African Ice

by Jeff Buick

  He surveyed the layout, trying to think of where he would station his men. The west side was completely dominated by the mountainside. All other directions were covered by dense jungle. The only passable route into the location was from the south. And Mugumba must know that McNeil’s team was camped to the south. Therefore, one man positioned south. He thought of where they had discovered the previous expedition’s bodies, and made a guess that the second sentry would be west, covering that area in case he and Sam were to suddenly appear. He moved south, not a twig or a leaf moving in his wake. Twenty yards distant, he saw the first man, awake, but barely. His head kept nodding down, then jerking back up as he forced himself to stay conscious. Travis waited.

  Half an hour later, the head stopped jerking back and the man’s chin rested on his chest. Travis began to move, quietly but quickly. He covered the distance in less than a minute, his knife in his right hand. He came up behind the soldier, slipped his hand over the man’s mouth and drove the knife into the back of his neck, severing the spinal cord. The body instantly went limp. He lowered the body to the forest floor and pulled his knife out. He cleaned the blade on a leaf and then moved back to the north and a bit west. The second man was much more difficult to find. He had fallen asleep and was prone on the ground. Travis almost stepped on his leg before he saw him. The tiny rustles Travis made did not wake the soldier. He took him out in the same fashion as the first sentry, then headed back toward the fire.

  He neared the grouping of men, then froze. Only two of the three men remained bedded down and asleep. One of the soldiers was up and on the move. Travis felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise and his senses go into overdrive. Every sound, every fluttering of a leaf could mark the presence of the missing soldier, and possibly a violent death. He crouched low, pondering whether to take out the two sleeping men or quietly scour the area for the third man. After a few minutes, he decided to do neither. The position he held, close to the waning fire, allowed him to keep the remaining two soldiers in sight, and he felt after this much time that his location had not been compromised by the missing man. Waiting and watching seemed the best course of action. He didn’t have long to wait.

  Five minutes later, the man reappeared. He showed no signs of alarm and Travis knew the two corpses had not been discovered. The soldier had probably needed to relieve himself. Travis settled back and waited to see what the man would do. His target poked a stick into the fire, stirring up the embers and effectively ruining his night vision. He kept his gaze averted until the gently licking flames had subsided and the area was once again dark. Then he moved.

  His pupils remained tiny, affording him excellent vision even in the low light level of the forest. He moved silently to his left, circling the man until he faced the man’s back. He crept forward, his knife comfortable in his grasp. He reached the soldier without alerting him, clamped his hand over the open mouth and cut left to right across the windpipe. A low gurgling sound emitted from the slit trachea and the dead man’s feet made slight scuffling noises as he kicked out involuntarily. Then quiet again returned to the small clearing. He lowered the body to the ground and turned to the remaining two soldiers. And froze.

  One of the men had awakened and was staring at him, stunned for a moment. Travis acted without hesitation, drawing his revolver from his belt and pumping two bullets into the man’s face. He swiveled and rolled to his right at the same time. A loud explosion went off and a bullet cut through the air where he had stood milliseconds before, missing him by inches. He came out of the roll with his finger squeezing the trigger. The first shot missed the last man and for a second it appeared his adversary might get off a killing shot. But Travis’s reaction time was a split second faster, and he managed to squeeze off a second round before his prey. This bullet did not miss. It hit the soldier in the neck, crushing his larynx and ripping through his spinal cord. The man went limp and crumpled.

  Travis swore lightly at the noise. He had wanted to take out the men without resorting to gunfire, but that hadn’t happened. He reloaded his revolver, checked to ensure the three were dead, and then returned to the tunnel and to Samantha. It was still pitch black, and he spoke to her as he exited the tunnel mouth, so she would know it was him and not one of Mugumba’s men. She answered, relief evident in her voice.

  “I don’t know if more of Mugumba’s troops are within earshot. I kind of doubt it,” he said as they sat beside each other in the blackness. “The only way those five guys arrived so quickly was by helicopter. The rest are probably slogging through the rain forest toward what they think is our camp. We should be okay. I was being overly cautious more than anything else, trying to keep the noise down.”

  “I’m dead tired,” she said, yawning. The tension had evaporated over the time they talked, and she suddenly felt unable to stay awake. “Can we get some sleep?”

  “Sure.” He smoothed out a few vines and palm fronds and then guided her to the makeshift bed. She lay down and was asleep within seconds. He listened to the rhythmic cadence of her breathing, enjoying the soft sound. He reached out and tenderly stroked her hair. Then he sat back and made himself a vow. He would keep this woman alive, no matter how tough things got. He would die to keep her alive. That surprised him. He had never thought that way of any other person. Ever.

  FIFTEEN

  “African ice.”

  McNeil rose to one elbow and tried to focus. It was daytime, barely. Streaks of sunlight fought their way through the tangled canopy hundreds of feet above them, but the foot of the crevice was still shrouded in darkness. He squinted, bringing the figure in front of him to a clearer image. It was Samantha, and she held something in her hand.

  “What?” he asked, his mouth thick and dry. “What did you say?”

  “African ice. African diamonds.” Samantha extended her hand. Numerous greenish rocks sat in her palm. “The stuff we came for. I’ve just dug out a few more specimens. Big specimens. This is quite the find, Travis.”

  He shook his head a couple of times to clear the cobwebs, then accepted the bottled water Samantha held out to him. He drank deeply, the liquid replenishing his body and bringing reality back to him. He watched the woman standing in front of him and found himself wanting her. Badly. Her lips were moving and he concentrated, trying to decipher the words as they came at him.

  “. . . that old saying about diamonds being a girl’s best friend is bullshit. Diamonds are a guerilla’s best friend. Violence and death are often the companions of these stones, hardly the rich and glamorous lives De Beers portrays in their commercials. People are tortured and murdered, lives destroyed, children orphaned, all so rich women in America or Europe can look good in evening wear.” Samantha’s eyes burned as she spoke, her voice rife with emotion.

  “The African people don’t benefit from the diamonds. At least, not the ones I’ve met. They still live in abject poverty while some corrupt government asshole steals the country blind. The guerillas that roam about, terrorizing innocent villagers, are financed almost exclusively with diamond money. Christ, I hate precious stones. I honest to God hate them, Travis.

  “African ice.” She mouthed the words once more, this time with contempt, then dropped the handful of wealth into a small suede bag and slipped it in her pocket.

  Travis watched her tuck the diamonds away. “If you hate them so much, why are you taking them?”

  “They’re worth a lot of money—and I’m a realist. We may need them.”

  “I see. What time is it?” he asked.

  “Just after ten,” Sam replied. “You’ve been sleeping like a baby.”

  “Well, this baby just got up,” he said. “Let’s get our stuff together and get back to the base camp.”

  They packed only the necessary gear and traversed the tunnel. He scanned the immediate area around the vine-covered entrance to the hole in the wall. Once he was sure no more of Mugumba’s men were present, he jumped out and helped Samantha down. They set an azimuth on their compasses an
d headed out, after quickly checking in with the camp on the mobile Panther unit. The passage through the jungle was difficult and Travis finally let Sam take the lead after two hours of hacking a path with the machete. He was surprised when Sam lasted over an hour before asking him to spell her off. Most women, or men for that matter, wouldn’t have had the strength or endurance to last an hour. They continued on, calling in to the camp more frequently as they got closer, until he clipped the mouthpiece back on his front pocket and pointed to a ridge of trees two hundred yards to the southwest.

  “Troy and the boys are set up over there,” he said. “Let me lead from here, and watch where you step. Try to follow exactly in my footsteps. The guys will have every access to the camp, except one, booby-trapped.”

  Samantha nodded that she understood and kept tight behind him as he moved. He kept his strides short, making it easy for her to mimic his steps. He stopped about a hundred fifty yards from the camp and pointed to the left side of the path they were following. She stared at the ground for a few seconds before she saw it—a trip wire extending across the path. He lifted his boots over the wire, then held out his hand to steady her as she crossed it. They passed one more trip wire before they hit the camp perimeter. Samantha was sweating profusely as she doffed her pack, and she knew it wasn’t just from the heat. Moving through booby-trapped jungle was something she had never experienced before.

  He surveyed the new base camp. Troy had chosen the position carefully, and as Travis looked about, he was pleased with the choice. A small clearing, less than twenty by thirty feet, held the communications console, stacked armaments boxes and tents. One side of the clear-cut hugged an almost vertical wall covered in dense foliage, impossible for an opponent to attack from above or rappel down. The opposite side from where they had entered bordered a small river, eighty feet in width. This formed exposed ground, making the enemy easy targets once on the water. The river split just after the clearing, with a small tributary snaking along the third side. It was less than twenty feet across, but still provided the defenders with a clear shot at anyone trying to cross. The fourth and final access to the camp was from the north, the route they had used. It was booby-trapped, not only on the path but also in numerous places in the jungle. Also, any attackers coming from the south would have to circle the camp first in order to reach the northern side, giving the defenders both advance notice and an additional chance to take them out as they moved past.

  “Well done, Troy,” McNeil said, patting the man on the shoulder. “Let’s you and I have a quick look at the dummy camp.” He referred to the mock encampment that held the GPS gear and Koko’s transmitter. Ramage led the way, heading west across the wide part of the river. There was little current and the water was only waist deep, making the crossing quite easy. They hit an obscure path on the far side, moving hastily through the ferns and lianas. Six minutes from the real camp, they arrived at what appeared to be a fully functional jungle encampment. Radio and GPS equipment sat on a portable table, wedged between two tents. Evidence of a recent fire, complete with a spit for roasting meat, sat in the center of the clearing. A few articles of clothing hung on branches. McNeil nodded to Ramage.

  “Excellent,” he said. “You’ve given them two good sides to attack from. Once they storm the camp from those two sides, we’ll counter-attack from here, then fall back to the river. We should get at least half the force, assuming the platoon is intact and there are still seventeen of them.”

  “Seventeen?” Ramage asked, the numbers not making sense.

  “Five of them must have been dropped off by chopper near the mine site. They interrupted us, and killed the porters. The soldiers are dead.”

  Ramage may have been impressed, but he didn’t show it. “Taking out five bad guys is good, but them having a chopper is bad news. You can bet they’ll bring it in once they walk into our trap.”

  “Guaranteed. The trip back to the real camp will be dicey. They’ll be right behind us and overhead as well. Let’s hope the chopper’s not equipped with heat-sensing equipment, or we’re in trouble.” If Mugumba’s helicopter could see through the rain-forest canopy by picking up the heat from their bodies, they could follow them to the real camp, all the while firing heavy-caliber bullets at them. Whether they would be successful in surviving Mugumba’s attack came down to one thing—their ability to disappear into the jungle and not be detected from above.

  “What should we do with the porters?” Ramage asked as they humped back.

  “Get them out of here. They’re target practice for Mugumba’s men. No way do we stick rifles in their hands and tell them to hold off crack government troops. They’re gone as soon as we get back. We’ll send them north, away from Mugumba’s little army.” The river came into sight as he finished speaking and they called over to Dan and Alain, letting the men know they would be coming out of the bush in a few seconds.

  Back in camp, they immediately told the porters to pack and leave. McNeil paid the men, including the pay for the three porters who had died at the mine site and a healthy bonus. The only native who remained was Koko, and he was securely tied to a tree. A bandana, which could quickly become a gag, hung around his neck.

  Samantha pulled Hal aside as the porters prepared to leave. She gave him a hug, refusing to hear his pleas to stay. “No one questions Travis on this, Hal,” she said softly. “Just go home and enjoy the money you made. You did your job, and you did it well. I’ll be in touch with you later.” He acquiesced and, after bundling up his belongings, trudged off into the jungle.

  Travis set out the game plan and the men requisitioned the necessary gear from neatly stacked boxes. They went over the plan again, then split up. Travis and Alain Porter moved across the river and took up positions bordering the dummy camp. Dan Nelson also crossed the river, but he stayed back, closer to the real camp. Troy Ramage remained at base camp with Samantha, with a stern warning from McNeil that nothing was to happen to her. McNeil expected Mugumba to arrive early the next morning.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  Just after dawn, slight rustlings disturbed the growth on the far side of the camp. McNeil clicked twice on the Panther and received the same number back. He slipped the safety off his Vektor CR21 Assault rifle and readied additional clips. A few moments later, all hell broke loose.

  Seven of Mugumba’s men burst from the jungle into the small clearing, spraying the tents with automatic fire, then diving to the ground. Additional muzzle flashes a few yards into the dense foliage lit up a semicircle in the jungle, exactly where the ex-SEALs were watching. Both McNeil and Porter targeted the muzzle flashes and opened fire. Their pinpoint accuracy silenced four of the hidden assailants; then they turned their lethal fire onto the exposed soldiers. Only a few seconds had elapsed since Mugumba’s men entered the clearing, and they had no time to retreat into the relative safety of the surrounding jungle. One by one their bodies shuddered from the impact of the 5.56mm cartridges as death rained down on them. Three men lay unmoving in the clearing and a fourth crawled slowly into the nearby brush, his wounds fatal.

  Travis stopped firing and spoke quickly into the Panther. “Back off, Alain. Now! Dan, we’re coming back down the path.” He let the mobile unit drop to his side, shouldered the CR21 and slipped a clip into the MINI SS machine gun. He leveled it and backed out of his position, watching for any sign of troop movement in or near the camp. It remained quiet. In his peripheral vision he saw Alain moving in his direction, crouching as he backpedaled through the brush. They joined up and began moving down the path. Seconds later, a withering crossfire erupted from either side, chewing into the trees and ferns that hid them. Lightning reflexes saved both men as they immediately hit the ground and rolled into the thick ground cover.

  Bullets screamed inches above their heads as Travis and Alain stared at each other from opposing sides of the path. They were totally pinned down. Travis managed to unclip a fragmentation grenade from his belt, and held it out for Alain to see. He
made a slight motion to his partner that his intention was to take out the guys on Alain’s side of the path. Porter slid a grenade out and readied himself. He pulled the pin, held up one finger, then two, then three. Both men lobbed the grenades and hugged the ground. The explosions sent jagged shards of metal slicing through the jungle at a phenomenal speed. The ex-SEALs heard screams as the hot frags cut into their foes. Travis waved to Alain and they leapt up simultaneously and sprayed the bush with automatic fire. The screams were reduced to whimpers, then died off completely. They cautiously worked their way back into the underbrush, finding only corpses on both sides of the path. No one had survived.

  McNeil mentally tallied Mugumba’s casualties as he and Alain ran for the camp. Four in the bush, three more in the clearing, plus one badly wounded. They had taken out a further four on the path, for a total of twelve. From seventeen, that left five nasties. The odds were becoming favorable. For the moment.

  A swath of heavy-caliber bullets raked the vegetation beside them as they came abreast of the river. Overhead, the thumping of helicopter blades broke the jungle silence. The gunfire stopped and the sound of the rotors diminished as the chopper veered off and headed north. Travis breathed a sigh of relief, then sucked the air back in. Through the break in the jungle cover that followed the river, he could see the chopper as it hovered some three hundred yards distant. From the machine came figure after figure: low-altitude parachutists. He counted eight before the machine stopped hovering and came back toward his position.

  He motioned for Porter and Nelson to dig in close to the riverbank while he waded back across toward the camp. He called Troy on the Panther as he sloshed through the water. “They had a line on us while we were still under the canopy,” he said as he approached the camp. “They must have heat-sensing capabilities. Get under something cool to mask your heat.”