Devil's Gold (4 page)

Cassidy swore and twisted in her seat, watching in despair as the militia forced the fishermen to pull in their empty nets and head back to shore, defenseless against the threat of muscle and gun.

Rain shot from the skies, pelting her with watery bullets. She bowed her head, fighting back a sudden wave of depression. “Those men weren't doing any harm,” she yelled at Red.

Red wagged a finger at her. “It's not for you or me to decide, Doc. Stick with NWP and you'll stay safe.”

Red's words didn't soothe. They infuriated. Cassidy detested the idea that she was left untouched because of the initials plastered to the outside of the speedboat. They banked to the right and headed in the direction of a long wooden dock. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she leaned forward to avoid being drowned by the sudden downpour. Red killed the engine as it rode a small wave into a designated slip. The ferocity of the shower lessened somewhat as the boat rested between the piers.

Red tossed ropes to anchor it in place.

Cassidy gathered her bag and pulled the top of her hood farther down over her forehead. She leaned over and dropped a kiss on Red's cheek. “Thank you. You know, if you ever want to leave NWP, ZEBRA is always looking for hard working employees.”

The blush that tinged his onyx skin tugged a smile from her lips. “Thanks. But I'm too old to be goin' elsewhere, and my pay's on time.”

Cassidy gripped his shoulder and squeezed gently. She accepted his arm and used him for balance as she clambered up from the rocking boat and onto the pier. “See you, Red.” It took a moment for her feet to find the rhythm of the dock. The rickety wood moved with the current, making her walk in drunken sailor style. Her eyes locked onto solid shore, and she wove her way down the length of the walkway.

The village market buzzed with activity. Women swathed in brightly colored cloth carried baskets and bowls, filling up on necessities for their families. It the first village beyond Port Harcourt, and tourists brave enough to risk the Kill-and-Go methodology of the local militia flocked here in search of authentic souvenirs. Stands laden with carved masks and woven baskets of all shapes and sizes were scattered across the center street.

Cassidy paused, picking up a small round bowl. The intricate weaving of multi-toned natural fiber cast a dizzying circle of jagged peaks around the upper rim. She lifted the lid and peered inside. The craftsmanship was inspiring. Cassidy patted her pockets and withdrew a sodden five-dollar bill, shoving it at the artist. Cradling her purchase, she moved beyond the stands.

The acidic scent of the constant gas flares burned Cassidy's nostrils. She walked quickly through the throng of natives and jumped behind the wheel of her Jeep. Turning the ignition and releasing the emergency brake, she slammed her foot on the gas pedal and sped onto the road away from the river. She ignored the rusted pipelines and oil-crusted riverbeds that flanked both sides of the street. It was sad, and she was angry.

Cassidy sifted through a million ways to explain to her camp that they'd be closing up shop. “Damn, damn, damn.” It all sounded as if she were raising the white flag and laying her weapons down.

As the vehicle bumped over the uneven road, Cassidy gazed beyond the dying mangroves and poor vegetation. She envisioned the Niger Delta as it was more than forty years ago, before the never-ending burning sky. The lush tropics full of chattering creatures called to her soul.

Africa.

She connected with the endless plains covered with nothing but dust balls during the dry season, and with the mountain ranges that held century-old tribal secrets that continued to feed the world with new species. A precious corner of Earth was dying, and no one cared.

Pulling off the road, she followed the bend of a dry riverbed, remnants of an oil leak still present in the blackened soil. The small haven of her encampment came into view. Modern tents were erected in a half moon, circling a constant burning fire pit. Cleaned and polished concrete buildings scattered beyond the line of tents marked the rehabilitation of a dead village.

She stopped the vehicle and soaked in the view. The engine rattled and heat rose from the ground in waves of humid fog, but she remained. She'd been here for six months, and it hurt to think of the damage her announcement would do to the pride and sense of achievement these natives felt about this renovated township.

Cassidy inhaled. The rain abated, leaving behind a sense of renewal. In this tiny patch of land carved into a diminishing mangrove outcrop, the Niger Delta flourished. Mangrove roots were cleansed of suffocating oil and clung to the edge of a thin stream that remained free of pollutants. Her heart hurt. If given enough time, she was certain these steps toward environmental resurrection could be successfully implemented throughout the entire region.

On the left, a small band of locals worked the water filtration system she'd introduced. Tears burned behind her eyes. What would happen to these people when she left?

Running her fingers through her hair, she yanked her ponytail loose. The wind and rain had created a clumped and tangled sodden mess of it. Cassidy allowed herself a brief second to fantasize about a hot shower and scented soap. Instead of igniting a yearning, though, the vision spurred anger.

It wouldn't be long until that fantasy became reality.

“Damn.”

A young woman dressed in stained khaki's and a ZEBRA T-shirt raised her arm and waved. Cassidy sucked in her bottom lip and briefly closed her eyes, seeking patience and guidance. “Double damn,” she said softly. Inhaling a deep breath, she slid from behind the wheel of the Jeep and plastered a smile upon her face. “Time to stick a pin in the voodoo doll of reality.”

Jake waited. The interior of the laboratory was dark, lit only by the glow of the multitude of lab equipment humming on the counters. He lounged in a chair at the center work table, his fingers drumming an impatient beat on the hard metal surface. Lifting his arm, he pushed a small button on his watch lighting up the dial. As if his motion triggered a signal, the computer screen flickered to life displaying a message to accept a satellite signal. He leaned forward and moved the mouse over, completing the connection.

Jake frowned as an empty room came into focus. A hand flickered on the monitor, displaying an index finger pointing upward indicating for Jake to wait. He sighed, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms behind his head. Muted voices echoed from the computer and filled the dark corners of the laboratory with sound.

“Anderson?”

Feeling slightly stupid talking to an empty chair, Jake sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Here, sir.”

“Wait one doggone second, son. These morons have me all discombobulated.”

Stifling a chuckle, Jake nodded at the empty room and waited for his superior officer to make an appearance. Finally, Colonel Price moved into view. He settled himself in the empty chair Jake had been staring at. “Evening, sir.”

Price braced his hands on the edge of the table and focused on Jake, his features sharp and angular. “Talk to me.”

Jake pointed to Price's head. “Going for the Kojak look, Colonel?”

Price rubbed a hand over his smooth shaven scalp. “Celia likes it.” The slight widening of the colonel's eyes explained to Jake that the colonel himself wasn't yet comfortable with the entire Mr. Clean persona.

“Celia's a smart woman, sir.”

Price waved a hand and shook his head. “I'm not wasting our taxpayer's dollars discussing my hair, or lack thereof, with you like two old hens. Anderson, what in tarnation is going on over there? I've gotten more hot-headed jerk-offs trying to crawl up my ass this afternoon than Nixon had tapes.”

Jake raised a brow and tilted his head to the side. “How's that, sir?”

“Fuel and Energy Commission's been informed of the possible shutdown in oil production in the Niger Delta. They're not happy.”

Jake frowned and scratched at the beginning of a headache attacking the corner of his right eye. “NWP's ordered a hit on ZEBRA.”

Colonel Price narrowed his eyes and leaned toward the monitor. His image wavered slightly as the camera refocused. “Repeat that, son, and add a few more details for my old senile mind to comprehend.”

The corner of Jake's mouth tugged upward in a cocky grin. “Here's the expanded version for your ancient ears.” He laughed when Price flipped him the finger. “About an hour ago we received word that a Kill-and-Go squad had been personally handpicked by the senior security officer of New World Petroleum. My informant's indicated ZEBRA's camp is the target.”

“When?”

Jake paused for a brief second. “Tonight.”

The colonel closed his eyes and bent his head, rubbing the center of his temple with his thumb. “Jesus H. Christ. Why can't everybody play nice for once?”

“This is Africa, sir. I don't believe they understand those rules.”

Price snickered. “Smartass. What's your plan?”

“I'm leading two tactical teams out of here in about twenty minutes. First unit will extract all ZEBRA personnel. The second unit…” Jake paused, knowing this would probably not pass muster with the colonel.

“The second unit?” the colonel prompted, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over an ample chest and belly showing the telltale signs of good food and abundant drink.

“The second unit, sir, will secure the safety of the remaining members of the camp.”

Colonel Price slammed his hand against the desk and stood up abruptly. “Dammit, Jake. We're not to involve ourselves in local governing. You're supposed to be a
biologist.”

“Sir, NWP ships solely to the United States. I think they've already involved us in this so-called governing.”

Price paused his pacing and sat back down. “I don't like it. The Nigerian Oil Ministry's been very specific about what we can and cannot do there.”

“Sir, I believe that's why Black Stripe is here.”

Price swore to himself and nodded. “Full report upon completion of your mission,” the colonel said, pausing and staring at Jake, his gaze unwavering. “In person.”

Damn. Jake nodded, even though his insides tightened at the thought of leaving Principe's tropical paradise and returning stateside. “Yes, sir.” Jake clicked the mouse and disconnected the satellite link. He sighed, stretching the kinks out of his muscles. The lab door opened, allowing a stream of late afternoon sun to flood the interior of the room. Jake turned and glanced at Walter.

“Lab's all yours, Walt. I'll be heading home after this extraction.”

C
ASSIDY STEPPED FROM THE INTERIOR OF HER TENT AND PAUSED
for a moment, appreciating the subtle change from day to night that colored the sky in brilliant hues and softened the spiny edges of the mangrove. The bustling activity of camp ceased and settled into a more leisurely pace.

A cluster of personnel gathered to Cassidy's left, and she ambled in their direction. She heard her name being called and twisted around to find her assistant, Anna, waving at her from the direction of the birdcages. Cassidy smiled as a rustle of leaves and screeching signaled the presence of a group of monkeys. Searching the small canopy of leaves above her head, she spotted a Sclater's guenon.

Over the past several months, the tiny primates that topped Niger Delta's most endangered species list had begun to reappear around their village, stealing food and entertaining the children. This particular guenon was named after Philip Sclater, a zoologist from the early twentieth century. Cassidy studied the guenons. They had wide, red-brown eyes surrounded by bright patches of white, and a crown of muted browns and greens covered the head and splayed across the back. She wasn't certain if having a small monkey named after you constituted an achievement or failure.

Cassidy snapped her pen off the edge of a clipboard and quickly jotted down the location and brief estimate of their numbers, then headed toward the tall wire cages that housed several Black Crowned Cranes. They stood tall, some with one leg tucked beneath each heavy round body. Long necks swept upward in a lazy graceful curve. They startled easily, swaying their black tufted heads back and forth. A strong scent of oil and feces wafted in her direction, causing her to wince.

“Dr. Lowell…” a man dressed in sweat-stained khakis and sporting a large straw hat signaled from beneath a large tent they used for group conferences.

“Yes, Charles?”

“I received your e-mail regarding the future of this camp. Are you positive we're all to relocate?”

She nodded and offered the geologist a sad smile. “Yes. All of us.”

“I see. And we have how long?”

Cassidy reached out and squeezed his shoulders. “Ten days.” She twisted to her left, intent on continuing her trek toward Anna.

“Dr. Lowell …” The man huffed and moved to block her from walking away. “I've found something unusual on the geological survey.”