Rare Earth

© 2012 by Davis Bunn

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

Ebook edition created 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4412-7107-5

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

Scripture quotation in chapter six is taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
www.zondervan.com

Scripture quotations in chapters thirty-two and forty-seven are taken from the Holy Bible, Today's New International Version®. TNIV®. Copyright © 2001, 2005 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide.
www.zondervan.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

Cover design by Kirk DouPonce, DogEared Design

Reviewers comment on Bunn's previous Marc Royce novel,
Lion of Babylon

“Description is so vivid you can smell the food and choke on the desert sand. . . . Bunn's fans will leap for this precise and intricate tale of cross-cultural friendship and loyalty in the heart of the Red Zone.”

Publishers Weekly

“This exciting, action-packed thriller features a strong sense of place in its depictions of the people and politics of the Middle East. It is sure to please [Bunn] fans and win him new ones.”

Library Journal
*Selected by
Library Journal
for the 2011 Best Book Award

“A fast-paced, gripping thriller,
Lion of Babylon
is rich not only with adventure but also with visual details and dramatic, snapshot insights into the Middle East, its traditions, history, and people.”

Phyllis Tickle
Former Sr. Consulting Editor at
Publishers Weekly

“A phenomenal read.
Lion of Babylon
is far more than simply a great thriller. This book delves into a series of crucial issues, and does so with a sensitivity that left me literally stunned. Bunn tells a story that grips the reader and refuses to let go. . . . The descriptions are beautifully crafted, the characters vibrantly drawn.”

Keith Hazard
Deputy Director (ret.), CIA

“It is a terrific book, deeply moving with new insights into important connections between the world's faiths. . . . I have long admired and appreciated Davis's work and I will say I think this is his finest.”

Jane Kirkpatrick
Novelist and Speaker

This book is dedicated to

Michelle and LeRoy Yates
.

Dedicated in service,
wise in counsel, strong in love.

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Endorsements

Dedication

About the Author

Books by Davis Bunn

Back Ads

Back Cover

M
arc Royce arrived at the latest African crisis by way of a United Nations chopper. He was a last-minute hire, taking the place of a man who had trained hard for the role. Marc had little chance of success. Even his survival was in question. He had spent a week in Nairobi hearing this a dozen times and more each day. He was not welcome, he was not wanted. The four UN staffers sharing the chopper shunned him. They knew Marc was employed by Lodestone, a U.S. company contracted to bring in emergency supplies and do so for a profit. The UN staffers might need his company, but they still treated Marc like a pariah. They chatted among themselves and studied the rising tide of mayhem below them. They did not even acknowledge his presence. Marc was having too good a time to care what they thought. He was headed back into action. It was enough.

Up ahead, a new calamity had struck a region already devastated by drought, famine, and civil war. A volcano near the border between Kenya and Uganda, dormant for centuries, had erupted. Marc had been awakened in Nairobi two hours before sunrise with frantic orders to go out there and make things happen.

He ignored the glares as he shouldered his way in tight to the window. He was not going to miss this first airborne glimpse of his job. The base of Mount Elgon was just visible to his west, but the peak was lost to the ash cloud. Directly ahead of him was a ribbon of fire running from the volcano's new fissure. The hillside was now split with veins of smoke and fire, a wound of violent hues.

As they swooped in for the final approach, Marc studied the advancing lava flow. Ahead of the molten rock was a flood of people and vehicles fleeing the ruined city of Kitale. From his perch, Marc could see the remnants of a shantytown that crawled its way up the once-verdant slope. The city had been flattened by the earthquake that had preceded the eruption. Where the lava had not touched was only dust and rubble. Kitale was no more.

They landed in a dry riverbed west of the city. The UN relief workers jumped down and departed without a word. Marc had no idea where to go. All he had was a set of vague orders, printed that morning at Lodestone's airport office. He showed the sheet to the chopper pilot, who grinned at his confusion. “How long have you been at this job?”

“Eight days.”

The copilot slipped off her headphones so she could enjoy the show. The pilot asked, “What kind of training did they give you?”

“I've had a week in Nairobi.”

The pilots exchanged a glance. “And before that?”

“I was an accountant. In Baltimore.”

The pilots were laughing out loud now. “Why don't you just hang tight, let us fly you back to the Nairobi airport. You can catch the big silver bird back to sanity-land.”

“Thanks, but I've got a job to do.”

“Man, you've got
no
idea what you're about to get yourself into.” The pilot pointed out the sun-splashed windscreen. “This place will
kill
you.”

Marc shouldered his backpack. “Any idea where I check in?”

The two pilots pointed him toward a tent at the border of the landing zone, then dismissed him with a pair of mock salutes.

Were it not for the ash floating like brittle snow, the September air would have been pleasant. The temperature was in the upper eighties, the morning sky a chalky blue. But every now and then a black cloud streaked above Marc's head, vague shadows that promised danger to come. And off in the distance was a constant low rumble that thrummed through Marc's boots.

Inside the tent, Marc found controlled chaos. A woman worn down by fatigue and stress inspected his orders. “You're another mercenary?”

“I'm the new supply officer for Lodestone.”

“What I said.” She shot out a hand. “Passport.”

Marc had it ready for her. She checked his face against the photo. Then she keyed his name into a computer, squinted at the screen, and pointed at the dusty chaos. “See those supply trucks?”

The field beyond was a mini-city of supply mountains and rumbling trucks. “Yes.”

“Four are headed for the French camp named here in your orders. Go check in with the dispatcher.” She inspected him again, her gaze glinting with dark humor. “Don't expect looks and a smile to get you very far out here.”

“What smile?” Marc replied, but the woman had already turned away.

The four trucks were piled high with cornmeal sacks and water purification systems and medical supplies. Marc knew because he had been given the manifest by a sweating dispatcher who scarcely even glanced at Marc's credentials. The man was simply glad to find someone willing to take responsibility for the load.

The lead truck was a Volvo with three hundred thousand miles on the clock. The others were in even worse states of repair. Marc's seat was patched with duct tape. The springs dug into his back with every jouncing dip. The driver was a good-natured Angolan whose name Marc had not caught. They shared the truck's cab with two other young men, one of whom was stuffed into the rear crawl space. Two more rode perched on top of the load.

The driver spoke a few words in Marc's direction, laughed at Marc's lack of understanding, and turned on the radio. The volcano formed a hissing overlay that drowned out the music, so the driver slipped in a tape. The men drummed their hands in time to the tune and chattered constantly. The air was compressed, the men's fragrance an earthy spice. When they turned west onto the main highway, Marc finally released his smile. He was headed in the one direction he truly relished. Toward action.

The manifest he held was stamped with the emblem of Marc's company. Lodestone had recently become one of the largest suppliers of humanitarian equipment in Africa. Theirs was a specialty service. Their clients included every major aid agency, along with the United Nations. Whenever and wherever a crisis erupted, the agencies turned to firms like Marc's to deliver emergency supplies, and do so fast.

But there was a problem. One so large it had rung alarm bells eight thousand miles away. Which was why Marc had been brought in. An outsider who some thought had no chance of success and even less of survival. Before departing for Nairobi, Marc had been repeatedly warned of unseen foes who would make it their business to assure he never made it back alive. Marc had responded that he would have had it no other way.

Now that he was isolated by smoke and fire and turmoil and Africa, Marc wondered at his habit of landing in impossible situations.

Traffic along the main road to Eldoret moved at a crawl. Directly ahead of them were crude donkey carts piled with farm implements and children, with goats tied to the rear gates. The animals fought the ropes and bleated as they were pulled forward. Marc's convoy remained on the road for over three hours and covered less than ten miles.

They then turned north on what was little more than a rutted dirt track. A pair of waist-high signs with Red Cross camp names were the only indication of life ahead. A squad of bored soldiers kept the traffic from making the turn, motioning it farther west with languid African gestures. After exchanging a few words with the lead driver, the soldiers stepped aside.

The vista consisted of scrub and the occasional thorn tree. To their left, the world was lost behind a curtain of doom. Occasionally they came upon crumbled patches of asphalt, but most of the road had long been washed away. They traveled through much of the day, crawling along at a brisk walking pace. Marc figured they might have covered twenty miles.

They were far enough from the volcano not to see many cinders, which was good because the region looked bone-dry to Marc. Now and then the wind shifted just enough to fling ash their way, blanketing the low brush with a false snow. The driver started coughing and motioned for Marc to roll up his window. The cabin quickly became a fetid sauna.

They passed through a forest of skeletal trees, bleached a yellowish white by the drought. When they emerged on the forest's other side, Marc watched as a dozen specters appeared on the road ahead of them. The women were dressed in tribal robes coated with ash. They had wrapped the edges of their head-kerchiefs around their faces, leaving only the eyes exposed. When the truck blew its horn, the women stepped aside slowly. They carried bundles of firewood and viewed the passing truck through eyes red as live coals.

Just as they arrived at the camp's border fence, the wind started pushing in from the east. As the air cleared they rolled down their windows and breathed deeply. The driver beeped his horn once. The camp guards pulled back the main gates, and they trundled inside. Tendrils of ash blew from the ground, bitter flurries that stung the eyes and left Marc's mouth tasting of old smoke and sulfur. The camp was impossibly quiet, the earth blanketed by several inches of volcanic powder.

The camp was a massive shantytown, an endless sprawl. Dwellings were built from corrugated siding, plastic sheets, canvas tarps, thorn brush, anything. Some had miniature fences surrounding bits of land, Marc assumed, for chickens or other animals. Children stood and watched them pass, their feet and legs turned the color of old bones.

They rounded a slight bend and came upon a wall of packed humanity. The people blocking the road pressed out of the way, their motions slow and grudging. They entered the camp's central compound. The horde encircled them, twenty or thirty people deep. Marc heard a soft rumble, like another volcano threatening to erupt beneath his feet. Only this one came from the people who now surrounded the trucks.

The driver and his mates muttered nervously.

“Stay cool,” Marc said softly.

The driver glanced over. It was uncertain whether he understood Marc's words. But Marc's tone and expression were enough to calm him. His death grip on the wheel eased slightly.

Inside the throng was an empty space, perhaps two hundred yards across. This central zone held an administrative building of unpainted concrete blocks, a chapel and schoolhouse, a medical clinic, a bunkhouse and mess hall, and a trio of godowns, the local word for an open-sided warehouse. The entire area was rimmed by people.

A squad of soldiers in sweat-stained uniforms stood before the godowns. Four people in white gowns watched their truck through the clinic's mosquito-netting walls. Otherwise there was no movement. Just the wall of dark faces and scowls and red-rimmed eyes.

Then a woman came bounding out of the admin building. She appeared to be in her late twenties and was attractive in a disheveled manner. She had a coltish manner of running, her long legs weighted by heavy lace-up boots. A rubber band only partly managed to control her dark brown hair. She gripped Marc's windowsill and addressed him in frantic French.

“Sorry,” Marc said. “Do you speak English?”

The woman demanded, “Where are the soldiers?”

Marc waved at the trucks. “We're just delivering supplies.”

“I spoke on the radio with the colonel. Last night and again this morning. I forget his name.” Her accent was almost comically French, drawing the
r
's from somewhere deep in her throat and making
z
's of each
th
sound:
Ze radio wit' ze colonel
. “He promised more soldiers.”

“The base camp is sheer chaos,” Marc replied. “No one said anything about soldiers. I never saw an officer. I flew in; they told me to come here.”

The woman released his window so as to pull her hair away from her face. Marc realized she was doing her best not to cry.

She took a pair of raspy breaths, then said quietly, “We are all going to die.”