Rare Earth

by Davis Bunn

  They had landed eight miles away and hoofed it back. Marc went forward with two spotters, taking utmost care not to be seen. Their first glimpse confirmed what they had sighted from the air. The facility melded with the ash-covered landscape. The open-air parking areas and supply depots were draped with tent canvas. The buildings were painted the same pale wash as the surrounding region.

  Marc had held them there, scarcely breathing, until he had spotted the first Chinese. The man had emerged from a door Marc had not even noticed until it opened. The man had been deep in conversation with Frederick Uhuru.

  They had made camp in the neighboring ghost town. Then as now, heat baked the road leading out to the extraction facility. Throughout the two nights since their arrival, they had listened to trucks rumbling down the road, delivering the earth that was not theirs to claim.

  The town was silent in a way that made the emptiness even greater. They had been waiting there for all of one day and part of another while Kamal returned to the depot for trucks and then traveled to the refugee camp, and the two choppers had been sent back to Nairobi. All part of the greater plan, which was now on the verge of unfolding.

  Marc heard Deb’s voice from the next room. He assumed she was catching it again from Walton. Once more Marc gave silent thanks for this woman being brought into his orbit. Walton was obviously facing a lot of pressure at his end. The ambassador’s natural tendency was to pass it down the line. Ever since Washington had identified the soldiers they had captured and photographed in the camp, Walton had been pushing them. Marc could understand why. But everything depended on holding tight a little longer. Which was why Deb was on the line and not Marc. He was determined to keep a firm distance between himself and the frustration boiling over in D.C.

  The troops they had captured at the camp were indeed Lodestone operatives. But they had been drawn from the Angola contingent and slipped secretly across the border. Marc had expected something like this. Crowder and Rigby, however, had bristled at the news. They had counted the Angola directors as trusted friends.

  Not anymore.

  Walton and the UN security chief had both gone into low-altitude orbit at the revelation. This cross-border operation violated international agreements, UN mandates, and the laws of three nations. Walton’s superiors in Washington wanted to strike and strike hard. But Deb had done a masterful job of relaying Marc’s refusal, and talking them down. At the moment, all Lodestone knew was that their Angolan troops had gone missing while clearing out a camp. They had no evidence tying this to anything other than locals defending their own. They might suspect Crowder and Marc were back and playing a role, but they had no proof.

  And that was what it was all about, Marc had instructed Deb to tell Walton. Proof.

  If they arrived with warrants at Lodestone’s Washington headquarters, the Chinese would hear and roll up their operatives and flee. Deny everything. Go through official channels and apply for legal permits to extract and process rare earth. Grease the palms of their allies in Nairobi and New York. And win it all.

  That was not going to happen.

  Marc turned as Deb knocked on his open door. Like all his team, she wore a surgical mask. They had requisitioned six cases of these back at the depot to protect from the ash. Deb’s voice was slightly muffled as she said, “Walton can’t last much longer. I’m thinking stroke and seizure and heart attack, all within the next couple of hours.”

  Marc asked, “The elders are gathered?”

  “Both from the camp and Kibera.”

  “What about Kamal and Crowder and their teams?”

  “Fully prepped. Safeties off. Green light.”

  “The trucks?”

  “Refueled and ready to roll.”

  Marc stared a moment longer at the dust drifting down the street. The ash was lifting higher now, up to where it could rattle against his window. “It’s time.”

  She brightened. “Can I be the one to tell Walton?”

  “Do it.”

  She started from the room, then turned back to ask, “What has changed?”

  Marc replied, “The wind.”

  They gathered in the warehouse behind Marc’s temporary office. The vast structure had been used for roasting coffee and packing spices. The building was the largest and certainly the cleanest of those they had searched. Even when crammed with a startling mix of humanity, Marc could still smell the roasted beans and vanilla and thyme. It was a heady, exhilarating blend.

  The main hall was probably a hundred and fifty feet long and forty wide. High louvered windows opened on pulley chains. The ones along the windward wall were shut, which meant the air was close and hot. A sizeable crowd drawn from the refugee camp and from Kibera milled about, most of them wearing the masks.

  The elders were grouped in a semicircle beneath the open windows on the building’s far side. They had selected which ones would be brought in—from Nairobi by way of the requisitioned choppers, and from the camp by trucks. The two sets of elders were all seated on small stools, the elders from Kibera intermingled with those from the refugee camp. A gentle snow of ash filtered down, flaking their heads and shoulders. The elders did not brush it away. They watched motionless as Marc approached.

  Marc stopped in front of them. He felt the pressure mount, but still he waited. He could observe them with a singular clarity, and he saw a depth to them that he was only beginning to fathom. They had waited for weeks and months and years as all their world had been stripped away and their clans relegated to slums and camps. They had waited while governments and bureaucrats had lied and deceived and let them down.

  The entire warehouse was silent now. Waiting.

  Marc removed his mask so his voice would carry. “The danger is very great,” he began. “But the time has come for us to act.”

  From his position behind the elders, Charles translated. His voice resonated and echoed through the vast hold.

  “Our plan is a good one.” Marc went on.“If we’re successful, this will result in an international public outcry, one large enough to force the proper governments to respond. Our aims are twofold. First, to find you new villages. Second, to peacefully resolve the rare-earth crisis in a way that benefits us all.”

  The people did not speak or move. The only sound was the gentle sigh of falling ash. Marc finished, “I would be grateful if we could all join together and pray.”

  Philip’s uncle rose slowly from his stool. Oyango stepped forward so that he stood midway between the elders and Marc. He addressed the people in his own tongue. When Charles started to translate, Philip rose and motioned to the pastor that he would do the English translation himself. Philip stepped forward to stand beside his uncle. He lifted his voice, matching Oyango’s fierce power. “We will pray for you, for our success and for our future! Not many futures for many tribes, but one future, and for one nation bound together by our God. The same God who waits for us to call upon him! The same power that brought victory to Joshua! The same power that destroyed the walls of Jericho!”

  Oyango settled a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. Together they continued to speak, one in Swahili, the other in English, “We will march forth armed with God’s might—the same power that restored my soul! The same power that spoke through to my nephew through dreams. The same power that promises us a green and verdant land.”

  Oyango wheeled about and aimed his ceremonial staff at Marc. “Shujaa!”

  The crowd echoed back its shout, “Shujaa!”

  “He is the mashujaa wa Mungu. The hero of God. He is called as we are called,” Philip said in Swahili, then in English.

  The crowd roared again.

  Oyango now placed his hand on Marc’s shoulder, an act of benediction that burned like fire through his soul. The man cried out some phrases in Swahili, and afterward Philip followed with, “Go forth, Mashujaa wa Mungu, and remember that God’s power is with you. And with us all!”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  I don’t like moving forward u
narmed,” Crowder complained. “Not one bit.”

  Marc did not respond. On his other side, Charles followed Marc’s lead and remained silent. There was nothing to say.

  “I might as well walk down this road without my boots on,” Crowder said.

  Their footfalls made no sound. Somewhere below the inch or so of ash was a road of gravel and old asphalt. Marc walked in furrows laid down by numerous trucks. His stomach growled. They had subsisted on energy bars and cold C-Rations since their arrival. Marc had not wanted any odor of cooking to alert the enemy. He was full but never satisfied. And everything tasted of ash. What was more, he was always thirsty. The ash sucked the moisture from his skin, his eyes, his breath.

  He approached gates fortified with steel crossbars and coils of razor wire. To either side rose claxons mounted on concrete stanchions. But Marc was aware of only one thing. He felt a growing sense of anticipation. An electric current surged through his body, a fierce power propelling him forward.

  Up ahead was humming and hidden activity. Otherwise there was nothing. No life, no sound.

  Marc halted.

  Crowder demanded, “What is it?”

  “The wind has stopped.”

  “Is that bad?”

  He hesitated, then decided, “Not so long as the ash keeps falling.” He spared a glance upward. There was no sky. Only the seamless gray blanket and the false dusk and the gritty snow. He continued on. “Try your comm link.”

  “I already did. We’ve got nothing but static. Which means we can’t get hold of backup if things go south.” Crowder kicked the ash at his feet. “This is nuts. We’re totally exposed.”

  Marc knew Crowder was just letting off steam. He asked Charles, “You okay?”

  “What is it you soldiers say, in the green?”

  Crowder snorted. “Shows how much you know, preacher boy.”

  “I know I am surrounded by miracles, soldier man.”

  Marc asked the colonel, “When was the last time you went into action without a weapon?”

  “Never, that’s when. Which is why I’m here to talk about it. My momma wasn’t big on stupid.” He caught the grin Marc shared with Charles. “I say something funny?”

  “No, it’s just, I’m glad you two are here with me. Finally doing this.”

  “All in God’s time,” Charles said. “The words have been ringing my chimes for hours now. And God’s time, it has come.”

  Crowder didn’t say anything more until they arrived at the gates. “What now? I don’t see a doorbell.”

  “We’ll give them five minutes,” Marc said.

  But they only needed two.

  Frederick Uhuru appeared through the veil of falling ash.

  The rogue UN executive suited this region of isolation and empty death. He was the kind of man who made friends of the silence and the absence of light. He even seemed comfortable with the volcano and the smoke. He wore no mask. His grin was tight and angry. He dismissed Charles with a snort of derision, then said to Marc, “You, I can understand. The Western idealist. The one who thinks he will find a reason for his empty days. Here, in darkest Africa.” Uhuru turned the last two words into a mockery: dahkest Ahfrica.

  Marc said, “Open the gates.”

  Uhuru sneered and turned to Crowder. “You, I do not understand. You have the experience. You have fought many battles. Why did you come, I wonder? Perhaps you are tired of the struggle. Is that it? Do you seek the bullet etched with your name? So you accompany this idiot with his futile cause?”

  Crowder replied, “I’ve come for the bodies of my men.”

  Uhuru squinted, confused. “There are no bodies here.”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to settle for you.” Crowder stepped forward. “I’m making a citizen’s arrest.”

  Uhuru turned and barked over his shoulder. The falling ash parted a second time to reveal Uhuru’s gunman, the slash-eared killer who had threatened the Kibera elders.

  Uhuru turned back and said, “You forget how close you are to death here. And you, my foolish Western friend, you will never have a chance to learn.”

  Marc said, “The United Nations security chief has been alerted to your actions. And the White House. Your operations are to be shut down and—”

  “My actions are only starting. The Chinese dominate the trade in rare earth. It is theirs. And I am their ally.”

  “You’re finished.”

  “No, no, my stupid boy. You are the one who is finished. You will fall and be buried and forgotten. My allies and I will fly out. When the noise dies off, we will return—”

  “You can’t leave.”

  “Your threats are empty as your head. We will leave today and come in force tomorrow. But not before we dispose of you. You think you will shoot our helicopters from the sky and ignite an international incident?”

  “I don’t have to.” Marc lifted a hand to the day. “The ash will do it for me.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Check with your pilots. They won’t take off. Five minutes in the air and their manifolds will be clogged.”

  “This is absurd. And it is over.” Uhuru turned to his gunman. “Kill them.”

  Then it happened.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The sound started with a single voice.

  Oyango half sang, half shouted the words. He called from behind the nearest ruins, beyond the slender river that ran black and putrid by the right-hand fence. The storm and the stillness seemed to open for this one voice. The tone was not softened by the ash. Instead, it was magnified. It went on and on. It grew louder with each passing second.

  Oyango’s final word ended in a long drawn-out hum. When he finally went silent, the response came from all around them.

  Yebo. Affirmative. More than yes. A unified declaration. Yebo.

  Oyango spoke again, only this time the words were shouted by two voices. Oyango on the hill to Marc’s right, Philip to his left. The half-sung words lasted maybe thirty seconds.

  Yebo.

  The assassin weaved about, aiming his gun at ghosts.

  Uhuru demanded, “What is this nonsense?”

  The third time Charles joined in as well. As did a hundred other throats. Or perhaps twenty thousand, who could tell?

  Marc knew what they were saying because Charles had told them as they left the warehouse. The words came from the third chapter of Joshua, “This is how you will know that the living God is among you.”

  Yebo.

  Then silence. Even the humming inside the encampment was gone.

  “Open the gates,” Marc said.

  “Get away from here!” Uhuru spun around and yelled at his gunman. Or rather, he tried. For at that moment the heavens were split by a blast of sound, a detonation that shook the earth, or so it seemed to Marc. Uhuru and his assassin cowered down, heads covered by their hands. And then the sound struck again.

  All around them, the villagers came into view. The numbers were no longer important. The falling ash magnified their numbers and heightened the moment’s intensity. Each of them carried long, slender instruments made of plastic. They were called vuvuzellas, infamous noisemakers that disrupted soccer matches and political gatherings across the continent. Marc was aware of all this, and yet down deep, beneath the veneer of modern logic, he saw something else entirely. He witnessed a multitude beyond count, all of them armed by a force that turned their puny instruments into a conduit for holy might. And divine vengeance.

  Marc’s entire being resonated with the next trumpet sound.

  He watched the people begin to march. They moved about the encampment, snaking through the ruins and the poisoned stream and the slag heap. Blowing their vuvuzellas as they marched. The falling ash turned them into spectral shapes, making it seem as though a hundred thousand others had joined them. That was true of their noise as well. As though they were no longer the source of the sound. As though it were not a sound at all.

  It was power.

  It surr
ounded. It assaulted. It dominated. There was room for nothing else.

  Up and down the encampment’s central lane, the doors opened and people spilled out. The Chinese wore distinctive jumpsuits of pale blue. They rushed over and clustered by the open-sided warehouse containing the four transport choppers. They shouted and screamed and waved their arms. The pilots shrugged and pointed, first at their engines and then at the falling ash. They could not fly.

  Then the earth joined in the blasting, resonating din.

  That was how it seemed to Marc, like the earth had decided to sound its own trumpet.

  The volcano expelled a massive blast of flame. The fire shot up, spearing the clouds overhead. And then a seam opened, which spilled a river of fire. Straight toward them.

  The Chinese technicians quite literally freaked out.

  They poured over Uhuru and his gunman. They clawed at the gates. There were so many of them, they could not work the gates’ lock.

  Marc did not care whether they could hear him or not. He shouted, “You are all under arrest.”

  As soon as the gates opened and the tide of blue-suited Chinese started pressing forward, Levi and Karl Rigby and a team drawn from Crowder’s and Kamal’s men rose from their hiding places beyond the first trench. Levi was the first inside the gates, followed swiftly by Marc. Crowder and Kamal directed their team to snare the fleeing Chinese, wheel them about, and lash them with plastic ties.

  Levi shoved his way through. Marc ran at his side. He had to force the name from his constricted throat.

  “Kitra.”

  They found her in the fifth building they searched.

  The medical unit was jammed with extremely ill patients. Kitra and Serge and a local doctor worked the rows. They rose from their positions over various beds with weary reluctance, as though they had heard neither the trumpets nor the eruption.

  Levi embraced his daughter first because she was closer. Marc stood just inside the doorway, halted by the swell of emotions.

  Serge was a taller version of his father. But his broad shoulders were supported by a rail-thin frame, and his face looked almost skeletal. Deep plum-colored patches were dug into the skin beneath his eyes. He watched his father and did not move or wipe the tears streaming down his own face.