The Chimera Sequence (2 page)

He watched his men—really only teenagers—struggle to unload the painted blue iron drums from the truck. Each one weighed over a hundred pounds, and their shape made it hard to handle them delicately. But delicacy was exactly what was needed, in more ways than one. They arranged the eight drums in two rows and then waited.

“You realize of course that any trickery is easily detected in this business,” the buyer said. “We will screen each drum here, but the conclusive tests will be done at our final destination.”

The stocky man pulled a black device with a small LCD screen out of the inside of his jacket. Odhiambo turned his head slightly toward Lukwiya and whispered in their native Acholi, “Now you will regret it.”

The man stooped to scan the first drum from top to bottom, nodding slightly as he scrolled through numbers on the screen. Odhiambo watched every movement with growing dread. He knew they shouldn’t have tried their old game of skimming off the top with this deal, but Lukwiya had convinced him otherwise. How could he really have believed his friend’s vain promises about coming out on top, profit in hand and finally able to leave this life behind?

The others stood silently as they observed the man move from one drum to the next. Five done, and apparently passed the test. Now he paused and swept the device again along the side of the sixth drum. He turned to look at the leader and shook his head as he stepped toward him.

“So, you thought it might be so easy to fool us?” The tall man took the device and motioned with his other hand for Odhiambo to come to him. “Let me show you the problem.”

Odhiambo stepped forward and peered into the glowing screen. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for, but he wasn’t about to admit that now.

It happened in an instant. Vincent Lukwiya saw the leader turn slightly, his head moving in an almost imperceptible nod. Behind him, the stockier man pulled a SIG P226 from his belt and fired straight into the back of Odhiambo’s head from five feet away. A soft whoosh from the silenced pistol was accompanied by the simultaneous impact of the bullet with his friend’s skull. It burst open, sending fragments of bone and brain in every direction, while his body stumbled forward and fell hard against one of the iron drums.

Lukwiya jumped forward, reaching for his own hidden weapon, when a blinding spotlight caught him in its beam.

“Don’t move!” shouted the tall man.

Shading his eyes from the bright light, the veteran fighter looked around and saw ten more men stepping out from the shipping containers, their assault rifles trained on him. Two of his own had managed to pull their pistols but dropped them just as quickly. They all knew resistance would be worthless.

“Now, shall we continue?” The leader picked up the measuring device and handed it to his partner. “You should know that we do not tolerate cheating in our business arrangements. I thought I had made that clear to your boss.”

The stocky man finished scanning and said something incomprehensible to the others.

“At least only one of them needs to die today.” The leader motioned to Lukwiya with his weapon. “You should go now. Payment will be arranged if we find the product satisfactory for our needs.”

“That is not what we agreed to.” Lukwiya spoke through gritted teeth, fighting back the blend of shock and hatred that surged inside him. Any last chance of self-preservation depended on his ability to keep himself under control. “Half the money here and half later.”

“Yes, but that was before you broke the terms of this agreement. I’m not sure your jungle prophet really understood who he was doing business with, but I think he will soon realize just where he stands. Now leave before we must provide any further encouragement.”

Vincent Lukwiya had never been forced to acknowledge defeat so clearly. He was not stupid, though.

“Get the body,” he muttered, jogging back to the old Land Rover.

A minute later, the two vehicles had left the port and were speeding south down the dark coastal highway, back into the heart of Africa.

You gents ready for this?” Marna Van Wyk could barely hear her own voice over the Eurocopter AS350’s thumping rotors. “We’re heading in!”

The anticipation was killing her. After weeks of delays due to the increased rebel fighting on the ground, they had finally crossed the border and were flying over Virunga National Park. It wasn’t just the oldest park in Africa, but one of the best. What would her parents think of that? Quite a claim, coming from the girl who had grown up right in Kruger’s backyard.

Marna watched the landscape unfold beneath her in total awe. The immense cones of eight ancient volcanoes broke through a rumpled blanket of thick green forest, and her eyes were instantly drawn to a white river of smoke streaming from Nyiragongo’s active volcanic crater.
Better hope the wind doesn’t shift in our direction.
She could just make out Goma’s sprawling slums clinging miserably to the edges of Lake Kivu far to her left. What a godforsaken little city that was, ruined over the years by a constant cycle of disasters in every flavor. Stretching out in the foreground, the change in vegetation marking the border of the park was coming into view, revealing the patchwork of tiny fields and tin-roofed huts that made up the villages on the other side.

“Okay, I see it!” she shouted, looking toward a small clearing in the forest below them. Marna brought the helicopter down quickly, but she knew her practiced touch on the controls meant her passengers would barely feel the rapid twisting descent. She loved everything about her job, and it didn’t hurt that she was so damned good at it. Perched just above the jungle canopy, she made a split-second assessment that the clearing would accommodate them, if only by a hair, and continued down.

The noise increased to a deafening roar as displaced air tore through thick foliage, sending a vibrant green storm of leaves, vines, and branches out in all directions. Finally, her giant dragonfly of a machine hovered for a moment before settling down to rest in the brushy undergrowth.

As the rotor blades slowed, Marna checked her mirror just in time to see Bonny’s lanky red and brown body leaping out of the helicopter’s open hatch. She couldn’t help but smile as the bloodhound’s ridiculously long ears opened in mid-air like Dumbo reincarnate. Thick loose folds of skin slid forward with the impact of those massive front paws on the ground, then rebounded, quivering, back into position. Two thin men in olive fatigues and black rubber boots followed immediately behind the dog. Innocence and Proper Kambale, brothers and career Virunga rangers, swung their AK-47s into the ready position and pushed into waist-high vegetation.

The Kambale brothers had pointed to the clearing as they circled over the forested flanks of the extinct Mount Mikeno, recognizing a favorite old spot for a cool drink and debrief with tourists high off their first gorilla sightings. The clearing was born years earlier, with the cutting of an ancient hardwood for charcoal production, but it was overgrown now and quickly on its way to being completely reclaimed by the encroaching jungle. This park had been a home to the brothers for thirty tumultuous years, and Marna watched them drink in its verdant air anticipating a familiar recognition.

The disturbed glance said it all. Something was off. Marna smelled it too, a faint tanginess mixing weakly with the dissipating fumes of the engine.

“What’s that stench?” The distinct male voice came from right behind her, still inside the helicopter. His accent was an almost neutral American, just slightly affected by a hint of rural drawl.

Cole McBride.

Only three months since she’d first met this crazy wildlife veterinarian, and he had already won every competition for sending the most confusing romantic signals ever. But that was not her concern today.

“Could an elephant have wandered up this far to die?” he continued.

“You smell it too?” Marna asked.

“Yes, something has died here.” Innocence Kambale turned back at the edge of the clearing, struggling to pull a determined Bonny out of the brush. She was onto something. The Virunga bloodhounds were trained to track both individual human scents and generic dead animal odor—useful for finding both the poachers and the poached. “Very close.”

Marna swung her door open and leaned out of the pilot’s seat. Behind her, Cole appeared in the open hatch before jumping smoothly into the knee-high vegetation. He was just over six feet tall and well proportioned for his height, not too gangly but not a bulked up bodybuilder either. She’d had her fill of that type down in Joburg—rich Afrikaner guys who had nothing better to do than spend all day in the gym. But Cole was different. Decked out in rugged hiking boots, dark khaki pants, and a faded plaid button-down, he looked as if he could have stepped right off the pages of
Outside
magazine. The overgrown hair and closely cropped beard served to complete the picture. Not that she’d ever tell him so—his head was big enough already.

Yes, he wasn’t only smart, but quite nice to look at, too.

And he knew it.

The Eurocopter’s mechanical roar had now been replaced by the screeching and scolding of an assortment of birds and small primates still upset by this monster’s invasion. Cole looked up into the trees and caught a flash of orangey-brown fur high in the canopy.

“At least the golden monkeys are alive and well,” he said, bringing a pair of binoculars up to his eyes. After a few seconds’ observation, though, he wasn’t so sure. These dachshund-sized little balls of energy normally spent the majority of their time further down the slopes where their favorite meal of bamboo grew more abundantly.
Why are they way up here?
It looked like there were only about ten of them bouncing around in the branches, when normally this group had over sixty individuals. Some of the gorilla trackers had been working on habituating the family before last year’s flare up of violence, so it had been quite a while since the monkeys had seen any friendly human faces.

A quick burst of popping machine gun fire rang out from slopes below, silencing them momentarily. After a second’s pause, the animals’ screaming started up at an even higher volume than before.
That probably has something to do with it.
Cole hoisted a large backpack out of the helicopter’s open bay and settled it onto his shoulders.

“Doesn’t sound like we have much time for exploring.” Marna hopped out of the cockpit, then turned to rub a hand affectionately against the helicopter’s shiny green finish. “You guys know I can’t risk damaging this little beauty!”

“What,” Cole said, “you’re worried she can’t handle an adventure?”

He knew the Eurocopter’s thin fiberglass fuselage wouldn’t stand much of a chance under fire, unlike the armored skins of the Blackhawks and Chinooks he was used to flying around in. But no reason to get Marna more worried than she already was. This early morning excursion across the border was not exactly internationally sanctioned, and he was fully aware of the potential repercussions of being apprehended by one of the rebel groups camping out in the park. Cole swore under his breath as he imagined what might be in store for Marna as the only woman on this somewhat reckless outing. The odds of coming away from a confrontation unharmed were not in her favor. Maybe the politically savvy warlords would understand her value as a bargaining chip, but those teenage foot soldiers high on superglue would have only one thing on their minds.

“Oh she’d do just fine, thank you very much,” Marna said. “It’s just that this two million dollar flying machine is technically still on loan from South African National Parks, and she’s definitely not supposed to be in the Congo this morning. Don’t want to take any chances.”

“I gotcha, don’t you worry.” Cole looked back into the helicopter for the final member of their group. “What do you think, doc?”

“Just loading the last dart.”

Dr. Antoine Musamba’s stocky frame was hunched over a large backpack full of the expedition’s medical supplies, the Pneu-Dart 389 tranquilizing rifle already slung over one shoulder. He pushed a fogged up pair of wire-rimmed glasses onto the top of his smooth bald head, adding to the aura of intense concentration. Cole watched as he injected a potent combination of two anesthetic drugs, tiletamine and zolazepam, into a long silver dart. He knew the cocktail would quickly and safely immobilize a five-hundred pound full-grown silverback, and that Musamba would already have other darts in the backpack pre-loaded with the right volumes for average adult females and juvenile gorillas. The Congo-based veterinarian for the Gorilla Doctors—the organization hosting Cole in central Africa—was an expert in the field anesthesia of large primates, his skills developed over many years working among these volcanoes.

Musamba started putting the filled dart into its carrying case, but then paused, letting the rifle swing down off his shoulder.

“Always ready, right?” Cole said.

“Exactly.” Musamba loaded the powerful dart into the rifle and climbed out of the helicopter. “Let’s get going.”