Rare Earth (23 page)

T
hey halted about midway between the gates and the central compound. Marc clambered on top of the truck's cab and scouted in all directions. The light was still dim but strengthening steadily. He spotted a trio of soldiers patrolling the lane to his right and waved as though glad to see them. From this distance the color of his skin would not be visible. One of the soldiers lifted his rifle in response. Marc keyed his comm link and said softly, “Karl, we have three at your four o'clock, two hundred meters out and closing. Go.”

Rigby and his men slipped over the back and vanished.

Another five soldiers came into view, walking the central lane. They ambled with the ease of men who saw nothing more than the end of a long shift. Marc waved a second time and keyed his comm link. “Crowder, you read?”

“In the green.”

“We've got a crew headed straight down the road towards us.”

“On it.”

Marc slipped off the truck's roof and into the rear compartment. Charles took his place in the truck's cab, his face sheened like it was oiled. Marc said through the open window, “Tell Kamal to move up slow and easy.”

Kamal did as he was ordered. Marc spotted another team patrolling to his left, but did not speak. He would need to use Kamal's men, and just then he did not want to take Kamal's eye off the target up ahead and closing.

Crowder's men appeared to either side of the five. One moment the lane belonged to the security forces, the next and they lay in the dust, a single tangled heap. Crowder checked in all directions, then gave Marc the thumbs-up and said through his comm link, “Clear.”

“Rigby?”

“All down.”

“Bind them and load them up.” Marc leaned through the window. Charles looked like he was holding his breath. Kamal, on the other hand, looked almost serene. Marc liked that. A lot. “Ask him if he's ready for some action of his own.”

Kamal's grin was the only response Marc needed.

“There's another team at nine o'clock and closing.”

Kamal spoke briefly through the comm link as he slipped from the truck. Marc asked Charles, “Can you handle the truck?”

“I have driven them many times.”

“Okay. Head towards the central compound at a dead crawl.”

Marc dropped down from the truck to help Crowder and his crew bring back the supine soldiers. Their wrists and ankles were trussed with plastic ties. Two of them jerked spasmodically, the sign that they were coming out of wherever the stun guns had sent them. As they were hefted into the rear truck, Marc asked, “How many charges do those things hold?”

Crowder gave him a soldier's smile, all adrenaline and nerves. “Guess we'll soon find out.”

Rigby and his team were loading the final unconscious soldier in when it all fell apart.

The morning calm was ripped open by a long burst of automatic gunfire. A pair of voices roared in fury. Then one screamed, high and shrill as a beast of the night.

Ahead of them, the central compound became filled with shouting men and whistles. Another pair of shots sounded to his left, then nothing.

Marc leaped onto the running board. “Pull the vehicles into the first lane. Go, go!” He jumped back down and waved the other truck off in the opposite direction. Before the two trucks had started their turns, he was down and following Crowder toward the shooting.

They arrived to find Kamal standing over two bodies. He tossed his stun gun to Crowder in disgust. Crowder hit the triggers and the gun merely fizzled. “Guess we've got our answer.”

“We've got a man hit.”

Kamal's man had his left arm stained black from the shoulder down. Crowder ripped away the tattered sleeve and probed. “Grazed.”

The soldier grunted once as Crowder took a field dressing from his pack and treated the wound. Kamal touched the man's good arm and spoke softly. The man grimaced as Crowder taped the bandage in place and helped him to his feet. Kamal and Crowder half carried the man back to the lead vehicle.

Marc helped his team bind the two soldiers and load them into the rear truck. As he stepped back onto the running board, he said to Charles, “Tell Kamal I'm sorry about his man.”

Kamal gave him only a slightly weakened version of his famous grin and spoke the first words of English Marc had heard from him. “Me and my men, we very much okay.”

Marc hid the trucks in the shadows of two parallel alleys. As they off-loaded, two of the young camp dwellers who belonged to Marc's team came hurtling up the side lane. Through gasping breaths they said that all the remaining attackers had pulled back into the central compound. When Crowder asked for their number, they talked back and forth among themselves for a time, then shrugged. They could not say for certain. A dozen, perhaps more. Plus the four yellow men. And the two men in charge. Big men. One had a big booming voice. The other man did not speak at all. He had a scar on his ear and carried the shadow of death with him wherever he went.

Marc ordered them to clear everyone out of the first line of houses fronting the compound. The young men vanished. Crowder handed Marc a circular device of black metal. “Locator beacon. You know how to use this?”

“Yes.”

Crowder handed another to Kamal and a third to Levi, then told them, “The gadget operates like a doorknob. Turn the top until it clicks. The light on the top goes on, see? Pull this tab off the back and jam it on anything metal. Don't use a bumper; they've got too much plastic. The body frame is best.”

Levi asked, “What is the range?”

“Fifty miles, according to the book. But it operates by radio frequency, which the volcano jams.”

Marc said, “Our job is to get these attached and follow the vehicles just beyond their field of vision.”

But their chance never came. For while Marc was still speaking, the comm link hissed and Rigby said, “They're moving out.”

The remaining assailants abandoned their positions in a roaring rush. Marc crouched by one of the huts nearest the camp's central lane, the locator beacon in his hand, and watched the dust cloud approach. The retreat had caught Marc totally off guard. The attackers were simply leaving behind a smooth operation that had worked numerous times in the past. He could only assume they had never before encountered stiff resistance. Marc had been fearing a number of retaliatory measures, reprisal killings, young hostages, anything. But not this.

There were nine SUVs in all. They sped past, clearly willing to run over and destroy anything in their way. The front bumpers were reinforced with broad black piping. Armed with automatic rifles, a man stood on each of these, using them like narrow guard platforms. Another two men rose from the roof windows, standing back-to-back in professional formation. One of these was armed with another automatic rifle, the other with an RPG. Their faces were grim, their muscles tense. They swept the camp with menacing glares.

Marc knew there was no chance for his team to get anywhere near the SUVs. It would have been a suicide mission, and pointless besides. Marc keyed his comm link and said, “Stand down. Do not approach, do not attack.”

When the final transport had passed and the dust settled, Crowder eased in behind Marc and said, “So what's the plan now?”

“We've got allies among the locals,” Marc replied. “The Kibera elders are searching around where their villages used to stand, looking for the extraction facility.”

“You're saying we wait?”

“Unless you've got a better idea.”

Crowder squinted down the empty lane. “They'll be back.”

“I agree.”

“If I was in their position, I'd bring in a couple of gunships and heavy backup.”

Marc nodded. He had been thinking the exact same thing. “We have to finish this before they return.”

T
hey broke into teams, each made up of a few armed men and several of Marc's local crew. Together they searched the camp, ensuring all the opposition had fled. Everywhere he went, Marc was greeted with cheers and waving hands. Marc forced himself to put aside his worry over Kitra and what the next day might bring, so he could smile in reply.

Afterward they met up at the schoolhouse, where Philip had gathered the children. The main classroom shared the chapel's side wall and ran the entire length of the building. The young chief directed them to pile their gear by the baobab tree. As they entered, Philip made a formal process out of rising from his stool and shaking Marc's hand. He offered the rest of the men a solemn greeting. He then resumed his place before the children and started speaking. His words carried an almost musical tone, deep and resonant and calming. Which was good, because the children were clearly frightened.

Charles leaned against the doorway leading to the shaded front porch. Several of the men patrolled in slow circles, passing back and forth in front of the windows. The sun beat down hard, and the air inside the room felt very close. Charles regularly swiped at his face, not so much clearing the sweat as distributing it more evenly. Philip was seated on the stool at the front of the room. Between the young chief and the soldiers clustered at the back sat well over a hundred children.

Charles translated, “Philip is reminding the children of all the joys and wonders they have known over the past few days. They have all shared in a wedding feast. They have sung the wedding songs of their tribes for the newly married. Four tribes are here in this camp. Four different wedding songs. How many of the children remember the laughter and the joy of all the people?”

All the children raised their hands, but not together. Marc realized Philip was speaking in two different languages, back and forth in such a smooth rhythm that Marc had assumed it was all one, until he saw how half the children raised their hands, then the other half followed while Charles translated.

Philip's tone held a timeless cadence, almost a chant. Marc saw how smiles began to bloom. The atmosphere in the room changed. The men along the rear wall must have noticed it as well, for they settled down on their haunches. A few of the children glanced over at them, but not many. Most were too enthralled with what Philip was saying.

Charles translated, “There was once a time when God walked this earth. For we know, all of us, that Kenya is truly the place where Eden was made. The garden that our God created for all men was here where we live. How could it be anywhere else? Our land is the first land, the most special, and the most beautiful. Is that not so? Tell me that you agree.”

The children responded with a soft “
yebo
,” a chant of their own.

“In the days after the fall of man, God watched as the garden became tainted by man's sinful nature. This shadow of wrongfulness was everywhere. The flowers stopped blooming all the year long. The animals no longer lived in peace. There were even times when the rains did not come. And the people suffered with the animals and the plants. And our God, he suffered with them.

“But there was one tree that did not suffer with the others. And this one tree, it was the worst of all. A tree filled with pride and arrogance. A tree that even dared to defy God. Do any of you know what that tree was?”

The children shouted out a dozen words all at once. Philip silenced them with an upraised index finger. He leaned down, he scowled, and he snarled, “It was the baobab tree.”

The children shrieked with laughter.

“You think that I am mistaken. But this is a true tale, told to me by my father's father, and to him by his father, back through time to the moment when the tree defied God.

“The baobab is the strongest of trees. Its roots go so deep it can drink even when all the world thirsts. The baobab's leaves remain green even when all the world withers away. It is strong and great and lives longer than any other tree. And the baobab knew this. He saw how he was the greatest and oldest and strongest of trees. And he said, I do not need God. I am my own tree. I can live without the help of anyone. I am king and lord of this land.

“And God heard the baobab's words, and he grew very angry. So angry, in fact, that he reached down and took hold of the tree. And do you know what God did? Can you imagine? He pulled the tree out, turned it upside down, and planted it back in the earth.”

This time, some of the men laughed with the children. For everyone who spent time in Africa knew the baobab's curious nature. Now that Philip had spoken, they realized how the baobab's limbs did indeed resemble roots. Like the tree was planted upside down. The children saw how the soldiers laughed with them, and laughed all the harder.

Philip went on, “And now we come to the lesson my father's father told to me. I hope you are all listening, for this is a lesson to carry with you all your life long. God demands our allegiance above all things. We are to remain steadfast with him, even when things are the hardest, even when we are weakest, even when we are angry, even when we are afraid. These are all forces from beyond the boundaries of Eden. They exist, yes, and they test us. But we can carry the holy garden with us wherever we go, so long as our hearts remain true to God.”

Philip disengaged himself slowly from the children. A kind word here, a hug there. As Marc rose to greet him, a child latched on to his leg and looked up. The wide-eyed expression said it all. Don't go. Stay here. Keep us safe. Philip moved over and touched the boy's cheek. He rumbled a soothing note.

Only when the child released Marc and stepped away did Philip say, “Walk with me.”

Marc saw the look Crowder gave him and asked, “Can my friends come?”

“All friends of the shujaa are welcome everywhere.”

Six of them went along with Philip: Deb Orlando, Levi, Charles, Crowder, Kamal, and Marc. Karl Rigby wanted to come; Marc saw it in his face. But he was enough of a soldier to realize someone needed to remain on post. Rigby stood on the school's veranda and watched until they disappeared around the first line of huts.

The lane they took became rimmed by faces. Watchful. Silent. Respectful. Marc assumed this was what Philip intended. Show the flag. Calm his people.

Marc murmured to Philip, “We must find the rare-earth extraction facility. That is the key.”

“You will do so. Of that I have no doubt. With God's help.”

“Could you ask your uncle if he knows anything more?”

“We have spoken last night and again today. He has nothing to report. His people are still searching. We will hear as soon as they do.”

They walked on in silence for a while, then Marc said, “This name you're using for me.”

“Shujaa, yes. A very old word. From the time before the colonials. When king and warrior and chief could all be described by the same one word.
Shujaa
.”

“I'm not sure I'm comfortable with that.”

“It is not the word that makes you uncomfortable. It is the call of your destiny.” They continued their walk in silence, and after a time Philip said, “Now I have a question. One I have asked you before. Why did you come to Africa?”

Marc felt increasingly uneasy with all the listening ears. “I seek answers of my own.”

“This is good. But it is not everything. What else does the shujaa seek?”

Marc felt his face redden. “A future.”

Philip smiled his approval. “In my tongue, future and destiny and purpose are all one and the same. The question, Shujaa, is this. How will you know the future purpose that God has waiting for you to claim?”

Marc did not respond.

“Listen carefully, for here is the answer to the question that drew you to Africa. The rest of the world hears that word
hero
, and they think, oh yes, this is what I want. Call me. Make me a great man.” Philip poked one rigid finger into Marc's ribs. “But you hear the different message. You know the true meaning of this word
shujaa
. The meaning that can be said in just one word. In all languages the one word is never changing. It is the eternal meaning behind a
true
hero.”

Philip leaned in close and blasted Marc with his soft murmur. “That one word, my friend and ally, is
sacrifice
.”