African Ice (15 page)

Samantha unpacked the rudiments of her communications system, and had it online within a few minutes. Travis finished shoring up the suspension bridge and returned to the clearing, untying the primitive safety line from his waist as he approached her. She motioned for him to be quiet as she tied into the satellite uplink and connected with Billy Hackett, whose voice was devoid of static, but tinged with anxiety when it came over the line.

“Where the hell have you guys been?”

“Moving base camp. Why?”

“Mugumba's men are on the move, Sam. You better tell Travis right away.”

“He's standing right beside me.”

“When did the soldiers leave Butembo?” Travis asked the pilot.

“Early this morning. About six hours ago now. They headed south, toward Mutwanga.”

McNeil traced the path on the map he had spread out atop Sam's Panther unit. “Shit,” he said. “They're heading for the bridge to the south. The one that crosses this goddamn ravine. They know we're heading into the Ruwenzori. Sam,” he turned to his geologist, “how sure are you of the final two locations you've identified?”

“Reasonably sure that one of them is our formation. Why?”

“Mugumba must know we're getting close or he wouldn't have started moving his men. That confirms someone inside our camp is advising the colonel—someone who knows we're down to our last two targets. We've got to get across this bridge and establish a new base camp in a safe location on the other side. Show me the final two locations on this map.”

She pulled her map out and transferred the coordinates to McNeil's map. Their position at the gorge was less than a mile from both locations. According to the closely grouped topographical lines covering the map, a major ridge separated the two possible sites. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. He lit a cigarette, then flicked the match into the dank grass at his feet.

“Troy, get across the bridge and find a suitable location for a base camp in this area.” He drew a small circle on the map. “Switch on your 5 W mini and radio the location back to us. The jamming technology in the Panther 5 W mini is irrefutable; we'll be invisible once we switch over. It's time to get technical and stop giving these guys a fix on us. Except for the GPS, and we're only going to feed them what we want them to know. When we're sure we've got the formation, we'll reverse the polarity on the transmitter they hid in the GPS and send them on a wild goose chase.”

Troy nodded and left, taking two porters with him to help clear a path through the jungle. Travis watched as they traversed the bridge, noting that the extra strength from the repairs seemed to hold the weight well. When they were loaded with gear it might be a different story. He turned back to Samantha.

“How quickly can you run the necessary tests on the formations once we get you there?”

“Less than a day for each one,” she estimated. “There's substantial outcropping on both formations, so I should be able to test for trace elements without having to dig.”

“That's good news. And it should take Mugumba at least a day to reach the southern bridge. From there, he's looking at a minimum of two days'trek northward through the jungle to meet up with us. That gives us a buffer of three days before he's within striking range. We'd better be ready by then.”

“You're pretty sure he's going to attack us once we find the diamonds, aren't you?” Samantha asked.

“On a scale of one to ten, that's a ten. The only advantage we have is that we'll be ready for him. If he caught us un-aware, there's no doubt in my mind he would wipe us out before we had our guns drawn. Those are top-notch troops with him, not the average underpaid, low-moral soldiers that make up the Congolese army.”

“You really know how to sweet-talk a girl,” she said.

“I thought that was rather diplomatic, considering we've got a hostile tribe of pygmies behind us and a platoon of crack troops flanking us. And not to mention a huge crack in the earth right in front of us.”

“There you go again,” she said. “Making me feel warm and tingly all over.” She smiled at him and he grinned back. But behind the calm facade, she saw a man tensed and ready for battle. And she knew that soon they would be fighting for their lives against formidable odds in a hostile terrain. And the pressures came back—she had to find the diamonds, and she had to find them soon. Their lives depended on it.

Patrick Kerrigan was lining up a twelve-foot putt when his caddy approached him with the cell phone. He motioned for the man to back off, finished calculating the left-to-right break, and stroked the ball. It rolled into the center of the cup for a birdie. He smiled as the rest of his foursome congratulated him on a well-played hole, then exchanged his putter for the phone.

“Kerrigan,” he said quietly.

Static filled the line, and he struggled to hear the caller speak. “It's Colonel Mugumba.” The distant voice was commingled with white noise, but decipherable. “We're moving up to intercept the team. We think they're within a day or two of discovering the diamonds.”

“Is the location where we thought it would be?”

“Almost exactly where you said. I'm sure she's located it from the information the helicopter provided.”

“Excellent. Stay on top of them. For Christ's sake, don't let the same thing happen again.”

“Yes, sir,” Mugumba said; then the line went quiet.

Kerrigan turned off the cell phone and snapped it shut. There were no other calls of enough importance to disrupt his golf game. He jumped into the cart and his caddy hit the gas and headed for the next tee box. He allowed himself a small smile as they drove. He had known from the onset that the diamondiferous formation they sought was within a two-square-mile target, tucked against the rugged footings of the Ruwenzori. The seventy-square-mile grid he had given Samantha was a red herring mixed with the real thing. He could easily have given her the smaller two-square-mile area, but that would be admitting he knew more than he was letting on. And he wanted to test her abilities. She hadn't let him down—she was leading the team exactly where she should. This time the expedition wouldn't keep the location from him.

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.