round clearing. Travis stared, his mouth open. A fully functional helipad, paved and night-lit, sat directly ahead. On the circular patch of asphalt sat a spotless Bell 427, the sleekest baby in Bell’s fleet. The sun reflected off the highly polished maroon finish covering the twin turbine engines, and all four rotors were buffed and properly tied down.
“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Now that’s a helicopter.” He turned to Billy Hackett. “How the hell can you afford this thing?”
“It’s not that hard,” the pilot replied. “I’m the only rotary wing air service for a few hundred miles. I get all the medivac work from the government, tourist flights in and around the Ruwenzori, government VIPs, and lots of commercial work for mining companies out of Rwanda and the Congo. This place is a gold mine.” He motioned toward a small Quonset tucked back into the tangle of ferns and vines that bordered the well-kept landing area. McNeil followed Hackett to the shed and waited as he entered a code into the electronic lock. The door opened and he walked behind Hackett into the darkened room. A motion-sensor light activated a ceiling-mounted bulb and the structure was suddenly illuminated.
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.
SEVEN
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 f
ield. 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.”
