African Ice

by Jeff Buick

  The previous team had kept him in the dark as to the exact location, without him being aware. By the time he found out they had tricked him, the last of the team was dead and the secret died with him. He cursed the secretive nature of geologists and wondered why they continued to deceive him. He was positive that he portrayed the correct image: a businessman committed to the highest level of integrity in his search to open new geological territory. But if his team leaders bought the front he put on, why did they consistently try to keep the true location from him? Somehow, they must suspect he had another agenda. But how?

  He arrived at the seventh tee and accepted his driver from his caddy. His birdie on the previous hole allowed him the honors, and he teed the ball up and then looked down the fairway of the monstrous six-hundred-yard par five. He addressed the ball, but his mind was on diamonds, not golf. The first team he had sent in, years ago, had been the most prolific to date. They had provided him with immense personal wealth, but the head geologist had refused to disclose the source of the diamonds for fear the area would be ravaged by improper mining methods and vast acres of virgin jungle destroyed. He had refused to divulge the location and had paid dearly for his treason. The next two years had proved frustrating as Kerrigan had tried to locate the source himself. He had finally quit the exercise, admitting that he was not a field geologist of any merit. Another team was created and dispatched to the Congo, given the seventy-square-mile grid that the first team had offered. Two months of intensive prospecting had resulted in a phone call. The chief geologist told him that they had found the source. But then the man had pulled the same crap the first team had, by refusing to reveal the exact location. Kerrigan had gone ballistic on the man, insisting that he cough up the information immediately.

  The geologist insisted that the area was environmentally fragile, and that he did not want it destroyed by haphazard mining practices. He wanted assurances from Gem-Star that the excavation would be handled with kid gloves. Kerrigan had insisted he would personally work with the production crews and the Congolese government to ensure the safety of the find, but with each word he spoke, the man grew more withdrawn and untrusting. Finally, Kerrigan had made a choice. He ordered the team back to Butembo and dispersed the guides. He flew into the African city and tried to talk directly to his team leader. It went nowhere. Garret Shaw was called in and the geologist suffered a fatal accident. That was the end of his second team. Again, he spent time in the jungle trying to locate the vein himself. Nothing.

  He returned to New York a possessed man. Incredible wealth was so close, yet he could not get his hands on it. And the CEO of his company, Davis Perth, was getting suspicious. Gem-Star was active in seven different countries worldwide, but only one of those was Africa. He was spending a disproportionate amount of his time in Africa and the home office was asking why. He couldn’t risk elevating Perth’s suspicions any further by returning to the Ruwenzori, so he put together a third team. This time, he chose the head geologist carefully. High ideals and integrity were out the window. He wanted someone who would quickly trade the location for a decent payoff. Everything went well until the unethical team leader located the vein and realized what it was worth. The slimeball had insisted on fifty percent, and was unwavering. Kerrigan spent a day agonizing over what to do.

  He knew the location of the team’s final base camp, and the approximate distance they were traveling each day to reach the diamonds. He could narrow it down to less than two square miles. Surely to God, he could find the pipe in such a small section of jungle. In a fit of rage, he unleashed Mugumba’s troops and the team had ceased to exist. Once again, he traded the concrete of New York for the jungles of the Congo in his search for the diamonds. But again, the formation continued to elude him. He seemed destined for failure, and after three weeks of intensive searching, he left the wilds and returned to New York to put together a fourth team. The one that now stood on the threshold of perhaps the richest diamond strike ever.

  He kept his eye on the ball and started into his backswing. The last thought he had, before he crushed the ball three hundred yards straight down the center of the fairway, was that this team would provide him what he wanted. Then they would die.

  Liam O’Donnell surveyed the eclectic group of mercenaries that filled the small room in the rear of the Belfast pub. The curtains were drawn, and a bit of ambient noise was all that filtered in from the busy barroom. The seven hired killers were invisible to the good Irish folk who enjoyed their nightly pints only a few feet away. What O’Donnell saw, he liked. Five of the six he knew from his stint with British intelligence and the sixth came highly recommended through an IRA friend he trusted explicitly. He raised his pint of bitter and toasted the men.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, “for the next month, we’re a team. To a man, we are guaranteed at least five thousand pounds. That’s what I’m paying for you to be on call. If we need to leave Ireland, the sum doubles. If we travel to Africa, tack on an additional five thousand. And if we see any action while there, an additional ten. As well, all your expenses will be covered, including travel costs, hotels, meals, drinks and even women, if we have time. If we are successful in terminating our target, an additional five.” O’Donnell saw the faces and knew the men were doing the math—he saved them the trouble. “That’s thirty thousand quid if it goes all the way and you make it back alive.”

  “What’s the target?” one of the men asked. He looked almost disinterested.

  “Four men and one woman. There may be some collateral targets, but nothing of any talent.”

  “Where in Africa?” another man asked, his finger tracing a jagged scar that ran the length of his right cheek.

  “Democratic Republic of Congo,” Liam answered, then raised his hands to the groans that permeated the room. “We’ll charter in and land close to the target at a small city called Butembo. Three days in from there, providing our people aren’t on the move.”

  “Why don’t we sit back and wait for them to leave? That place is a shit hole. I spent some time there on a job for Andres the Frenchman.”

  “That’s a possibility. They may get out before we can fly in. Our employer is keeping good tabs on them. I don’t think we’ll lose them. We hope they’ll head back for Europe or at least northern Africa and we can take them out somewhere a bit more hospitable.”

  “Weapons?” a third man asked.

  “Taken care of. You bring nothing but your talent to this one.”

  “You mentioned four men and a woman. What level of skill are we up against?”

  “The guys are ex-SEALs. The woman is a nobody—a geologist.” O’Donnell withdrew some glossy pictures from a large brown envelope and pinned them to the wall. Each eight-by-ten featured a facial shot of McNeil and his team. The photo of Samantha was taken from a distance with a zoom lens, and showed her entire body. She was standing on a street corner in New York waiting for a light, dressed in her morning jogging clothes. Most of the men stirred in their chairs when O’Donnell pinned up her picture.

  “If you can take her alive, you can have her for a day or two. Then she dies.” A contented murmur stole across the room, and O’Donnell knew from their expressions that these men wanted the battle. Collecting money to sit around and wait was okay, but each ex-MI5 member in the room preferred to earn his money the old-fashioned way—by killing people. He wrapped up the meeting and the group joined the regular folk in the front of the pub. Drinks were ordered and put away in record time. The thought of killing four highly trained Americans and raping a beautiful woman was enough to work up a real thirst.

  TWELVE

  Half the equipment had been ferried across Dan’s precipice when the bridge began to fail. McNeil could see the vines he had interwoven with the original structure starting to slip. The knots were still tight and holding, but the added weight of the armaments was too much for the freshly cut strands. He stopped the flow of porters and tested the span’s strength. He identified a few crucial weak spots
, ordered the porters to cut more vines, and lashed them to the bridge where necessary. The repairs took a while, and it was almost two hours before the trickle of men and equipment restarted the short but arduous trek.

  Samantha lounged in the shade of a giant Phrynium, pulling gently at the fresh shoots emanating from the gnarled trunk. This was gorilla country; they loved the new growth on the ancient trees. She had seen signs of recent gorilla activity in the area as they moved steadily east into the more rugged highlands bordering the Ruwenzori. Actually seeing a gorilla was another story; they were incredibly secretive and able to move through the jungle with hardly a sound. She jerked slightly, startled, as Travis appeared around the tree.

  “Hi,” he said, his tone upbeat. “What are you doing over here all by yourself?”

  “Thinking.” She smiled back. “Just thinking about how beautiful this country is, and what a tragedy it’s so poorly managed. If just once a government that wasn’t totally corrupt could come to power and stay in power, this country could be prosperous. Aside from diamonds, they’ve got gold, cobalt, copper and zinc. Christ, back when the Congo was called Zaire, they were the largest producer of cobalt in the world. Gecamines was a huge mining company that ran at a profit for years, but eventually government greed collapsed it and the military looted the mine sites. Expatriates took off, and without skilled labor the whole industry collapsed.”

  “Sounds like they shot themselves in the foot.”

  “No kidding. But it all comes back to the government. If they hadn’t put such a financial drain on the company, Gecamines would still be around. They were far from lily white, but at least they employed people.”

  “You really love Africa, don’t you?” he asked, handing her a bottle of water.

  She accepted the offering and took a long drink. “I guess I do,” she said slowly. “It is beautiful. Sometimes I think I feel more at home here than I do back in the States. I just wish I could do something, anything, to help.” She smiled at him—not a happy smile, but a resigned one. She held out the water and as he took it their hands touched. Neither moved for a moment and energy seemed to flow between them. She withdrew her hand. “How are things at the bridge?”

  “It’s holding for now, but I don’t know that we’ll get everything across. I separated out the most important things, like your communication equipment and mining gear, and had the porters take that across first. Then the weapons. I should get back and see if everything’s okay.”

  She nodded and stood up with him. They walked together back to the bridge and he surveyed the scene. Only six boxes remained on the near side of the chasm, the rest successfully moved across. Three of the six were ammunition and extremely heavy. He reinspected the bridge, giving careful attention to the vines that attached the span to the anchoring trees. He nodded his approval and motioned for the next porter to cross. The man hoisted one of the ammunition boxes and gingerly stepped onto the narrow cut of wood that served as the walkway. The entire bridge dipped precariously with the heavy weight, and a few vines strained at their moorings. Travis divided his attention between the cross bracing and the anchors, watching both for flaws that would cause the bridge to collapse. When the man reached the midway point, the weight was better distributed, taking the strain off the anchors. As he neared the far edge, the stress again began to pull hard on the anchoring vines. Travis kept his hand on the thickest vine, feeling the amount of strain. A few moments later the man stepped onto the far lip of the crevice and the tension went slack. McNeil breathed easier.

  “Five more boxes and we’re across,” he said quietly, as if worried that a loud noise might cause the shaky structure to collapse. He turned sharply as Hal came running from the forest into the clearing.

  “The war party is only a few hundred yards out,” he gasped. “And they look pretty serious. I think we should get across here as quickly as possible.”

  McNeil sized up the situation. “How long until they get here?”

  “Half an hour, tops,” the guide answered.

  “Shit. Get another man on the bridge,” he said to Faustin. “Have what’s-his-name in the Miami shirt and the other guy, Beya, cross last.”

  Faustin began chattering at the porters huddled around the remaining boxes. A man jumped to his feet, shouldered a box and started across. McNeil broke open one of the rectangular boxes and pulled out two Remington Vent Rib shot-guns. He loaded them, and handed one to Samantha. She accepted it tentatively.

  “Targets and crocs are one thing, but I’m not exactly practiced at this,” she said. “Shooting people, I mean.”

  “I’m glad. I’d be worried about you if you were. Just point the gun and pull the trigger. Easy.” He gave her a forced smile and turned his attention back to the bridge. It was still holding, but barely. The footings on the near side were pulling out from the bank, and the anchoring vines were stretched almost to the breaking point. Another porter began the crossing and a vine snapped, sending him to his left and into the handrail. He tottered between safety and certain death for a moment, then regained his balance and continued across. Once he was on solid ground, another man rested a box securely on his left shoulder and held the right handrail tightly. The bridge tried to force the man to the left, but he counterbalanced the force and made it across. Two boxes to go.

  That left the man in the Miami Dolphins shirt, Koko, and his colleague, Beya, as the final two porters aside from Faustin. McNeil told Faustin to cross now, without a box, and the man obeyed. The bridge held well without the added weight. Koko was next, and he shouldered the second-to-last box and began to cross. Midway, one of the main support vines let go. It came apart with a loud snapping sound and the right side of the bridge collapsed. Koko dropped the box, but grabbed the broken vine as he started the tumble into the void. Travis watched as hundreds of rounds of ammunition disappeared into the blackness. He swore softly under his breath at the loss.

  Koko hung by the shredded vine ten feet below the broken backbone of the bridge. One hand was clamped viselike on the vine while the other flailed helplessly. Travis grabbed a length of previously cut and stripped vine, and tied one end to a nearby tree, the other around his waist. He gave it a quick tug to check the anchoring knot and started onto what was left of the bridge. The structure was totally unstable, rocking back and forth with every step he took. Koko was in dire straits, his grip slipping as his strength ebbed. McNeil reached the center of the bridge, directly above Koko, and lay prone on the wood planking while reaching his hand down. Two feet separated the rescuing hand from the stricken one. He stared into the man’s eyes and saw death. He’d seen it before, many times, but it was something he never got used to. He kept eye contact with the man.

  “Do you speak English?” he asked, and the man nodded slightly. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” Again, a nod. “I’m going to save you, but I need you to understand what I’m saying. Tell me in English that you understand.”

  “Yes, I understand. You will save me. But quickly would be good; my grip is slipping.”

  “Excellent. I’m going to let go of the bridge, and as I fall we’ll grab each other. I have this vine,” he indicated the one around his waist, “wrapped about a tree.”

  “We will smash into the side of the cliff,” the man said, looking at the rock wall.

  “Yes,” Travis agreed. “You’d better hang on.” He looked back to where Hal, Beya, and Samantha watched from the edge. “Grab the vine I tied to the tree, and hold on!” They scrambled to get a good grip on it, and Hal waved once they were ready. Travis let go and began to fall. A split second later he felt Koko grab him as he angled downward into the gap. He got the man in a bear hug and hung on for dear life as they arced toward the sheer rock face. A moment later they hit. McNeil was on the outside, away from the wall when they crashed into it, and Koko’s body shielded him from the impact. Koko wasn’t so fortunate. The shock of being sandwiched between McNeil and the wall knocked him unconscious and he relaxed his grip. F
or a moment, everything seemed okay. Then the vine started to snap.

  McNeil heard it first, before the two groups that watched from either side of the crevice. He looked up and watched as, strand by strand, the vine unraveled. He had seconds to live. He yelled up at Samantha to throw down another vine, and seconds later one appeared. He quickly wrapped it under Koko’s armpits and knotted it. He yelled to the team on the near side of the gap to grab the vine Sam had thrown over, and let go of the first. He heard a voice yelling they had it, and he released the excess weight.

  Koko remained stationary for a moment, then began to move upwards. A foot or two at a time, he was hoisted toward the rim of the gorge, unconscious and totally unaware of his predicament. Without Koko’s body weight, the vine holding McNeil frayed less quickly, giving him a chance to get good hand and toe grips into the rock seconds before the vine snapped. He watched as his safety harness drifted past and then hung below him. He was stuck against the wall, with nothing but the strength in his fingers keeping him from a long drop to his death. He took a few deep breaths and began to climb.

  Every finger hold was a life-or-death decision. The tips of his boots searched out tiny juts or cracks and kept some of the weight off his hands, but it was his fingertips that controlled his destiny. Inch by inch he worked his way up the cliff side, knowing that one wrong move was the end. A small outcrop crumbled under his left hand and he gasped in air sharply, for a moment not knowing whether he could compensate in time. He curled the fingers of his right hand deeper into the crack and tensed his back muscles to keep his body from swinging. A moment later he was stationary and stable. He found a new finger grip for his left hand, tested its strength and continued. He briefly caught a glimpse of the team members on the far side of the chasm as he arced his neck to search for a new handhold. To a man, they watched intently without making a sound. He swept his gaze back to the wall and upward. Anxious faces stared back at him. He locked eyes with Samantha, and mouthed “It’s okay.” She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and he looked back to the ten feet of wall left before he reached the top.