Congo Dawn Page 10
“Leaving the mine completely cut off except by air. Which is, of course, where you all come in. Your mission will be to restore transport operations. First order of business, the Mi-17s will be dropping our team along with local reinforcements at the FOB to set up base camp before heading on to the mine for a supply dump. I will be taking our own chopper straight out to the mine for catch-up with Wamba’s field commander, Samuel Makuga, and our mine administrator, Clyde Rhodes. The C-130 will leave Uganda once we’ve secured our base site. Any questions to this point?”
“You bet. I get my assignment.” The speaker was one of the Afrikaner pilots, Marius. “Fly the chopper. Keep it operational. I assume you’ve allowed for spare parts and tools in that C-130 cargo. But I’m still not understanding exactly what our overall mission is here. Okay, so we help secure the mine, provide some air cover to reopen the road. But I’ve played this scenario way too many times before. Krueger said this was a short-term contract. One month. Those Mi-17s can pack some real firepower. But even if we blast everything that moves in the vicinity, all the insurgents have to do is fall back and wait until we leave. Look, Mulroney, I’ve fought long and hard with and for you over the years. I’ve never yet been on the losing side of a contract. But I’m not sure I see how this one’s winnable. After all, Wamba’s men have been fighting these rebels for months without any inroads. Unless you’re planning on a long-term operation and a whole lot bigger than the team we’ve got here.”
“Yes, and what is this other base camp you keep referring to?” This time it was Ernie Miller who spoke up. “I thought the mine was our FOB. Does this mean the mine’s got no landing strip? If not, how the dickens are we going to get our gear into position to secure the place? No Mi-17’s going to ferry what we’ve got on that C-130.”
One stark difference that still surprised Robin between her former life and the private military world was the freedom with which subordinates could and did debate orders. Back talk that would have landed any Marine in lockup was not only accepted but expected. Of course out here a senior field commander on one contract might well be one’s underling on the next. And since living to spend that generous hazard pay was a mercenary’s ultimate goal, every private military contractor had a stake—and an opinion—in ensuring a profitable outcome.
“I wouldn’t have you here if this wasn’t a winnable mission,” Trevor Mulroney responded calmly. “Nor is it our job to root out an entire insurgency. Or hold down long-term some major chunk of rainforest. On the contrary, you’ve got a very simple mission. Capture, dead or alive, one man.”
The Earth Resources CEO tossed a computer printout on the table. The black-and-white photo had clearly been blown up from a much smaller size as it was fuzzy and extremely pixelated. The basic facial structure of an ebony-skinned African male in his late teens with strong-boned, elongated features and a prominent, high-bridged nose differed minimally to Robin’s gaze from those of millions of other sub-Saharan young men. Other than, perhaps, the brilliance of the smile displaying strong, white teeth. Or the hopeful joy lighting large, dark eyes.
Trevor Mulroney’s forefinger tapped the bright smile. “This is the man identified as the rebel leader. Not much to go on, I know, but it’s the only positive ID we’ve got, his university application photo. Which would help explain the sophistication of his attacks. The average rainforest villager doesn’t know how to rig explosives or what to do with a detonator cap. Since even this picture is years old, our insurgent would be hard to pick out of a crowd except for one thing: he’s got a large scar running down his left arm.”
“What kind of scar?” Ernie Miller was scribbling on a notepad. “Knife? Gunshot? Lots of guys got scars.”
“Burn,” Trevor Mulroney elucidated laconically. “Shoulder all the way down to wrist. Not something you can miss. As to his identity, we don’t know what his own people call him, but Wamba’s men refer to him as Jini, or ‘ghost’ in Swahili, because he evaporates like smoke before anyone can get too close. For whatever reason, he’s certainly made it a personal vendetta to keep any outside interests from his territory. The consensus is that if this Jini’s taken out, any further insurgency will collapse of its own accord. As to just how we’re going to manage that—”
Pulling a pen from a breast pocket, the Earth Resources CEO used it to draw a circle around the gray-brown mounds that marked the molybdenite mine. “Anyone here ever participated in a bush hunt?”
A number of Robin’s teammates were already nodding in sudden enlightenment. Mulroney tapped the circle. “In a bush hunt, you don’t fan out from a central location. You form a perimeter circle with nets and weapons around the area you want to hunt, then in coordination begin moving inward. Your prey naturally retreats from the hunters so that you have them penned within a smaller and smaller circle until they can no longer escape, when you take them out. You ask how we’re going to manage that when Wamba’s men haven’t been able to get a whisper of the guy? Simply, air power combined with high tech Wamba didn’t have. Our reconnaissance tech here—” Mulroney motioned toward Carl Jensen, who had closed his laptop at Mulroney’s arrival to join the others—“has some toys, or will have once the C-130 touches down, that can practically do magic fitted into the executive chopper. Heat-sensor technology in the past has always been iffy when dealing with triple-canopy rainforest. Especially here on the equator, where air and body temperatures at ground level aren’t so far apart. What we’ll be using is the latest improvement that combines heat, motion, infrared, biometrics, and who knows what else to differentiate a guerrilla band from a herd of duiker antelope even underneath fifty meters of canopy foliage.
“With Jensen to pinpoint and track people movements, we’ll be using the Mi-17s to drop in ground units along our initial bush hunt perimeter. The idea isn’t to engage with Jini’s forces or hide our presence in any way. Just offer enough resistance to discourage this Jini from engaging. Especially since with our aerial technology, he won’t be able to pull the kind of ambush he’s been getting away with. Our intel is that Jini can’t have more than a couple hundred combatants, so he’s going to retreat from any well-armed offensive line. The one place we’ll be putting minimal defensive force, at least to all appearances, is at the mine itself. Which will push Jini that direction. Especially if it looks to him as though opposition forces are roaming his territory at random looking for him while leaving his principle target practically unguarded.”
“Like cheese in a mousetrap,” someone murmured with satisfaction.
“Exactly.” Trevor Mulroney nodded. “Obviously we’re going to need more than this team to carry out a bush hunt perimeter. Wamba has committed two thousand of his own men. This particular piece of rainforest may not be familiar to them, but they’re all experienced militia fighters. Now I know we’ve got a communications problem. But Wamba still maintains strong ties with Uganda, especially now that a peace accord has been signed. He’s arranged through his field commander Samuel Makuga, who has family connections in Kampala, a hundred Ugandan mercenaries. All former military who know this country from their peacekeeping days. Enough of them speak English as well as Swahili to serve as your liaisons with their men as well as our main boots on the ground.”
Then why had Mulroney bothered hiring Lt. Chris R. Duncan? As for local allies, were they really to depend on former rebel insurgents and invading military—both groups as infamous for violence and human rights atrocities as this Jini?
The Earth Resources CEO answered her first question without need of asking. “Of course we don’t want to be dependent on locals to give us accurate translation and intel. Which is why in doubt we have Ms. Duncan’s ears and language skills to ensure we’re not being spun a line. As to our FOB and the C-130, we’ve got that well covered. There’s an airstrip about an hour’s flight from here into the rainforest, but no more than ten minutes from the mine. Right on the edge of our operational perimeter, in fact. It’s long enough to take the C-130, if barely, and has
been recently repaired by some humanitarian operation that maintains a medical outpost there. A place called Taraja.”
Mulroney tapped a clearing on the map not far from the gray-brown mounds. “We couldn’t have designed a place that better meets our mission specs. Open space for setting up base camp. A local community for labor pool. Even medical support if necessary.”
Taraja.
Michael’s childhood home.
Robin’s mind was churning. So this was the real reason Pieter Krueger had been pumping Michael for data on the plane, not help with his map! Did Michael even know about this? Surely he’d have given some indication if he’d expected to see Robin again in the very near future. This time Robin didn’t hold back.
“Excuse me, Mr. Mulroney, but does Dr. Stewart . . . uh, the medical outpost personnel know we’re coming? He never mentioned . . . I mean, well, humanitarian missions like Doctors Without Borders aren’t usually so cooperative about getting mixed up with military ops. I’m just surprised they’d consent to something like this.”
Trevor Mulroney made no effort to hide displeasure. “I never asked! This medical mission may use the airstrip for their own landing zone. May even have built it. But the land on which it’s built and the local community happen to be under Bunia jurisdiction. Which means the only person we need permission from to set up operations there is Governor Wamba. But you bring up a good point. Prudence dictates establishing friendly contact with local expat agencies, especially since we just might need their services at some point. And since you, Duncan, would appear to be acquainted with this Stewart, that will be your first assignment.”
A jangle interrupted Mulroney’s terse order. He pulled out a satellite phone, the stab of a thumb silencing the ringtone. “Clyde? Yes, we’ll be heading your way any minute. ETA another hour or so.”
As the Earth Resources CEO listened, his jaw tightened in fury. Breaking off the connection, he spun back to the Ares Solutions team, piercing blue gaze now chips of ice. “Another change of plans, I’m afraid. We’ve got a situation at the mine. Seems our ‘ghost’ has decided not to wait for that bush hunt.”
Me and my big mouth!
A beat of rotors flying in low over the hangar drowned out Trevor Mulroney’s next words. Robin’s thoughts were more occupied in any case with the Earth Resources CEO’s final order. Whatever Michael’s insistence, Robin had made her own determination never to see the American surgeon again. Seeking him out as advance scout of an uninvited invasion on his home base was hardly how she’d choose to thrust herself again onto his horizon.
The roar of aircraft receded enough to hear again what Mulroney was saying. “We don’t know how bad this is yet. Or if it’s an ongoing attack. But there are casualties, and site security is screaming for reinforcements. So we’ll all be heading to the mine first as a show of force and to leave some of Wamba’s men for perimeter control. Maybe a few of you as well if the situation warrants it. Everyone got that? Then let’s roll.”
Three helicopters had hovered down to the tarmac by the time the Ares Solutions team shouldered their baggage and headed outside. Bulkier than a US military Black Hawk and with a different contour of machine gun turrets and missile launchers, the two Russian Mi-17s couldn’t be mistaken for anything but assault aircraft. Inside they’d been gutted of seats to permit more cargo weight. At the moment they were so packed with crates, sacks, and uniformed militia Robin would not have thought even those powerful rotors could lift the aircraft off the ground. As the South African combat pilots climbed into the cockpits, their Congolese counterparts clambered out and made for the airport exit.
Trevor Mulroney headed directly toward the third helicopter, much smaller and round of body. “Duncan. Jensen. You’re with me.”
Robin felt some compunction about settling herself into a padded seat with protective ear mufflers while her male teammates squeezed in among militia and cargo. The smaller helicopter took the lead lifting off, the two larger aircraft lumbering skyward at its tail like a pair of oversize dragonflies chasing a bumblebee. The Earth Resources pilot was a Ukrainian hire whose English proved adequate for a shouted consultation on where to install Carl Jensen’s techno gear.
Which left Robin free to occupy herself with the unimpeded vista provided by the executive chopper’s Plexiglas wraparound windshield. The shift from Bunia’s savannah and rolling hills to the triple-canopy rainforest was as abrupt as crossing a line on a map. So this is where Michael grew up. It’s even more incredible than he claimed! How can anything this beautiful hold war and hate and death?
From this height, the huge, rounded crowns of giant hardwoods looked like nothing so much as a vast field of broccoli ripe for picking. Here and there, flowering trees broke the monotony with splotches of orange, yellow, white, flame-red. Occasionally, a meandering brown zigzag of a river swept below the helicopter’s runners. Even less occasionally, wattle-and-daub thatched huts dotted a clearing.
Once, the broccoli field broke away abruptly into a canyon so deep Robin could barely make out the silver ribbon that was a rushing river at the bottom. Tumbling out from beneath the rainforest canopy, another stream off to her left shot over the lip of a precipice to form a waterfall that disappeared in a white froth into the canyon’s shadowed depths. As the helicopter crossed overhead, spray thrown off by the cascade caught the light to span the ravine below them with the delicate, multihued arc of a perfect rainbow. Robin could spot no other bridge across the canyon. The helicopter’s bumblebee shadow flitting once again over green treetops might have been the first human presence to disturb this pristine landscape since its creation.
An illusion abruptly dispelled as the telltale markers of gray-brown mounds thrusting above the treetops gave way to a devastation that could only be of human derivation.
“ETA one minute,” Trevor Mulroney announced abruptly, not to his fellow passengers, but into the radio mike of a copilot’s headset. “Willem, Marius, site security says there’s been no further hostilities. But be on the alert as you come in. You’ll have to set down outside the fence. Krueger, set a perimeter guard on the choppers first thing.”
Robin wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected of a molybdenite mine. Underground shafts and diggings, perhaps. Some sort of organized infrastructure, definitely.
Instead this sprawling, ugly gash of red-brown mud and gray shale looked more stereotypical of the strip mines now largely outlawed in her own country. A high chain-link fence topped with concertina wire formed a meandering semicircle from the base of those gray-brown mounds to a nearby riverbank. Wooden observation platforms rose on either side of a metal-paneled gate and at intervals along the chain-link fence. Guards manning the watchtowers and patrolling inside the perimeter fence all wore the khaki uniforms of Wamba’s militia.
But where were the buildings? The heavy machinery?
Nor at this moment did Robin see any human toilers.
The executive chopper hovered down inside the fence near a metallic octagonal bubble that was the enclosure’s only real structure, a large Quonset hut. As Robin clambered down after her male companions, two large, muscled men, one who looked native Congolese in militia uniform, the other a Caucasian with sweat-stained safari clothing and a long ponytail, emerged from the Quonset hut. Nearby, smoke drifted skyward from a mass of twisted metal.
Outside the chain-link fence, the two Mi-17s settled on a muddy field separating mine and rainforest. As clam doors at the rear of the assault helicopters opened to spew out armed militia and foreign mercenaries, Trevor Mulroney stepped toward the two approaching men.
“Clyde, Makuga! What exactly is going on here? I thought you said the mine was under attack. And where are the workers? Why are mining operations shut down if hostilities are not ongoing?”
“Sorry, boss, but we’ve lost the steam engine.” Trevor Mulroney’s greeting had identified the ponytail as mine administrator Clyde Rhodes—South African, by his accent. “Which means pumps, electricity, everything
. Not to mention the rock crusher and other equipment nearby when the steam engine blew up. It was bad enough once we couldn’t transport. Still, we could at least stockpile your molybdenum so long as we could process the raw ore. Without that equipment, there’s no point in having the workers keep excavating. As you can see, we’ve got way too much back pile already.”
The man gestured first to the mass of twisted metal, then mounds of broken rock that lay everywhere in the clearing, tall as the Quonset hut. “Even if we could bring in another rock crusher and other equipment, there’s no way to replace the steam engine. Not until the roads are open, anyway. It would be way too heavy to haul in by chopper. And that’s if we can locate another. They’re pretty obsolete even here in the Congo.”
“But this is terrible!” The Ukrainian pilot had climbed down and was staring around in horror. “And I do not see the storage shed! Where are all the supplies I flew in this past week?”
“The shed went up right after the engine. We lost everything stored there. Which was anything too flammable to keep in the Quonset hut. Kerosene for power tools and lighting. Gas cylinders for fridge and stove. Oil lubricant and processing chemicals. All the whiskey. Hence so much damage. We were thinking accident at first. That maybe the steam engine’s boiler just blew. The thing’s an antique piece of junk, after all. But it turned out to be an attack. Sabotage.”