Congo Dawn Read online

  While her companions fought back with a withering counterfire, Robin worked frantically to stanch the blood flow spilling over her brother’s body armor. She breathed relief when two helicopters drowned out the crackle of gunfire.

  Apache combat aircraft circled around to strafe the area while a medivac chopper hovered down to retrieve the wounded. Spotting Michael’s concerned tawny gaze and set jaw among the medics jumping down, Robin surrendered her brother’s barely conscious form.

  “Please, help him. You can’t let him die. Don’t let him die.”

  Michael had been reassuring. “It’s not as bad as it looks, Robin. He’s going to be okay. I won’t let him die, I promise you.”

  The medivac helicopter was lifting off when the world exploded. Robin remembered only agonizing pain slicing through her back and legs before darkness mercifully closed in. When she opened her eyes again three days later, it was to discover she’d been airlifted to the hospital facility at Bagram Air Base outside Kabul. Another week passed before she’d recovered enough to be informed her brother hadn’t made it back alive.

  The official explanation was as senseless as unavoidable. An Apache missile fired into the compound had set off a buried drum of that rumored Taliban ammo. While several teammates caught exploding bullets, Robin’s was the most serious injury, her right leg shattered in two places, another bullet narrowly missing her spinal column.

  Robin was not particularly grateful for her survival. Not when her younger brother, her best friend, the person she loved most was dead, his gifts and talents wiped out as though he’d never existed. And where was Michael Stewart, who’d promised not to let him die? If he couldn’t get leave for a Bagram visit, why not a phone call or even a written condolence? When Robin finally worked up enough nerve and outrage to initiate queries, she was told only that he’d been transferred stateside.

  That Michael would leave Afghanistan without even contacting Robin seemed unbelievable. Unless he felt too guilty for his lapse of duty to face her. For the official mission report stated unequivocally that her brother’s wound had not been initially life-threatening. He’d simply bled out before ever reaching base.

  By the time Robin was stable enough to be relocated stateside for physical rehabilitation, the Duncan family was facing further calamity. The same week Colonel Duncan was diagnosed with fast-spreading pancreatic cancer, Kelli’s perfect Marine officer husband had inexplicably walked out on both his marriage and the Marine Corps. Though neither Colonel Duncan nor Kelli proved willing to elucidate, Robin gathered that his disappearance involved something less than reputable. When he rammed his motorcycle into a freeway divider, his blood alcohol showed three times the legal limit. Since his death came after a dishonorable discharge, Kelli inherited no benefits. She’d changed her surname back to Duncan just in time to discover she was pregnant. And like her mother’s, the pregnancy promised to be a difficult one.

  With characteristic dramatic flair, Kelli begged Robin not to abandon the family in this hour of crisis. Colonel Duncan was more forthright about Robin’s obligations. Her duty to the Marine Corps was brushed aside. Hadn’t Robin’s short-lived tour in Afghanistan proved the point that women didn’t belong in a combat zone? Whatever strings Colonel Duncan pulled, Robin found herself with an honorable medical discharge without ever being quite sure how it had come about or even when she’d agreed.

  As for Michael Stewart, however bewildered and hurt, Robin would have been open to any reasonable explanation. But he’d never again contacted her. When Robin managed to track down his military APO address, her letter had been returned with a cover notice that Petty Officer First Class Michael Stewart was no longer enlisted in the United States Navy. Robin hadn’t wasted further effort trying to locate him.

  Especially since by the time Robin’s namesake was born, Colonel Duncan had given up his own fight for survival. Not once in those months did her father bring up their mutual loss of his only son. Nor what was almost as great a loss to Robin, the sacrifice of her hard-won position in the United States Marine Corps.

  Had she remained at his side because, despite everything, she still loved her father and longed for his approval?

  Or did she hate him because despite all her hard work, effort, and sacrifice, in the end Colonel Duncan had won their bitterly fought personal war?

  Robin’s father clung to life long enough to see Christina Robin Duncan II enter the world six weeks before her due date. He’d died without ever learning how precarious his granddaughter’s hold on life would turn out to be.

  Robin could have walked away after her father’s funeral. Rejoined her unit. Picked up the threads of her own life dream. But from the moment she’d lifted a five-pound Kristi into her arms, looked deeply into those blinking, sleepy little eyes, she’d known her father was right about one thing. You didn’t walk away from family. Not if you were a Duncan. Not if you were a Marine. Semper fidelis wasn’t just for the battlefield.

  The post–9/11 private security boom was still exploding. Robin quickly discovered her language and combat skills could fetch a high price in the private sector, enough to pay the expensive health insurance willing to cover a high-risk child. In consequence Robin had bounced these last four years from Iraq to Kyrgyzstan, Sierra Leone, Nigeria, Kashmir, Sudan, Haiti, and now the Congo.

  But her occasional week home was worth all the travel, dirt, poverty, and inconvenience. Even at age four, Kristi displayed not only the red-gold hair of the O’Boyles and stubborn resilience of the Duncans, but all the precocious creativity and perceptive intelligence of the uncle she’d never met.

  Robin had endured as Duncans always did. Done her duty to her employers. Been the responsible head of family. And sometimes even smiled. When her niece’s small arms wrapped around her neck. When, in the middle of a war zone, the beauty of a flower or a sunset, the music of bird or brook tugged at her senses, offering the illusion that all was still right with this world.

  But that smile hadn’t curved Robin’s mouth since a phone conference with Kristi’s pediatrician two days ago confirmed that her niece would never reach age five without the experimental surgery some insurance adjuster had arbitrarily categorized as optional and high risk.

  This mission pays twice the Haiti contract. Enough to secure a loan so Kelli can schedule the surgery. And a bonus for every day under a month in which we complete our primary mission, whatever that proves to be! The landing gear touching down on a tarmac strip forced Robin’s thoughts back to the present. The aircraft taxied toward the cluster of small buildings and hangars that was the Bunia airport. Beyond this, a chain-link fence topped by concertina wire cordoned off a massive white complex trimmed in sky blue. The color combo that marked a United Nations mission anywhere in the world.

  As the twin propellers whined down to silence, the UN charter pilot emerged from the cockpit to fold the door down into steps. Robin remained in her window seat as her teammates began de­planing. Across the tarmac, she could see a red-and-white four-passenger Cessna taxiing slowly from a hangar. Robin kept her gaze on the Cessna even as her peripheral vision caught a masculine shape turning back in her direction.

  “Robin, my connecting flight’s already overdue takeoff, so I’ve got to leave immediately. But I’d like to get in contact later if possible. We’ve clearly been talking at cross-purposes, and we need to set things straight.”

  The mature thing to do—that which she’d schooled herself to do for five long years—was to look Michael straight in the eyes, sum up a cool, dismissive answer. But to Robin’s horror, such a lump had risen to her throat at that quiet, familiar voice, she didn’t dare turn her head. Seconds ticked on as she fought for composure. At last a soft sigh came from behind her.

  “Okay, Robin, I really do have to go now. But God didn’t drop you back into my life without a reason. We will talk before this is over, and that’s a promise.”

  The inflexible determination in his tone was the Michael she’d once known. The on
e who did not break his promises. The Michael she’d learned painfully did not really exist. Robin had remained dry-eyed through her father’s horrific death by cancer, the long years of shouldering responsibility for two other lives. So why was dampness now blurring her view?

  Her peripheral vision confirmed Michael’s retreat down the aisle. Directly below Robin, the UN pilot had the hold open, her teammates already slinging out duffel bags.

  Enough! You claim to be a Marine? Then stop your whining and get your boots in gear! The mental order was in her father’s stern voice. Its effect was to straighten Robin’s shoulders, wipe a hand across her eyes.

  Which cleared her vision enough to offer an excellent view of the battle scene abruptly exploding on the tarmac outside.

  A convoy was racing out from between two hangars with such speed that several Ares Solutions operatives stretching their legs beyond the plane’s wings had to throw themselves out of the way. The first two vehicles were pickups. Each open bed held a large mounted machine gun. Khaki uniforms waving automatic weapons crammed every other inch, including running board and tailgate. The last vehicle was a cargo truck also filled with armed uniforms.

  Most striking was the middle vehicle, a stretch Hummer polished to burnished bronze despite the red dust, its tinted windows with that extra thickness denoting bulletproof panes. A Congolese flag flapped from its hood ornament. As the convoy slammed to a stop, uniforms poured out of their vehicles, dispersing in a wide perimeter around the plane.

  The UN pilot was scrambling back up the steps into the plane. The Ares Solutions team had reacted immediately, dropping behind the mound of unloaded cargo, rolling for cover under the fuselage, little retreat though either would offer from those powerful machine guns. Here was where the body armor and weapons left behind in Uganda would come in handy. Robin was already reaching for her knapsack. She’d made her own preparations before leaving the C-130. Reaching inside to detach a false bottom, she felt the comforting shape of a Glock 19’s handgrip slide into her fingers.

  “That’s General Wamba’s vehicle. What’s he doing here?” Michael had paused partway down the aisle to follow the same scene outside. He glanced back at Robin, his mouth grim. “I’ll check it out. You stay down out of sight. Wamba’s men can be—well, let’s say unpredictable.”

  “Me out of sight! I’m at least armed. You’re the one who’d better stay down.” The Glock was now out of concealment. Robin double-checked that the ammo clip was in place as she headed toward the hatch.

  But Michael had already pushed past the pilot. By the time Robin scrambled to the better vantage of the open door, he was heading across the tarmac toward the convoy. The two mounted machine guns immediately swiveled to converge their trajectory on his position. Michael did not slow his stride, though he spread his hands wide in the universal gesture of goodwill.

  Robin’s fury at his imprudence battled with unwilling admiration. She’d spent her life among the toughest of tough males. Testosterone was measured by how well you fought, how straight you could shoot, the iron you could pump. Courage by keeping your head under fire, defending your fellow Marine. Competence by proficiency and speed in dispatching the enemy.

  But whatever her personal conflict with this man, she could admit there was also a toughness and courage in walking out there alone, unarmed, exposed to those deadly gun barrels. Nearing the Hummer, Michael called out in French, “I’m Dr. Stewart with Médecins Sans Frontières. And this is a UN flight, not under Congolese jurisdiction. What is the difficulty here?”

  A soldier stepped forward to open the passenger door of the stretch Hummer. Robin’s pent-up breath escaped her teeth at the man now unfolding himself from inside. By the time he’d stretched to full height, he loomed above Michael, easily six and a half feet and massively built—not showing any visible fat, but powerfully muscled. His skin tone was one of the darkest Robin had ever seen, of a black so absolute it glistened almost blue in the sun. A heavy jaw protruded ahead of a full mouth, his nostrils so wide as to seem almost flat. A red beret tilted at a jaunty angle on a clean-shaven scalp, his khaki uniform—perfectly creased from recent pressing—glittering with medals. Though it was the arrogant lift of head, supreme confidence of posture, and a self-possessed chillness of gaze that marked the new arrival as a warrior and commander of men.

  Even without a phalanx of machine guns and automatic weapons at his back, he would have been an intimidating figure. But Michael simply identified calmly, “Governor Wamba, a pleasure to meet you again. We conversed at the UN reception last month.”

  “Ah, yes, the new American doctor.” The Bunia governor’s French was deep, gravelly, proficient. “You gave me advice as to the pain in my kidneys. It proved most effective. But you are not who I was informed would be on this flight.”

  Trevor Mulroney was striding forward, calling as he did so, “They’re friendlies, boys. You can come out. And where’s our translator? Duncan!”

  Robin tucked her Glock into the back of her slacks before hurrying down the plane steps. By the time her boots touched the tarmac, Robin’s teammates were edging warily out of concealment. Robin could have smiled were it politic to do so; every one of them had rustled up a weapon—Glocks, Uzi machine pistols, even one collapsible-­­stock abbreviated M4 automatic rifle. So she wasn’t the only one whose hand luggage hadn’t quite matched that Arua customs declaration. Maybe her teammates really were as good as their boasting, mercenaries or not. Which augured well for the success of this mission.

  As Robin reached Trevor Mulroney’s side, Michael retreated an unobtrusive step or two, though he remained at Robin’s back. Across the tarmac, Robin noted the red-and-white Cessna now taxied to a halt beyond the soldiers. A tall, lanky man in jeans and T-shirt had climbed down from the pilot’s seat and was watching the unfolding drama.

  Beside Robin, Trevor Mulroney had to tilt his head far back to meet the governor’s chill eyes. But he looked less intimidated than annoyed as he demanded in furious English, “Governor Wamba. You want to explain just what my plane’s doing sitting over in Arua right now? That wasn’t what we negotiated!”

  At the governor’s blank stare, the Earth Resources CEO snapped irritated fingers toward Robin. “Do your job.”

  Robin hurriedly translated his demand into French. Around her, the Ares Solutions team stood easily among the scattered luggage, offering not so much as a twitch of limb that might convey aggression. In contrast, Wamba’s men were as fidgety as cats about to pounce, even after following a shouted order to lower weapons to their sides. Despite the uniforms, these were no ordinary peacekeeping troops. Facial scars that might have been shrapnel or some bizarre tribal tattooing. Teeth filed to unnatural points. Missing fingers, eyes, even ears. Many looked barely past puberty, though a universal gauntness might have contributed to that impression. Wamba’s troops evidently ate less well than their commander.

  Their adornments were likewise hardly army issue. No shiny medals here, but fetishes of feathers, glass, and other unidentifiable objects attached with huge safety pins or tied around biceps. Garlands of threaded bullets, bone bits, and human teeth draped around necks and hung down gun belts.

  And their eyes. Unblinking. Whites yellowed. Bloodshot with chronic disease, alcohol abuse, or both. Black pupils unnaturally distended despite the afternoon sun. Opium or hashish? Whatever the soldiers’ ages, those eyes held no youth, only the dead, cold emptiness of practiced killers.

  Robin’s mouth felt suddenly dry as she awaited Wamba’s response. So this was the infamous rebel commander who’d been named ­governor of Ituri province as his spoils of the peace process. And from the looks of his merry band, he’d simply integrated his ragtag militia into the official government forces. These were the local allies on whom the Ares Solutions team had been told they could depend?

  Wamba’s own cold, black stare did not shift from Trevor Mulroney as his huge shoulders rose and fell. “I have changed the arrangement. I know you mzungus too well.�
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  Mzungu was not French, but Swahili slang for white man.

  “You throw us here in the Congo a few coins while you make yourselves rich off this mine for which you fight. As you can see, I have many men for whom I am responsible. Their families too. They have not received payment for their services from Kinshasa as was promised when we swore peace. If they go hungry, how am I to hold them to the peace treaty? No, the payments you have made are not enough. I want a percentage of the ore that is brought out of the mine as well. The same that you are giving to Kinshasa.”

  As Robin translated in low, quick English, Trevor Mulroney waved an impatient hand. “Look, we can talk later about any changes in price negotiation. But bottom line is, right now and as long as the mine is shut down, any percentage of its profits is going to be exactly zero. So how about you help me get the mine reopened. Then we can chat about your fair share.”

  The governor’s frown did not ease as Robin finished translating.

  “That is not acceptable,” he rumbled. “I will agree to negotiate later about percentages. But only if you pay another fifty thousand immediately—euros, not American dollars—to help meet the immediate needs of my men. And another fifty thousand on the day the mine reopens.”

  Trevor Mulroney’s glance swept across the empty glares and unsmiling faces of Wamba’s militia before he shrugged. “This is not what we agreed. But I’m willing to compromise. Fifty thousand, but only when all my equipment is delivered and on-site. And American dollars, not euros. And an equal bonus the day the first ore shipment makes it safely to Bunia.”

  From their lack of response, Robin guessed Wamba’s militia was no more fluent in French than in English. Trevor Mulroney met Wamba’s glare with an unflinching one of his own while Robin finished the translation. The silent duel seemed to go on for an eternity. But in the end, Governor Wamba broke off eye contact first, spreading large palms in acquiescence. To Robin’s shock, when he spoke, it was in heavily accented but fluent English.