Rare Earth (22 page)

T
he call from Charles accelerated the group to a genuinely frantic pace. Crowder and Deb never left the Nairobi airport complex. With Walton's backing they had a chopper prepped and ready when Marc and Kamal pulled up an hour later. Kamal's men beat them there by fifteen minutes. Crowder's own team came in five minutes later.

The chopper flew west through the night. During the flight, Deb Orlando described their destination, a massive private estate on the border of Lake Victoria. A buddy with the DEA had made the arrangements. The estate belonged to one of the NBA's top scorers, who had been let off easy on a serious drug charge. The man remained extremely grateful.

The estate totaled nine thousand acres and was divided into three distinct parts. The largest portion joined with a national game preserve. Ninety minutes after takeoff they descended past a trio of luxurious towers called hides from which the compound guests could watch the wildlife. The hides fronted the lake's dark waters, where giraffes nibbled daintily at the leaves of trees. Lake Victoria, though, the world's second largest freshwater sea, had been hit hard by the drought. The lake was rimmed by vast fields of mud that glistened in the moonlight. Marc thought he saw hippos wallowing in the slime as they landed.

The estate's second portion held five villages with cone-shaped huts. The villages were separated from the game preserve by a high barbed-wire fence. Beyond the villages rose the owner's private enclave, a two-hundred-acre hilltop domain with swimming pools and emerald lawns and seas of blossoms and a dozen guesthouses. Beyond the enclave stretched a landing strip built to handle a wide-bodied jet.

Levi and Charles arrived in the requisitioned truck while Marc and the others were settling into the guesthouses. Levi emerged from behind the wheel like a wounded beast, surveying the world in red-rimmed eyes. He endured the introductions and said to Marc, “I should not be here.”

Marc replied with the same words that had convinced Levi to travel. “Kitra has already been taken away. The camp has been invaded in force. We don't even know how many armed opponents we will be facing. There's nothing to be gained by hanging around and waiting for the enemy to return.”

Boyd Crowder stepped up beside Marc. “The worst thing about taking a fight personal is losing your clarity of vision.”

“If we go in wrong-footed, we could wind up getting innocent civilians killed,” Marc continued. “This includes you.”

“That is the last thing Kitra would want,” Charles agreed, looking almost gray with exhaustion. “The very last thing.”

A servant emerged from the main house, wearing a starched white jacket, neat blue shorts and T-shirt, and no shoes. He handed out two more keys to the guesthouses without meeting anyone's eyes. Marc had the impression that the servant spent a lot of his time not seeing what went on here. Marc told his crew to shower and be back in half an hour.

They gathered on the rear lawn, seventeen in all, seated around a table that could have held three times their number. Charles sat by Levi, as though the pastor remained drawn to the man who needed him most. Kamal and his six team members sat across the table from Crowder and Rigby and his four. The Lodestone crew had responded swiftly to Crowder's call, especially as their new boss was still in police custody. They had arrived at the airport with a wealth of gear.

The household staff roasted an entire haunch of venison over a fire pit as big as a plaza fountain. Everything about the place was oversized. The main house's rear veranda was as large as a basketball court.

They planned as they ate. Marc felt Levi's burning impatience radiate across the table. He knew Levi wanted to throw himself immediately into whatever fight was within reach. But their plan was a good one, and for it to work they needed daylight.

Marc waited until the others had split up for their four hours of sleep before approaching Levi. He needed to say some things and preferred to do it when no one else was around.

Levi watched Marc's approach in silence. He had not spoken a word since the start of dinner. He stood slightly canted, his pain almost too much to bear.

Marc asked, “Can you hear me all right?”

“I'm standing right in front of you. Of course I can hear.”

“I need to be sure you're paying attention,” Marc said. “Either you pull yourself together or you're not coming with us.”

Levi jerked as though Marc had slapped his face. Which, in a manner of speaking, he had.

“This is your one chance,” Marc warned.

“I'm not staying behind.”

“You won't have any choice. I'll have them chain you in the cellar before I let you risk another team member's life. And that's what you'll do, unless you can clear the fog in your head. I will
not
let you put any of this team in peril.”

The man's features stretched out drumhead taut with the effort required to shape the words, “They've taken both my children.”

“You're missing the point.” Marc gave him a cold stare. Goading him away from the brink.

“What is it?”

“Go back to what Charles told us. What the young people from the camp said. Was it accurate?”

“I . . . Yes, I suppose . . .”

“Okay. So it sounds to me like they came for her.”

“No, that's not . . . They're moving the camp.”

“We know that. But look at what happened. They arrived at the camp in several vehicles. One carried the boss. The others, his security. Then what happened?” Marc gave him a beat, then, “One of the trucks left early with Kitra. Not headed for wherever they're taking the camp-dwellers. Do you see? They came
planning
to take her.”

Levi screwed up his face, clearly frightened but clinging to any hope he might hear. “But . . . why would they do that?”

“We'll find out tomorrow.” Marc stepped back, satisfied for now. “Tonight I need to know one thing. Can you focus and follow orders?”

His response was somewhat strangled, but clear. “Yes.”

“Good. Go get some rest.”

Marc did not notice Boyd Crowder until Levi headed toward his assigned guesthouse. The former colonel stood beyond the fire pit, where the flames and the flickering shadows hid him from view. He stared out over the thorn trees, to where moonlight rippled across the lake. To the south, cone-shaped hills humped up like the burial mounds of prehistoric beasts. The air was warm and close and filled with night sounds, buzzing insects and bird calls and the roar of animals.

“They've got forty, maybe fifty estates like this one dotted around Kenya,” Crowder said without turning his head. “Little make-believe islands built with money. Movie stars, athletes, some rich business owners. They fly in on their jets, keep choppers in private hangars, maintain a staff of fifty. The villagers sing while they roast a buck. They spend a few days and fly back. Kings for a weekend.”

Marc watched the horizon weave the night song and the rising moon. He was tired. But deeper than his fatigue was a rising power. He had never known such a thing before. It had taken him until now to understand it and give it a proper name. He was not angry so much as filled with a sense of reprisal. “They're not going to get away with it.”

Crowder turned his back to the lake and nodded eastward, toward the unseen dawn. “Out there, in the real Africa, they do. All the time.”

“Not with us,” Marc replied. “Not here. Not now.”

Crowder nodded again, either in agreement or because he saw no sense in arguing. “You really going to keep the girl's father off the hunt?”

“I hope I don't have to. But if that's the only way to keep my team safe, absolutely.”

“Your team,” Crowder said.

“That's right.”

Crowder's grin was caught by the pit's final flames. “First time I saw you, I thought you just might be my kind of officer. Glad to know my gut was right.”

Marc asked, “What does your gut say about tomorrow?”

“Same as yours, I expect.” Crowder's grin grew larger still. “That we'll go out there and do whatever it takes.”

T
hey were awakened while it was still pitch-black. A servant was knocking on the guesthouse doors. Marc felt groggy from all the sleep he still needed. Levi and Charles emerged looking especially weary. And the worst was yet to come. The clock was against them. Marc inspected each man intently. They saw the stern message in his scrutiny and did their best to push their exhaustion aside.

The fire pit was lit and three cooks worked the biggest skillet Marc had ever seen, large enough to hold seventeen steaks and have room left over. The skillet was rectangular and had two long handles and two stubby legs. Young men gripped the wooden handles while a woman in a spotless white uniform stood between them and tended the meat. The air was further spiced by the aromas of coffee and fresh-baked bread and the blooming frangipani. The chef backed up so the young men could draw the skillet off the fire pit. She broke three dozen eggs so fast her hands formed a blur. The skillet returned to the fire for an instant; then the steaks and sunny-side eggs were lifted off and replaced with fat slabs of sourdough bread. It was a hunter's breakfast, intended to keep the guests filled all day.

The soldiers ate with the gusto of experience, not knowing when they might have their next hot meal. Kamal and Crowder and Rigby went through the plans a final time with Marc. Levi remained alert and focused. Charles translated for Kamal and the troops between bites. By the time the meal was done, Marc felt they were as prepped as they possibly could be in the condensed time frame. Except for one thing.

Marc rose from the table and motioned for Charles to join him. He said to the others, “Those who would like, you're welcome to join us for prayer. The rest of you, we leave in ten.”

Crowder and Rigby both stepped forward, as did two of Crowder's men, Deb Orlando, Levi, and three of Kamal's troop. When they had circled up, Marc asked Levi, “Will you lead us?”

Levi slowly drew a yarmulke from his rear pocket, settled the cap on his head, shut his eyes, and lifted his hands out before his chest. Marc did not hear the prayer so much as feel the words wash over him. Charles translated softly for the sake of Kamal's men.

After they were finished, Marc urged them to hurry. They grabbed their gear and split up among the three Land Cruisers requisitioned from the preserve. He saw how Levi and Charles had managed to move beyond the reach of their fatigue. Marc watched as they moved in fluid unity, heard the soft laughter and watchful tension of the team, and was satisfied.

They were ready.

They left the camp while it was still dark. The air through Marc's open window was crammed with the roar of predators, like a clarion call to everything that lay ahead.

They had the highway mostly to themselves. A few aid trucks rumbled past. Occasionally they spotted embers from cooking fires, and people huddled by the side of the road, sleeping where they dropped, waiting and hoping for a ride or food or just enough strength to make it to a camp.

The three khaki-colored vehicles were jammed with people and weapons and ammo and comm equipment. They reached the border zone where the volcanic ash began dusting everything just before turning off the main road. The trail leading to the camp was visible, but only just. Twin rutted tracks formed a straight indentation in the otherwise empty landscape.

Kamal drove the lead vehicle. Marc rode in the Land Cruiser's passenger seat. Deb Orlando was seated behind the driver. She held Marc's sat phone in her lap. Midway down the camp's trail it rang for the fourth time since the start of their journey. She answered, lowered the phone, and said, “Walton for you.”

Marc shook his head. Did not speak. Orlando eyed him for a moment, then said, “Sorry, Ambassador, he's occupied now. Yes, sir. I'll pass on your message.”

She cut the connection. “Walton wants a word.”

Marc remained facing forward. The ash-covered trail extended out as far as the headlights' boundary, then disappeared into the night.

“Sir, he wants a word
now
.”

“The ambassador tends to second-guess his field agents before any action,” Marc replied without turning. “I told you back in Nairobi. Your job is to handle Walton.”

They arrived at the forest fronting the camp in the first smoky hint of daylight. They off-loaded in absolute silence. There was no wind, no sound. After the thunderous din of wildlife surrounding the estate's water holes, the region held a funereal silence, a dirge to everything that had been lost.

Four figures rose from the first line of trees and shielded their eyes against the light. One of them waved tentatively. As he stepped forward, Marc recognized him as one of the young men he had chosen to help serve the camp. Marc said, “Hold here.”

The young man stepped forward and peered through the open window. When he saw Marc's face, he sighed with both relief and exhaustion. “Shujaa. You have come.”

The bare-limbed forest and its blanket of ash sucked out sounds before they were formed. The three young men and two women from the camp watched their preparations with solemn patience. Their bare calves were as white as the trees from the ash that had dried into their sweat. It was the hour before dawn and the air was utterly still and already very hot. The setting moon and the first wash of day cast the forest and the trees and the people in dim shadows, as though none of them were fully formed.

The Lodestone crew had all done long-term duty in-country. They did not know Kamal or his men. But they had worked with Kenyan soldiers and UN peacekeepers. The current situation, with a possible UN rogue executive using Lodestone mercenaries to create international havoc, did not affect the men's sense of professional harmony. Marc checked carefully. Crowder did the same. He caught Marc's eye at one point and nodded. They were good to go.

As they distributed bottled water and energy bars, Karl Rigby asked the leader of those from the camp, “How did you know to come now?”

“We have waited for you all night.”

“What if we hadn't shown up?”

The young man replied solemnly, “Philip, he says the shujaa is coming. He comes.”

Crowder asked, “Who's this Philip?”

“The camp's senior elder and chief,” Marc replied. “And one of the best men I know.”

Crowder asked, “What's that word you used for Marc here?”

“
Shujaa
. It means . . .” He turned and spoke with Charles.

Charles said quietly, “It means
warrior
. And a great deal more.”

The young man nodded and pointed at Marc with his water bottle. “Yes. Is him. Philip, he says this is the shujaa of his dreams.”

Crowder asked Marc, “Does that make a bit of sense to you?”

One of the women lifted her head, listened, then pointed toward the dawn. “The trucks, they come.”

It took a few moments longer before Marc heard a faint rumble in the distance. He reached over. “Give me some kind of weapon and get your men in place.” He accepted a pistol from Rigby and said to the young man, “You and your mates hide in the trees. Charles, tell Kamal it's time.”

Crowder whistled for his men. Marc turned and waved to where Kamal stood with Charles and Levi and Deb. They drifted into position, spread down both sides of the track. Marc keyed his earpiece and said to Crowder, “Comm check.”

The volcano was the loudest voice to respond, a hissing thunder that eliminated all radio contact beyond a distance of a few hundred feet.

When it was again quiet, Crowder whistled to the team a second time, and pointed at his ear. Marc heard a series of clicks and asked, “Charles, is Kamal with us?”

“And his men.”

“Move only on my signal.”

The trucks rumbled toward them. Marc waited until the first was within range, then said, “Now.”

The drivers gawked at the men, who sprang from the pale ash and leaped onto their running boards. Marc aimed for the driver's side of the lead truck.

The driver raised his hands from the wheel and exclaimed, “We are empty! We carry nothing!”

“I know that. Where are you headed?”

The driver stared at him. “What are you thinking, man? Right there! The camp!”

Marc heard a soft chuckle through his earpiece. “I mean, where do you take the people when you leave here?”

“Who, man?”

“The camp occupants. The people you've been sent to collect.”

“We are here for people? This I am not knowing.”

“What were you told?”

“Be here for the dawn.” He shoved pale palms toward the east. “It is dawn; we are here.”

“Tell your trucks to turn around.”

“But we are being promised much payment for coming on time . . .” He stopped because Marc aimed a pistol at his face. “This is a very bad thing.”

“It's about to get worse,” Marc said. “I'm taking your two lead trucks.”

Marc, Charles, and Crowder watched the other trucks lumber away into the dawn light and the ash. Crowder said, “That wasn't nearly enough transport for the whole camp.”

Charles replied, “They were here to carry the important supplies, the oldest, and the sickest. The rest walk. My people, they have much experience at walking.”

Marc asked Charles, “Are you sure you want to be a part of this?”

“I am already a part,” Charles replied.

Marc searched the pastor's face for fear or doubt, and found neither. Marc decided that after all Charles had witnessed in his life, assaulting a fortified refugee camp with a handful of men was just another day at the office. “Let's move out.”

One of the troopers out of Lodestone's Nairobi HQ had brought two metal cases. Each held three long-range stun guns and portable charging units. The chargers were massive batteries that filled most of the space and made the lockers weigh almost three hundred pounds. The metal handle cut into Marc's hand as he helped maneuver one to the SUV's tailgate.

“Banned in all fifty states,” Crowder proudly stated. “Claims to be good to eighty feet. But nobody I know can hit a cow past forty.”

Six of them made up the first line of assault. They could have used more. The men assigned to backup duty certainly were eager to move into the hunt. But the Lodestone crew had only brought six of the special weapons requested by Crowder. Marc took one, gave two to Kamal and his chosen man, another to Deb Orlando, and the other two to Crowder. Crowder ordered Rigby to lead the second crew. Crowder's second-in-command didn't like it one bit, but had the good sense not to kick. When Levi started to protest over not being among the first in, Marc said sharply, “That's how it is, soldier.”

The two requisitioned trucks were standard high-riding transports with tattered canvas tops. Kamal drove the first truck and Marc sat beside him. They had checked carefully and found no sat phone in the trucks. With the volcano isolating the camp from radio and cellphone communication, there might be surprise over seeing a white face, but no objection.

At Charles's suggestion they asked the women gathering firewood to precede them into the camp. The young people had told them that two of the new security forces manned the front gates. Marc wanted to give the guards as much reason for distraction as possible. The women treated his request as a game. Their quiet laughter drifted through Marc's open window as they moved forward.

At the women's approach the two guards grinned sleepily and spoke between themselves. Their expressions caused the women to clutch together and move more swiftly. But that only made the guards laugh. One shifted the carbine to his left hand and reached out. Marc took that as his signal. He settled the heavy stun gun on the windowsill and took careful aim.

Just as Crowder had described, the trigger clicked twice. The first click and a laser target sighted on on the guard's chest. The soldier spotted the light playing across his fatigues, and whirled about, trying to brush the light away and bring his gun to bear all at the same time.

Marc pressed harder on the trigger. The bolt flew out with a softly hissing
zing
, like a miniature fly-by-wire missile. It struck the man precisely where the light had been. The electric hiss was powerful enough to cause the women to flee. The soldier entered a manic dance, his entire body arching to an impossible angle.

Kamal leaned out the other window and shot while the second guard stood gaping at his mate. He fell as though poleaxed and sprawled on top of the first soldier.

Figures flitted forward from the second truck and bound the men with plastic ties. Crowder slipped onto the running board by Marc's window while Rigby joined them on Kamal's side. Crowder watched as the still-prone guards were hustled back to the rear truck. “Glad to know those suckers actually work.”

“The latest in traffic-calming measures,” Rigby agreed.

Marc asked, “Do you recognize those soldiers?”

“Never seen either of them before. Karl?”

“No. But they're wearing regulation Lodestone gear. Check out this label.”

Marc keyed his comm link. “Deb.”

She sprang from the third vehicle in their line, the truck requisitioned by Charles and Levi. “Here.”

“Check these guys for IDs. Then photograph both men. Call it through to Walton.”

“On it.”