Rare Earth (7 page)

When the American went silent, Philip flipped his father's oxtail whisk. “I thank you for your reply and for your honesty, Marc Royce. You have given us much to discuss. Go in peace. Help us find a way home.”

If the American felt any offense over being dismissed, he did not show it. He and Kitra rose and departed. The silence gathered.

Philip looked around the circle, but none of the other elders chose to speak. He nodded, as though satisfied, and said to Charles, “You will go with them.”

Charles objected, “My place is here.”

“Your place is caring for the people of your church. This duty means you will accompany Marc Royce. And if he is to be trusted, you will share with him the secret.”

Charles felt the thrill race up his spine. “You will allow this man to hold the future of your people?”

“Only if he is the one of my dream.” The young-old man looked around the circle of elders, granting them the chance to object. But no one spoke. So he turned back and finished, “And only if he shows you a sign.”

Once again the chief had managed to spook him. “What sign will that be?”

Philip rose with him, a rare honor. “You will know when God tells you.”

M
arc stood just outside the camp's main gates, waiting for the chopper bringing Lodestone's chief. He squinted into the heat waves rising off the dusty earth and the bleached forest beyond, and recalled his job interview at Lodestone's Washington headquarters.

The interview had been handled by a mid-level company executive. Marc figured the guy had been hired away from the federal government. In Marc's previous line of work, they had called it the Washington side-straddle-hop. The interviewer wore an expensive jacket of some forgettable dark shade, flannel trousers, starched shirt, and crimson bow tie. He picked his way through Marc's résumé at an infuriatingly slow pace. Throughout that entire period, a second man leaned against the office's side wall and inspected Marc with a sniper's intensity.

The interviewer never introduced the second man, but from the security files Marc knew him to be Boyd Crowder. The colonel remained just beyond Marc's field of vision, inspecting Marc in silence. Two hours into the process, the bureaucrat asked why Marc was giving up the safety of Baltimore and his steady job to head off to the depths of Africa. The man managed to turn the question into a blemish on Marc's character. Marc replied that it was all there in his file.

Boyd Crowder spoke for the first time. “Forget the file,” he said. “You didn't just take aim at a job on the wild side. Something happened. I want to know what that was.”

Marc swiveled around to face this extremely tough relic of a life on the firing line. Marc replied, “A woman. And restless boredom.”

“The lady left you high and dry?”

“That's right. She did.”

Crowder showed a grim humor, until the bureaucrat found the appropriate line in Marc's file and asked, “You are recently widowed?”

“That is correct.”

Crowder's mirth faded. “How long?”

“Long enough for the empty life to gnaw at me.”

Crowder's gaze was not so much brown as copper, a hard glint that measured men with the same precision as he would a sniper's rifle. “So you think you've got what it takes for adventure.”

“Either that,” Marc replied, “or I don't have anything left to lose.”

Crowder said to the bureaucrat, “Dump him in the deep end, see if he can learn to swim against the currents.”

When they were done and Marc was leaving, he heard the interviewer tell Crowder, “This is a terrible mistake.”

“The supplier has basically ordered us to take this guy on,” Crowder said. “So we do as we're told and let Africa grind him to dust. Problem solved.”

The four Lodestone choppers landed between the pale forest and the camp's main gates. Boyd Crowder was the first man to drop to the ground. His military fatigues were tailored tight to his triangular frame, the pant legs tucked into polished black jackboots. Three white scars snaked up his left arm, and another coiled around his neck like an albino tattoo. Karl Rigby, Crowder's aide and a silent blade of a man, followed three steps back.

Crowder handed Marc a plastic briefcase and said, “A man on the move in these parts needs to be reachable twenty-four-seven. Lodestone's supplying you with a new sat phone. The number's taped on the case.”

The colonel made it sound like he was handing out medals, so Marc replied, “Thank you, sir.”

Crowder's grin was as hard as his voice. “We had a lottery going, how long it'd take Africa to eat you up. I lost. I don't like losing.”

Marc introduced Crowder to the new camp administrators. As they discussed the manifest Marc had prepared, listing the camp's most urgent requirements, Kitra stepped through the gates. She lifted her voice in order to be heard above the thrumming rotors. “Charles wants to come with us,” she told Marc.

Marc wondered why the pastor had approached her and not come to him directly, but merely nodded and said, “I'll ask.”

Crowder took in Kitra's form in three seconds flat. When Marc introduced them, Crowder said, “Your name's been flagged. Something about your brother, right?”

“Serge. Yes. Have you heard something?”

“Not a whisper. How long has he been gone?”

“Ten days.”

“No ransom demand?”

Her lip trembled, but she held herself together. “Nothing.”

Crowder dismissed his chances with a brusque shake of his head. “I'm sorry for your loss.” He turned to Marc and said, “Where's your gear, soldier?”

“By the camp gates.” Marc saw the look of bitter pain that Kitra gave the colonel before turning away. He found it difficult to keep his tone bland as he said, “The lady and the camp pastor need a lift to Nairobi.”

Crowder seemed ready to argue, but he must have detected something in Marc's gaze, for all he said was, “We lift off in five.”

The four transport choppers were adapted from their military roots, great elephantine beasts with little grace and no beauty whatsoever. Their payloads were held in place by nylon netting. Boyd Crowder directed Marc into the second seat between the cockpit and the mountains of gear. Kitra and Charles joined Crowder's aide and another soldier on fold-down seats by the bulkhead.

Once they were airborne, the volcano glowered angry and perilous, the column of smoke towering above the southwestern reaches. Crowder pointed out the chopper's front windows and said, “Kapenguria is the town at your six o'clock. Five klicks to the right is the Lenan Forest, the big rise there is the Cherangani Hills, and the Kiphunurr Forest is that stretch of green on the horizon.”

Marc tried to implant the vista on the map he had studied. “What's up farther north?”

“Nothing but more Africa.” Crowder gathered up the entire continent in one sweep of his scarred arm. “The city of Maralai sits up there on the Lorogi Plateau. The African plains begin just past the Samburu Hills and stretch all the way to the Somali desert. Which is why all the refugees are streaming this way. And the government is letting them, on account of there's only one road through the whole savannah. You know what the savannah is, Royce?”

“Plains.”

“Miles and miles of parched nothing. Drought has gripped that entire region for five years. The grass is eaten up, the rivers are dried up, and the animals are gone. From the Samburu all the way to the Suguta Valley. There's a new desert growing; they call it the Nachorugwai.”

The chopper tilted into a banked turn, revealing the main road and the swarm of refugees. Beyond that stretched an endless yellow vista. It beckoned to him, this land. Marc yearned to do more than fly over with an angry man making light of the secrets on display.

Crowder leaned closer and let the drumming motor mask his words from the others. “The government's extended the evacuation order to include all the surrounding towns—Sodang to Kitale and beyond. We've been contracted to serve as security detail. Carry out the wealth of nine towns. Clear all the banks, the warehouses, the businesses, everything.” Crowder grinned, one winner to another, totally unconcerned with the destruction or the lives lost. “There's a fortune waiting for pirates these days.”

Marc had met such soldiers on every assignment that had taken him off the grid. Warriors who had crossed the line and lost their way. They searched out places like this, beyond the reach of civilization or human dignity. Marc met Crowder's gaze and replied, “Shame we're duty-bound and honest. Isn't it, Colonel?”

The mercenary chief gave Marc a deadly grin and eased back into his seat. He flipped on his headset, said something into the microphone that caused both pilots to laugh. Marc understood the man's actions all too well. Crowder wanted nothing more to do with him. Which suited Marc just fine.

When they landed at the Red Cross camp, Crowder's men stationed themselves by the choppers and off-loaded the supplies into a snaking line of arms. The Lebanese traders emerged from their makeshift huts and glowered at the work parties. Crowder's men all wore well-pressed military fatigues and worked like automatons. Crowder stood at parade-ground rest, arms linked behind his back, and surveyed everything from a stern distance.

Marc climbed the nearest rise and stood with his back to the camp. The village where Serge had been taken was a smudge on the horizon. Behind it loomed the pillar of smoke, as though the volcano took pride in the role it had played in Serge's disappearance.

At the sound of footsteps Marc turned to find Kitra climbing up to join him. They stood in silence and studied the terrain, until a shout from below drew them back. As they descended the hill, Kitra said, “You have never lied to me, have you?”

“No, Kitra. Not once.”

“No. It is your nature to be honest. Even when it hurts.” She moved ahead of him, then said over her shoulder, “Serge often said we were the rarest of breeds, people who feel at home in situations where others fear to enter. I like that about you.”

“I wish I could have a chance to know Serge.”

“He would call you friend.” There was utter certainty in her voice. They walked back to the thrumming helicopters. As she started to climb in, she looked at him, the tragic green gaze reaching deep. “You have a good heart.”

Marc followed her into the chopper and settled in the seat beside Crowder. He was immune to the mercenary chief's hostile silence, encased as he was now in the comfort of Kitra's words.

W
hen the choppers landed at the Nairobi airport, Kitra and Charles thanked the Lodestone crew and headed for the taxi stand. Marc followed Crowder and his men to the four vehicles lined up by the hangars. The armored Tahoes were black with black windows and black leather interior, the favorite color scheme for mercs around the globe. Crowder pointed Marc into the last vehicle and joined his aide in the first SUV. Two of Crowder's men took the front seats, turned on a rock CD, cranked up the volume, and shut him out. Marc observed the city beyond the fortified glass and marveled at how it felt as though he had been up-country for years, rather than only five days.

Every place of value in Nairobi—homes and offices and factories and warehouses—was situated inside compounds. The wealthy and the powerful moved from one guarded enclave to another. If someone walked the city's streets, it meant they were either poor or tourists. Or they were looking for trouble. And usually found it. The Lodestone compound was in the city section between the airport and the Wildlife Park. The offices were located in a home dating from the colonial era, with stinkwood floors, high ceilings, and a broad front veranda. A more modern building contained the living quarters and was situated along a path that wound through the thorn trees and carefully tended gardens. The Lodestone residence contained some two dozen bedrooms, dining hall, lounge, cinema, and gym. It was an idyllic setting, intended to soothe nerves frayed by up-country stress and bad food and constant danger.

Marc dumped his gear in his assigned room, took a long shower, then headed downstairs for a meal. The kitchen was on duty twenty-four-seven, and the food was both fresh and well made. Marc ate surrounded by men who pretended he did not exist. Their exclusion did not bother him. He was well accustomed to the military mind-set, where trust was something earned in the heat of battle.

As he ate, he mentally reviewed what he knew of the Lodestone operation. Besides the newer emergency-supplies division, Lodestone managed security and armed transport for a number of the crisis groups and international camps. They also supplied short-term security for overstretched UN details. A second contingent was hired out as instructors to the local police and Kenyan army. The only point at which these divisions converged was at the top. Boyd Crowder.

Marc was pondering whether he should report back to Walton when his new satellite phone rang.

“This is Marc.”

Charles said, “We need to talk.”

“When and where?”

“We're outside the Lodestone main gates.”

The prospect of seeing Kitra again quickened his pulse. “I'm on my way.”

As Marc followed the path around the older house, he sensed trouble brewing up ahead. Voices from the front lawn carried a carnal edge, like a pack of hunting dogs braying the alert.

The first thing he saw were four men, who stood by the veranda railing, their card game forgotten. Squat clay pots smoldered to either side of the group. Smoke intended to keep mosquitoes at bay drifted about the four men in angry tendrils. The men laughed and pointed with their beer bottles at the drama on the front lawn.

A blond giant stood in the center of the lawn. He grinned at his mates and dangled Kitra from one outstretched arm. His two buddies added to the banter while one pinned Charles to the earth with his boot. Kitra saw Marc's appearance and struggled harder. She might as well have been beating her fists against a mountain.

Marc understood instantly what had happened. The giant and his two buddies had returned from the street market, where the men liked to eat impala steaks. These three were clearly too big and too dangerous for even the jaded Nairobi bandits to take on. The men liked to swagger through the streets, showing one and all who was the baddest cat in Kenya. They were also bored. They had been up-country. They had lived for days or weeks on adrenaline and gunpowder. They came back and they slept and they ate, and as soon as the batteries were charged, they were hungry for action. They laughed about being addicted to the rush of incoming fire. As though they could walk away from it at any time. But they all knew. There was no other high on earth to compare.

The giant had obviously caught sight of Kitra and Charles waiting outside the front gates. He probably said something, and Kitra had cut him down. A beautiful white woman in Nairobi learned to do this swiftly and without compromise. But this particular man did not take the dismissal well.

The giant dangled Kitra by her backpack, lifting her just high enough so that her toes drifted for a hold. Charles struggled against the boot clamping him to the grass, one hand reaching out in protest. The native guard on gate duty watched it all with fearful eyes. He looked like a miniature stick figure beside the three men on the front lawn. The guard pleaded for the giant to release her. The colonel's aide, Karl Rigby, emerged from the main house and barked an order. The giant pretended not to hear. Crowder could probably have stopped this before it got worse, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Marc stepped onto the lawn. “Let the woman go.”

The giant must have weighed in at three hundred pounds. He had the ruddy confidence of a man who was never challenged. Marc knew the kind. In-country, the man wielded a fifteen-inch carbon blade and draped his upper body with gun belts and carried a fifty-caliber monster like it was a pistol.

“Hey, if it isn't the bookkeeper!” The giant looked genuinely happy. “Lookee what we got here, boys! Lunch!”

Karl Rigby's voice was the only soft thing about him. “Dirk, do us all a favor. Let's head to the bar and—”

“You boys head on back. I'll join you directly.” Dirk jiggled Kitra like she was a sack in pastel fabric. She swatted at his arm, swung a kick, but his reach was so long she could not connect. Her face was red since her breathing was partially cut off. “The lady and I have a date. Don't we, bookkeeper?”

The best method of attack was straight ahead and without warning. But first Marc needed to have the giant release Kitra. He couldn't risk having the man punish Kitra when Marc proved more than expected. Which meant showing his hand. At least partly.

Marc closed the distance, putting himself inside the man's range of fire. “Don't make me tell you again.”

The giant took Marc's lack of fear as a direct challenge. He used his free hand to launch a massive haymaker that Marc easily ducked. He watched as Kitra's struggling weight and the man's own swing took the bully off-balance. Then Marc struck.

He slipped down to two hands and used his entire body as a fulcrum, swinging both legs in an arc so smooth the violent speed was almost invisible. He hammered the giant's knee with two blows so swift they probably felt like one.

Dirk's eyes widened in genuine shock as his leg buckled.

He fell on his injured knee and grunted with a fighter's mixture of rage and pain. But the assault had its intended effect, and Dirk was forced to release Kitra in order to take his weight on his hands. Kitra bounced hard and rolled away to safety.

Karl Rigby darted forward and dragged Kitra farther out of range. When one of the other soldiers started toward Marc, the colonel's aide barked, “Stay out of this.”

Dirk was an angry bull now, rising to full height and punching out his chest by drawing back his arms, the two ends of a human bow. “You heard the man. This is my song. Come on, bookkeeper. You asked for it. Let's dance.”

But Marc was already moving.

He knew the giant was still coming to terms with the fact that this lesser mortal would take him on. A man of Dirk's size attacked the world on his terms. Which was why Marc did not wait. Speed was his only chance.

He darted in and planted two blows, one to the heart and the other to the neck. There was a nerve ganglion just beneath the jaw, and striking it sent an electric current through the brain and upper body. The effect did not last long, there and gone in the space of half a heartbeat. Which made the electric flash all the more stunning. Experiencing the uncontrolled current race through the body and disappear caused most attackers to turn and run. Instead, Dirk grunted a second time and shook it off.

Dirk was faster than a big man should have been, but Marc had been expecting this. Colonel Crowder might be many things, but he was undoubtedly a good judge of men. And Lodestone paid enough to let him choose the best. Dirk almost caught Marc's cheekbone with a powerful left jab. Marc ducked again and weaved back inside, the last thing the giant expected. Marc hit the heart again and the neck. Then slipped down to the ground.

American training stressed the need to remain upright and in control. Eastern combat taught that any position was favorable, so long as the balance was tilted away from the opponent. And the bigger the enemy, the more every possible avenue had to be utilized.

Marc balanced his weight on his shoulder blades and kicked up, two stabs as fast as his hands, both blows aimed at Dirk's heart. The ribs gave somewhat—not even muscles hard as Dirk's could shrug off two direct kicks. Dirk gave out a drumbeat of sound, a lion's rugged cough. He tried to stomp down on Marc, but Marc was already scuttling away, crablike and fast.

Dirk roared with genuine fury and leaped.

Marc knew the man expected him to run. But there was another tactic in Eastern disciplines where a rise from the floor is turned into an offensive rebalance. The body ripples, like wind ruffling a sail, and whips the individual back to his feet. The movement unfolds from that into a full-body strike, like an uncoiling snake, leaping up and into the blow with impossible grace. Marc trained for three years before he could attain the smoothness required to go from prone to strike without pause.

Dirk saw the hands moving toward him and tried to backpedal. His unconscious response was drawn from a newfound respect and the way his heart now beat out of sync. But Marc was already closing. Two more strikes to the neck and the heart. Then dancing back out of range.

This time Dirk slowed. He gasped for air and weaved, trying to shake off the constriction to his breathing and how his heart no longer obeyed his need for power.

Marc struck again. Two more blows. Then a swinging kick that had him leaping up so far he kicked down upon the man's head.

Dirk fell and did not move.

“Hold!”

Marc swung about, only to find the four men on the veranda frozen in place midway between their table and the front stairs. The colonel's aide had one fist planted in the chest of the third man, while his other hand took aim at the two men on the front lawn. Karl Rigby snarled, “This is not your fight. And this
is
a
direct command
. Retreat in good order.”

Marc nodded his thanks to the aide and turned to Kitra. “Are you all right?”

“I think so, yes.” Her gaze darted between Dirk on the ground and Marc. “That was—”

“You and Charles get out of here. Now. Call me tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Go.”