River of Ruin

by Jack Du Brul

  Mercer wanted to partially dress himself but saw a pickup truck pull away from the soldier’s dormitory. In the bed was a Browning .50 caliber mounted on a pedestal. As Mercer watched, the gunner racked back the cocking handle.

  He pumped the Cat’s throttle, reminded himself of the controls of this model excavator and took off in pursuit. Once the pickup was destroyed, he wheeled toward the trapped Legionnaires. As he recalled his history, the Legion didn’t have a very good record when it came to making their last stand in forts, like at Dien Bien Phu or any number of desert campaigns. The difference now, of course, was that he was arriving in a fort powered by a five-hundred-horse Cat turbo-diesel and could eat the ground at nearly twenty-five miles per hour.

  He took the loader partly up the hill and positioned the scoop so the soldiers could remain well protected as they leapt in. He gave Lauren a smile when she stared at him at the controls. She stood slack-jawed after Mercer’s first quip.

  “Come on,” he said, “the meter’s running.”

  In a wave, the four Legion soldiers plus Foch and Lauren jumped into the massive bucket. A rattling fusillade hit the back end of the articulated excavator. The engine cowl was more than thick enough to deflect the shots but Mercer needed covering fire from the Legionnaires if he hoped to get them out of here. He lowered the bucket so it was at eye level to the cab and cranked the loader away from the small hill. Rather than drive out of the facility, he kept the heavy rig in reverse and backed them down the mine’s access road. Shielded on all four sides by the bucket, the Frenchmen and Lauren began firing down at any soldier who presented himself. From their vantage, the Legionnaires were impervious to any small arm short of a missile launcher. The loader had indeed become a mobile fort.

  Looking over his shoulder, Mercer steered them away from the mine, swerving the loader around mounds of mine waste and purposely clipping the front of the 6x6 truck that had brought the Panamanian reinforcements. Even the glancing shot from the Cat blew out the truck’s front tire and bent its axle.

  He knew that Lauren and the others were getting a rough ride in the bucket, but they maintained a steady rate of fire to keep the guards pinned, buying precious time they would need when the Chinese got reorganized and came after the fleeing loader in faster trucks.

  The haul road wasn’t much wider than the front-end loader. There were no shoulders, just muddy irrigation ditches on each side of the dirt strip that would toss the occupants out of the bucket if Mercer misjudged. Approaching the chain-link fence and security shack, he hit the horn, alerting the Frenchmen that they had targets behind them.

  The four Chinese guarding the gate held out for a few seconds as the loader bored down on them, but couldn’t match the intensity of fire coming from the elevated bucket. They disappeared into the jungle and didn’t reemerge until the machine had smashed through the fence and roared past.

  Because they had left the area lit by the sodium lamps and clouds hid the moon, Mercer could barely see where he was going. He had to get the rig turned so the headlights pointed in their direction of travel. Around a shallow corner he spied an open lot used for storing construction trailers. He pounded the horn again and whipped the loader into the gravel expanse, slamming the joystick steering column to its opposite lock and thumbing into the first forward gear as the machine came to a sudden stop. He had them going again in a moment. He also raised the bucket to its maximum height so the Legionnaires could fire over the cab at anything coming in their wake.

  Using one hand to keep the Cat 988 on a straight stretch of road, Mercer slid his arms into the stolen shirt and loosened the laces enough so he could slip his feet into the shoes. He was beginning to feel they had a chance.

  The twin headlights cut deep enough into the darkness for Mercer to see that they were approaching a deep gorge. The steel bridge across it was wide enough to accommodate the loader, but it didn’t look strong enough to handle the weight. Machines like the 988 and the big dump trucks he’d seen were usually trucked in on semitrailers and assembled on site. Though new, the bridge was simply too delicate to handle even half of the loader’s weight.

  He slowed as he approached the bridge. The gorge wasn’t as deep as he’d first thought and the bridge wasn’t more than forty feet long, but it was enough to prevent them from going on in the loader. He lowered the bucket and powered down the engine so the Legionnaires could hear him.

  “Out, now! And get across the bridge,” he shouted. “The loader won’t make it. From here we walk.”

  “What about you?” Lauren shouted back.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” he reassured. “No repeat of my stunt on the ship. I promise.”

  As the Legionnaires led Lauren across the bridge, Mercer looked back up the haul road. In the distance he could see the lights of an approaching vehicle. He scraped one of the concrete abutments as he eased the loader partially onto the bridge. Over the engine vibration he could feel the metal bridge protest the tremendous load he was putting on it. Once he’d reached what he thought was the weight limit, he lowered the bucket and then used the hydraulic power of the machine to press the front tire off the ground. The bucket’s hardened steel teeth sank into the asphalt.

  He shut off the ignition and pulled the key, and with an easy underhand toss threw it into the gorge. Unless the Chinese had a heavy-duty wrecker, the Cat 988 was going to block the bridge for a long time to come. He took a second to lace the shoes before joining the others.

  Lauren threw her arms around him even as they started jogging up the road away from the bridge. Her lips were hot and wet on his. “Ya mind telling me how you managed that?” Her excitement had thickened her Southern accent.

  Mercer was a bit stunned by the passion of her greeting but was no less delighted. “Give me just a second.” He switched to French. “Foch, est-ce qu’il y a une barricade devant nous?”

  “Quoi?”

  “Is there a barricade ahead of us, something blocking this road from the highway?”

  “Ah, oui. Well guarded, too.”

  Mercer frowned. “Those soldiers have probably been alerted by radio already. If we don’t get clear of the road we’ll be caught between them and whoever gets past the loader.”

  “D’accord.” Foch pulled a small encrypted radio from his fatigue blouse. “Monsieur Herrara, are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m still here,” Roddy Herrara said from behind the wheel of the rental truck. “An army vehicle passed by a few minutes ago but you said not to call you.” He’d parked a mile beyond the mine’s access road as ordered by the French lieutenant.

  “We’ll be with you in about fifteen minutes. We’re coming in from the jungle so don’t be startled.”

  “Sí. I’ll be ready.”

  Foch led the team off the road and back into the jungle, indicating that Tomanovic should take point. The taciturn Serb was the most skilled at finding the hidden game trails through the bush. Lauren took the slot behind Mercer during the march and even in the dim jungle her position afforded her an unexpected but delightful view. Whenever Mercer stepped over a log or ducked under a branch, his naked backside peeked out from under his stolen shirt. She couldn’t stop her eyes from darting every time it flashed like twin pink moons. His was the cutest tush she’d ever seen, making her blush and want to goose him at the same time. Reaching the truck, she couldn’t resist giving a quiet wolf whistle when Mercer clambered into the van’s enclosed box. He tugged at the tails of his shirt and shot her an embarrassed smirk. The soldiers called a few ribald comments.

  Once Mercer and the Legionnaires were tucked into the cargo area, Lauren pulled on a pink shirt she’d borrowed from Carmen Herrara and took her seat next to Roddy. She wiped the greasepaint from her face and tamed her dark hair with a clip. By adding a little garish makeup any passing army vehicle or police car would think the van’s driver had gotten himself a puta for the night. Lauren needn’t have bothered with the disguise. They saw nothing suspicious all the way back
to Panama City and her buoyant mood made the drive seem to take half the time as the run to the mine.

  Roddy Herrara’s House Panama City, Panama

  Carmen was asleep on the couch when her husband led Lauren, Mercer, and the Legionnaires through the front door. They entered with the raucous jubilation of a victorious football team. She blinked awake and her cry of happiness that Roddy was home safely woke Miguel and her own children. The tidy room filled with their joy. Gerard, who’d lost part of a finger, received sympathy from her and another round of good-natured teasing from his comrades for being the only casualty. For five minutes there were shouts and cheers and hugs all around. Even Harry, whose idea of a demonstration of affection was not scowling, gave Mercer a slap on the back.

  “I owe you for getting me through that.” Mercer spoke over the reverie so just his old friend could hear.

  “It was a group effort,” Harry demurred, surprised by the depth of emotion in Mercer’s voice.

  “Not for the rescue. For something else I’ll tell you about sometime.”

  Like a puppy starved for attention, Miguel tugged at Mercer’s arm, ending the moment and leaving Harry to wonder. “I knew you would come back,” the boy said for the tenth time. His tone was stubborn, as if his earlier doubts hadn’t been his true feelings.

  It was little wonder that the trauma of losing his parents had evolved into a fierce devotion to Mercer. He had rescued Miguel from the jungle, made him laugh for the first time since his family was smothered, and brought him to a place of stability where there were other children his own age. Mercer had become a larger-than-life character in the boy’s mind and the thought that his hero would go away like his parents was too much for his fragile emotions. Despite his declaration of faith in Mercer’s return, he clung to him as tightly as he’d ever held anything in his life.

  Mercer was not unaware of what he’d become to the boy. Not being a parent didn’t prevent a certain swelling within his chest. For the first time in his life, he knew the feeling a father had when a child looked up to him. He caught Roddy’s eye and a secret thing passed between them. The silent acknowledgment of what a child’s unquestioning love really meant. Mercer envied him.

  The reunion moved into the kitchen. The smell of gun-powder and sweat was chased out the window by an electric fan and the aroma of hastily prepared food. Beers were passed around and the seating rearranged to accommodate such a large group. Savoring their success, everyone told stories of their role in the rescue. Mercer’s took the longest to tell. He glossed over the agony he’d endured and still the others hung on every word. His ingenuity at escaping the cell brought a toast from Lieutenant Foch and an offer to join the Legion.

  When the stories were done, Carmen Herrara herded her children back to bed. Her attempts to make Miguel follow went unheeded. She understood better than the boy how he needed to be there with Mercer as proof his hero was safe. She let him remain with the adults while she herself went to bed after giving Roddy a tender kiss.

  Sensing that the celebration was about to become a strategy session, Foch detailed two of his men to return the rental van to the parking lot they’d stolen it from and sent the other soldier to watch the house’s perimeter. It wasn’t that he feared they’d been followed from the mine, only that what was about to be said was for officers, not enlisted personnel. Gerard’s wounded finger had been tended to in the van, the stump cleaned and bandaged. The painkillers had taken effect so Foch let him sleep on the couch.

  The beer was gone. Grudgingly Harry produced his bottle of whiskey and poured a round for everyone.

  “You think that’s such a good idea?” Mercer asked, waving his glass at the tiny one Harry had poured for Miguel.

  “Are you kidding?” Harry snorted. “My grandfather gave me booze when I was Miguel’s age and look how I turned out.”

  “Exactly,” Mercer mocked.

  Harry thought about it for a moment, glanced down at his rumpled shirt and stroked the rough stubble on his jaw. “Yeah, you got a point there. Sorry, kid.” He downed Miguel’s little shot and sipped at his own.

  Mercer checked his watch and cursed silently when he remembered his torturer had stolen it. The wall clock said it was half past midnight. He’d slept for only an hour in the truck. While his body was exhausted, his mind buzzed with the lingering effects of adrenaline and a whir of ideas that were just now coming into focus. Rather than let everything fade, he knew now was the time to discuss their next moves, not in the morning when the frantic edge had worn off. Around the table, the eyes that met his were equally ready.

  All except Harry’s. He had a smugness around him like he already knew all the answers. The octogenarian lit a cigarette, knowing Mercer was watching him. He seemed to savor the anticipation he was creating.

  “You have something to say?” Mercer finally asked, knowing Harry was willing to burst before revealing whatever secret he harbored.

  From behind a jet of smoke Harry said, “The gravel you found at the container port didn’t come from the mine.” He sat back, ready to accept Mercer’s praise for solving that little mystery. The others also looked to Mercer, waiting for a reaction about what they’d discovered in his absence.

  “I know it didn’t.” Mercer’s answer brought startled looks all around.

  Harry suddenly deflated. “What? How did you know?”

  “I know the gravel didn’t come from there and neither did the gold. That place is no more a gold mine than you are a poster child for clean living. It’s a sham.”

  “What are you saying?” Lauren placed her elbows on the table. “We all saw it. It has to be a gold mine. All those men. The equipment. Those big trucks.”

  “It’s window dressing,” Mercer stated. “An elaborate stage setting to convince investors and government officials that Liu has found a gold vein in the jungle. Considering the expense he’s put into it I bet he’s even had geological reports faked to compound the ruse. I’ve seen this done before, usually as an investment scam. A shady mine operator fakes some reports, salts ore samples with gold dust and leaks the findings to the public. When the mine’s stock value goes sky-high, he secretly sells out and vanishes. A week or a month later some regulator goes in with an independent geologist and discovers people have lost millions of dollars over a worthless hole. I’ve personally delivered that kind of bad news to pension fund managers who’ve just lost a bunch of little old ladies’ retirement accounts.”

  “You think Liu is attempting the same thing here?” Roddy asked.

  “It can’t be,” Lauren opined. “We saw the gold at the warehouse.”

  “And it was on the television,” Roddy said. “A big ceremony earlier today with President Quintero where he showed off a bunch of newly minted bars for the media. They even had a new Republic of Panama seal.”

  “We all saw gold, yes. That doesn’t mean it came from the mine. The geologic evidence I saw from the culvert doesn’t support a gold vein anywhere near where they’re working.

  If you want, I can bore you with details, but it won’t change the fact that the gold we saw came from someplace else. Trust me.”

  “Don’t forget the gravel was being shipped to the mine from a ship,” Harry added. “That kind of supports Mercer’s theory.”

  “Right. More props for Liu’s stage. I recall it seemed high in quartz, one of gold’s trace elements, so it probably came from an active gold mine. Liu would want samples on hand in case someone gets too interested in his mine. More proof they’d hit the mother lode.”

  “If the gold isn’t from the mine, and it isn’t part of the Twice-Stolen Treasure from the lake, where did it come from?”

  Foch had hit the crux of the enigma.

  “I’d guess the same place the gravel came from,” Mercer said. “China.”

  Lauren’s face creased with confusion. “But why? This seems too elaborate for investment fraud.”

  “I don’t think it is.” Mercer shrugged. “I don’t know what he�
�s up to.”

  “What about a smuggling operation?” Harry offered. “What if they’re going to use the mine operation as a cover for sneaking that Inca treasure out of Panama?”

  “I’d considered that,” Mercer said. “But if Liu planned to smuggle out all the gold, why legitimize his discovery at all? Why not just take the gold from the lake and ship it straight back to China? By pretending it came from the mine, he has to pay a good portion of the proceeds to Panama’s government in licenses and taxes. He’d lose half the gold’s value plus the expense of creating the mine in the first place. He’s too slick for that. It has to be something else.”

  “What?”

  “Let us look at the facts.” Roddy ticked off his fingers as he spoke. “The Chinese have built a fake gold mine. They have brought in gold and ore, probably from China, to make it appear legitimate while they look for a huge treasure buried near the River of Ruin. Once they find the Twice-Stolen Treasure they will likely pretend that that gold came from the mine. By reporting it as coming from the mine, he will have to pay tens or hundreds of millions of dollars unnecessarily. Do we agree so far?”

  The others nodded, waiting for Roddy to continue, believing he’d found a pattern.

  “Well, those are the facts.” The former canal pilot lowered his fist. “I am sorry I don’t know what they mean either.”

  Amid the defeated exhalations, another round of drinks was poured. Miguel had fallen asleep against Mercer, his smooth face turned away from the light, his snores soft in the adults’ frustrated silence.