Lucifer's Fire

by Richard Turner

  With all of their equipment packed away, Sam took point and started to lead them back to their LZ—and hopefully a working jeep.

  Five hours and several thousand kilometers away, Jen gently knocked on the door leading to Fahimah’s office.

  With a bright smile on her face, Fahimah waved her to come in.

  Jen took a seat and handed her one of the two coffees she had in her hands. Jen was dressed casually in blue jeans and a blue fleece top, while Fahimah had changed from her usual long dress into black slacks, a loose-fitting, dark blue sweater and matching scarf.

  Both women were ready to travel. She wasn’t sure how long they would be gone, so she’d packed an overnight bag, just in case. Jen estimated that the trip would take them no more two and a half hours to drive the two-hundred and forty kilometers to New Haven.

  “Ready to go?” Jen asked Fahimah.

  “Yeah, I just need to answer a couple really quick emails and then we can be off.”

  Jen sat back and sipped her coffee. Since receiving the call from Fahimah, asking her if she wanted to help her find a centuries-old journal that was somehow tied to Mitchell’s latest mission, Jen had been busy reading everything she could find on the net. She knew absolutely nothing about James Lucifer and soon found that there was almost nothing online about him or his crew. She called one of her friends who taught African-American studies at the University of North Carolina, told her what she was up to and asked her if she knew anything about Arab traders working in that part of Africa in the 1700s. She learned that the slave trade had reached far and wide throughout Africa, but her friend couldn’t recall ever reading anything about Arab slavers establishing any posts in the area that one day would become Liberia. She became intrigued and asked Jen to call her back if she learned anything.

  With her work tidied up, Fahimah closed her computer and then popped in to see Mike Donaldson for any last-minute instructions before heading out. Aside from being told to be careful, he had nothing for her. He was still working on identifying possible collectors of artifacts from that era who lived in and around New Haven. As he suspected, not too many people advertised on the web that they had a priceless collection of historical relics sitting around their homes. Promising to have some leads before they arrived in New Haven, Donaldson waved good-bye to the ladies and got right back to work.

  Outside, the leaves had begun to fall. Autumn was Jen’s favorite time of year. The vibrant reds, oranges, and golds of the leaves were pleasing to her eyes. It’s a shame that it has to end, replaced by the cold snow of winter, thought Jen.

  Both women put their bags in the back and then climbed into Ryan’s newly washed Jeep. There was no way Jen was going for a long drive in a vehicle that looked like it had just crawled out of the swamp. After buckling in, Jen started the vehicle, pulled out of Mitchell’s parking spot, changed gears, and then began to accelerate, quickly leaving Polaris Headquarters behind them.

  Jen glanced over at Fahimah and saw a smile emerge on her delicate face. Jen chuckled to herself and wondered what made Mitchell and his friends enjoy getting out of the office so much, when it hit her that she was no better. She had eagerly jumped at the chance to help out. She began to wonder if she should quit her job with the UN and join Polaris. Jen placed the thought in the back of her mind until she had a chance to speak to Mitchell about it, she found herself growing anxious, looking forward to the challenge of finding a journal that could hold the truth to a lost fortune in diamonds.

  23

  A black-haired chimpanzee darted across the path and then ran off into the jungle, quickly climbing a tree. Peering out from behind a wide leaf, the chimp let out a sharp call, as if telling the people hiking through its territory that they weren’t the least bit welcome.

  Cardinal playfully called back.

  “I knew you weren’t too far removed from the apes,” teased Sam.

  “Offside,” complained Cardinal. “I just happen to be more attuned to Mother Nature than you.”

  “Quit the chatter, folks,” said Mitchell. “We’re coming up on the clearing.”

  The hike back to the landing zone had been uneventful. Taking a different path to the LZ, Mitchell wasn’t going to give anyone lying in ambush an easy target.

  A couple of minutes later, Sam raised her hand and swiftly dropped to one knee, as did everyone behind her. They waited a moment to listen for anyone following them. Mitchell moved up beside Sam, dug out his binoculars and scanned the clearing.

  It’s quiet . . . too quiet, he thought.

  Mitchell could see the jeep sitting exactly where they had left it the day prior. His gut told him to be wary, when he saw that both soldiers shot by Cardinal were missing. Someone had been there.

  “What’s up, boss?” whispered Jackson.

  “Someone removed the bodies, but not the vehicle from the clearing,” answered Mitchell.

  “I smell a rat.”

  “So do I,” said Mitchell warily. He waved Cardinal to him. “Find a good position of observation in the trees. I want to know if the opposition is still around.”

  Cardinal nodded his head, stepped off the narrow game path, and melted into the jungle.

  “Okay, everyone, get comfortable,” said Mitchell. “I’ll keep watch for now.”

  Sam and Jackson sat down, back-to-back, their hands resting on their weapons, ready in an instant if they needed them.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Mitchell was becoming restless; he was about to call Cardinal when his voice, barely above a whisper, came into his earpiece.

  “Okay, we’ve got two bad guys. The first one is perched up in a tree directly across from me. He’s not a real sniper, or he wouldn’t have been so easy to see. The second bad guy was harder to find; he’s lying in some tall grass about fifty meters to the right of the vehicle. What do you want me to do?”

  Mitchell looked over at Jackson, who simply nodded his head. They needed that jeep.

  “Take them,” said Mitchell, his voice cold and emotionless. The people lying in wait intended to do them harm.

  A sharp crack rang out, followed a second later by another.

  “Targets neutralized,” reported Cardinal.

  “Remain where you are and give us overwatch,” ordered Mitchell.

  Sam and Jackson were already up on their feet.

  With his rifle held tight into his shoulder, Mitchell stepped to the edge of the jungle and looked out at the vehicle. The men shot by Cardinal were nowhere to be seen, their bodies hidden in the tall grass.

  “Spread out and keep a sharp lookout,” said Mitchell, as he walked to the abandoned vehicle. His nerves were taut, his body ready to react in a moment’s notice.

  As he approached the jeep, Mitchell’s years of training kicked in. Stopping short, he told Sam to cover the rear while he and Jackson took a quick look at the vehicle. Walking slowly, Mitchell didn’t look at the vehicle in front of him; instead, his eyes searched the ground around it, looking for the telltale signs of digging.

  “Found it,” announced Jackson.

  Quickly moving to Jackson’s side, Mitchell bent down and saw a tripwire leading from the steering wheel to a grenade partially buried in the ground.

  “I guess they expected us to come back here,” said Mitchell. “Can you disarm it?”

  “Piece of cake,” said Jackson as he dug around in his vest and pulled out a spare grenade pin. “That’s why I always keep a couple of these with me.”

  “I always thought it was some kind of fashion statement,” said Mitchell with a smile.

  Slowly getting down on his hands and knees, Jackson carefully moved the dirt aside from the grenade. It was an old Soviet-era F-1 anti-personnel hand grenade. It looked more like an old pineapple-style hand grenade than the smoother, more modern ones. Taking the pin from his lips, Jackson reached over and then gently placed his hand over the top of the grenade’s spoon. He held it tight in his hand, pulled out the tripwire, and then deftly inserted the safety pin. Slowly l
etting go of the spoon, Jackson let out a deep breath when it held. It wasn’t going to go off.

  “Well done,” said Mitchell. “Not too bad for an old man.”

  “Next time, you disarm it,” said Jackson, wiping the sweat from his brow. Both men had disarmed booby traps in Afghanistan; however, Mitchell would be the first one to admit that Jackson was far better at it than he ever would be.

  After another quick check of the vehicle, Jackson jumped behind the wheel and started it. At first, it spluttered and shuddered, but after a few seconds with a bit more gas, the engine came to life. Jackson placed it in reverse and drove it back a few meters, out of a slight hollow in the ground where it had come to rest the day before.

  “Come on in,” said Mitchell to Cardinal;

  Five minutes later, with everyone loaded up in the jeep, Jackson looked over at Mitchell and said, “Now where to?”

  “I guess we head to where this all began, in Weasua, and see if we can pick up the trail from there.”

  “Got it. I had it programmed into my GPS,” said Cardinal as he handed over his GPS to Mitchell so he could navigate.

  Quickly changing gears, Jackson turned the creaking steering wheel over and then made for a trail leading out of the jungle.

  Gray stood beside his SUV and sipped a cup of mint tea, his eyes scanning the wood line for the men he was sure were observing him. They were good, he’d give them that. He hadn’t seen them, but his instincts told him they were there.

  Captain King and his platoon of well-armed men had left the camp thirty minutes ago. Gray wanted to give them plenty of time to get into position before he left. Although he would have preferred not to, he planned to use himself as bait to draw out the men who had attacked the camp. They may have the women in their clutches, but Gray reasoned that they weren’t sure where to go next and would be watching him very closely to see where he went. Gray placed his empty cup down on an old rusting barrel, called over the young officer assigned to his security detail and told him that they would be leaving right away. Gray calmly climbed into his SUV and buckled himself in. Reaching over to the glove compartment, he opened it and pulled out his 9mm automatic. He made sure that there was a round in the chamber. Gray decided to keep hold of the pistol in case he needed it in the next few minutes.

  Three hundred meters distant, hidden under the jungle brush, Roberts watched as Gray’s SUV, accompanied by three jeeps filled with Liberian soldiers, pulled out of the camp, drove out onto the dusty road, turned north, and then slowly drove away.

  He called Saafi and told him that Gray was on the move. Roberts quietly told his men to pack up their gear and load it up into their Rover. He would follow at a discreet distance and report if Gray left the road or got suspicious and tried doubling back.

  Unseen, Roberts’ Rover pulled out of the jungle, onto the road, and began to roll down the red-dirt road. With his rifle tight in his hands, Roberts stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the road.

  A former sergeant in the Nigerian Army, Roberts had never worked with Chang or any of his people before. He had heard that Chang was the best there was in the business, and that he rewarded his people well for their loyalty. With an eye on his future, Roberts intended to advance within the organization. He wanted Saafi’s position, and he was going to get it either by proving himself or by removing the man by accidental friendly fire the next time they bumped into the Liberian Army.

  Twenty minutes into their drive, the lead vehicle in Gray’s convoy slowed down as it came to a bend in the road. Soon a burnt-out jeep, flipped on its side, came into view, blocking half of the narrow dirt road.

  Animated voices came over the Motorola in the hands of a soldier sitting behind Gray.

  “Sir, Lieutenant Payne wishes to know what you want to do,” said the soldier to Gray.

  “Tell him to push on. It is nothing more than a vehicle accident,” replied Gray.

  As they passed the vehicle, Gray turned his head and looked out the window of his SUV. A smile crept across his lips. Captain King had done well in selecting his position. Now it was up to the people following him to fall into the trap.

  Chang intently followed Roberts’ reports as he carefully tracked Gray’s convoy. It was obvious that he was heading back to Weasua, where the Americans had first been captured.

  His five Rovers were spread out on the road, weapons bristling from them. Emily was in Grace’s Rover, riding behind Chang’s as they made their way down the narrow road. She had no idea what was going on, but was sure that she had driven this road once before. She closed her eyes and prayed that Cristoval and all of their friends were still all right. Emily took comfort in the fact that her heart told her that he was alive. She was about to ask her captor what was going on when the convoy came to a rolling halt. Tension, like a wave washing over the shore, seemed to surge through the people sitting all around her.

  Something was wrong.

  Chang stood on his seat and studied the overturned military vehicle partially blocking the road. He grabbed his radio and called Roberts. Chang asked him about the jeep on the road. Roberts replied that Gray’s people had simply ignored it. They had driven around it and were now a good ten kilometers further down the road.

  For another man, that might have been the end of it, but Chang hadn’t survived this long by not being cautious. He picked up his binoculars and studied the jungle on either side of the road, looking for any signs that people had been there recently.

  It looked natural and undisturbed.

  Still, something in the back of his mind told him to be wary.

  Chang looked over his shoulder, pointed at the second Rover behind him, and then pointed down the road. Waving back, the driver, a bullnecked Russian, changed gears and then slowly drove toward the flipped vehicle. With anticipation brewing inside him, Chang watched as the Rover slowed down and then drove around the obstacle.

  Perhaps it was nothing.

  He sat back down in his seat and radioed the remainder of his people that they would carry on with Gromov, the Russian, as the lead vehicle in the convoy.

  His vehicle had driven perhaps no more than twenty meters when all around them, hell was unleashed.

  Gromov’s vehicle was the first hit. Three RPG rounds struck the side of the Rover, instantaneously tearing it to pieces. Those not killed in the blast were shot down as a machine gun hidden in the thick jungle opened up, mercilessly raking the Rover with hundreds of rounds.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Chang saw a brilliant flash from inside the green foliage hugging the dirt road. Less than a second later, an RPG struck the front of his Rover and then bounced over the top of the vehicle.

  It was a dud.

  The next RPG, however, was not. The noise from the impact was deafening. It struck the vehicle on the driver’s side. The RPG exploded, killing the driver and the man sitting behind him. A piece of jagged shrapnel struck the man operating the machine gun mounted on the Rover’s roll bar, eviscerating him. Blood and guts spilled out everywhere.

  Throwing himself from his doomed Rover, Chang hadn’t yet landed on the road when two machine guns opened fire, their bullets tearing into the dead and dying still trapped in the burning vehicle.

  Behind, Emily watched in horror as Chang’s vehicle was blown apart; her mind had barely registered what had happened when an RPG sped at their Rover. Aimed high, it sailed right over, exploding on the opposite side of the jungle.

  “Back up,” screamed Grace at her driver.

  The driver jammed his foot down on the gas pedal and threw his vehicle into reverse just as someone from inside the jungle opened up on them. The man sitting behind the driver was struck in the head and died.

  Emily brought her hands to her ears to block out the horrifying noise. She screamed as the machine gunner in their Rover let off a long burst into the jungle, hoping to kill some of their attackers.

  The last two Rovers in the convoy had not yet been hit. Straddling the road, their gunners f
ired a withering fire into the ambush site. Like a scythe, the bullets cut through the foliage. Leaves and branches fell to the jungle floor. Men leapt from the Rovers and added the fire from their assault rifles as Grace’s vehicle sped past them.

  Pulling off the road behind the other two vehicles, Grace jumped from her seat, grabbed Emily by the collar of her shirt, and hauled her from the vehicle.

  “Stay down,” ordered Grace.

  Emily didn’t need to be told twice. She found a small hollow in the road and buried her head. She prayed for salvation.

  Chang cursed himself. The flipped vehicle lying on the road was the perfect place for an ambush and he had foolishly walked right into it. He raised his head slightly. He could see his remaining Rovers farther back on the road, busily trading fire with their unseen assailant. To stay where he was would be suicide. He grabbed his rifle, crawled off the road, and then slid into the thick brush lining the road. As soon as he was inside the jungle, he warily stood up and looked about. As far as he could tell, he was alone; their attackers must be all on the opposite side of the road. With his rifle held tight, he quickly made his way back to join his comrades still in the fight.

  24

  The sound echoed up the valley like a powerful summer thunderstorm.

  “Jesus, someone is getting plastered down there,” said Jackson, sitting with his hands on the wheel of their parked jeep.

  “Yeah, but who?” asked Sam.

  “I don’t know,” said Mitchell, “but with fourteen Americans being held hostage somewhere around here, I want to take a look. They may need our help.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Jackson, starting their battered vehicle’s engine. Putting the vehicle in drive, he pulled back off the dirt trail, and then drove through the jungle, in the direction of the raging battle.

  Barely wide enough for their jeep to drive down, Jackson had to keep one hand up to stop the wide leaves and branches from the trees lining the narrow path from hitting him in the face while he drove.