African Ice (16 page)

Half the equipment had been ferried across Dan's precipice when the bridge began to fail. McNeil could see the vines he had interwoven with the original structure starting to slip. The knots were still tight and holding, but the added weight of the armaments was too much for the freshly cut strands. He stopped the flow of porters and tested the span's strength. He identified a few crucial weak spots, ordered the porters to cut more vines, and lashed them to the bridge where necessary. The repairs took a while, and it was almost two hours before the trickle of men and equipment restarted the short but arduous trek.

Samantha lounged in the shade of a giant Phrynium, pulling gently at the fresh shoots emanating from the gnarled trunk. This was gorilla country; they loved the new growth on the ancient trees. She had seen signs of recent gorilla activity in the area as they moved steadily east into the more rugged highlands bordering the Ruwenzori. Actually seeing a gorilla was another story; they were incredibly secretive and able to move through the jungle with hardly a sound. She jerked slightly, startled, as Travis appeared around the tree.

“Hi,” he said, his tone upbeat. “What are you doing over here all by yourself?”

“Thinking.” She smiled back. “Just thinking about how beautiful this country is, and what a tragedy it's so poorly managed. If just once a government that wasn't totally corrupt could come to power and stay in power, this country could be prosperous. Aside from diamonds, they've got gold, cobalt, copper and zinc. Christ, back when the Congo was called Zaire, they were the largest producer of cobalt in the world. Gecamines was a huge mining company that ran at a profit for years, but eventually government greed collapsed it and the military looted the mine sites. Expatriates took off, and without skilled labor the whole industry collapsed.”

“Sounds like they shot themselves in the foot.”

“No kidding. But it all comes back to the government. If they hadn't put such a financial drain on the company, Gecamines would still be around. They were far from lily white, but at least they employed people.”

“You really love Africa, don't you?” he asked, handing her a bottle of water.

She accepted the offering and took a long drink. “I guess I do,” she said slowly. “It
is
beautiful. Sometimes I think I feel more at home here than I do back in the States. I just wish I could do something, anything, to help.” She smiled at him—not a happy smile, but a resigned one. She held out the water and as he took it their hands touched. Neither moved for a moment and energy seemed to flow between them. She withdrew her hand. “How are things at the bridge?”

“It's holding for now, but I don't know that we'll get everything across. I separated out the most important things, like your communication equipment and mining gear, and had the porters take that across first. Then the weapons. I should get back and see if everything's okay.”

She nodded and stood up with him. They walked together back to the bridge and he surveyed the scene. Only six boxes remained on the near side of the chasm, the rest successfully moved across. Three of the six were ammunition and extremely heavy. He reinspected the bridge, giving careful attention to the vines that attached the span to the anchoring trees. He nodded his approval and motioned for the next porter to cross. The man hoisted one of the ammunition boxes and gingerly stepped onto the narrow cut of wood that served as the walkway. The entire bridge dipped precariously with the heavy weight, and a few vines strained at their moorings. Travis divided his attention between the cross bracing and the anchors, watching both for flaws that would cause the bridge to collapse. When the man reached the midway point, the weight was better distributed, taking the strain off the anchors. As he neared the far edge, the stress again began to pull hard on the anchoring vines. Travis kept his hand on the thickest vine, feeling the amount of strain. A few moments later the man stepped onto the far lip of the crevice and the tension went slack. McNeil breathed easier.

“Five more boxes and we're across,” he said quietly, as if worried that a loud noise might cause the shaky structure to collapse. He turned sharply as Hal came running from the forest into the clearing.

“The war party is only a few hundred yards out,” he gasped. “And they look pretty serious. I think we should get across here as quickly as possible.”

McNeil sized up the situation. “How long until they get here?”

“Half an hour, tops,” the guide answered.

“Shit. Get another man on the bridge,” he said to Faustin. “Have what's-his-name in the Miami shirt and the other guy, Beya, cross last.”

Faustin began chattering at the porters huddled around the remaining boxes. A man jumped to his feet, shouldered a box and started across. McNeil broke open one of the rectangular boxes and pulled out two Remington Vent Rib shot-guns. He loaded them, and handed one to Samantha. She accepted it tentatively.

“Targets and crocs are one thing, but I'm not exactly practiced at this,” she said. “Shooting people, I mean.”

“I'm glad. I'd be worried about you if you were. Just point the gun and pull the trigger. Easy.” He gave her a forced smile and turned his attention back to the bridge. It was still holding, but barely. The footings on the near side were pulling out from the bank, and the anchoring vines were stretched almost to the breaking point. Another porter began the crossing and a vine snapped, sending him to his left and into the handrail. He tottered between safety and certain death for a moment, then regained his balance and continued across. Once he was on solid ground, another man rested a box securely on his left shoulder and held the right handrail tightly. The bridge tried to force the man to the left, but he counterbalanced the force and made it across. Two boxes to go.

That left the man in the Miami Dolphins shirt, Koko, and his colleague, Beya, as the final two porters aside from Faustin. McNeil told Faustin to cross now, without a box, and the man obeyed. The bridge held well without the added weight. Koko was next, and he shouldered the second-to-last box and began to cross. Midway, one of the main support vines let go. It came apart with a loud snapping sound and the right side of the bridge collapsed. Koko dropped the box, but grabbed the broken vine as he started the tumble into the void. Travis watched as hundreds of rounds of ammunition disappeared into the blackness. He swore softly under his breath at the loss.

Koko hung by the shredded vine ten feet below the broken backbone of the bridge. One hand was clamped viselike on the vine while the other flailed helplessly. Travis grabbed a length of previously cut and stripped vine, and tied one end to a nearby tree, the other around his waist. He gave it a quick tug to check the anchoring knot and started onto what was left of the bridge. The structure was totally unstable, rocking back and forth with every step he took. Koko was in dire straits, his grip slipping as his strength ebbed. McNeil reached the center of the bridge, directly above Koko, and lay prone on the wood planking while reaching his hand down. Two feet separated the rescuing hand from the stricken one. He stared into the man's eyes and saw death. He'd seen it before, many times, but it was something he never got used to. He kept eye contact with the man.

“Do you speak English?” he asked, and the man nodded slightly. “Do you understand what I'm saying?” Again, a nod. “I'm going to save you, but I need you to understand what I'm saying. Tell me in English that you understand.”

“Yes, I understand. You will save me. But quickly would be good; my grip is slipping.”

“Excellent. I'm going to let go of the bridge, and as I fall we'll grab each other. I have this vine,” he indicated the one around his waist, “wrapped about a tree.”

“We will smash into the side of the cliff,” the man said, looking at the rock wall.

“Yes,” Travis agreed. “You'd better hang on.” He looked back to where Hal, Beya, and Samantha watched from the edge. “Grab the vine I tied to the tree, and hold on!” They scrambled to get a good grip on it, and Hal waved once they were ready. Travis let go and began to fall. A split second later he felt Koko grab him as he angled downward into the gap. He got the man in a bear hug and hung on for dear life as they arced toward the sheer rock face. A moment later they hit. McNeil was on the outside, away from the wall when they crashed into it, and Koko's body shielded him from the impact. Koko wasn't so fortunate. The shock of being sandwiched between McNeil and the wall knocked him unconscious and he relaxed his grip. For a moment, everything seemed okay. Then the vine started to snap.

McNeil heard it first, before the two groups that watched from either side of the crevice. He looked up and watched as, strand by strand, the vine unraveled. He had seconds to live. He yelled up at Samantha to throw down another vine, and seconds later one appeared. He quickly wrapped it under Koko's armpits and knotted it. He yelled to the team on the near side of the gap to grab the vine Sam had thrown over, and let go of the first. He heard a voice yelling they had it, and he released the excess weight.

Koko remained stationary for a moment, then began to move upwards. A foot or two at a time, he was hoisted toward the rim of the gorge, unconscious and totally unaware of his predicament. Without Koko's body weight, the vine holding McNeil frayed less quickly, giving him a chance to get good hand and toe grips into the rock seconds before the vine snapped. He watched as his safety harness drifted past and then hung below him. He was stuck against the wall, with nothing but the strength in his fingers keeping him from a long drop to his death. He took a few deep breaths and began to climb.

Every finger hold was a life-or-death decision. The tips of his boots searched out tiny juts or cracks and kept some of the weight off his hands, but it was his fingertips that controlled his destiny. Inch by inch he worked his way up the cliff side, knowing that one wrong move was the end. A small outcrop crumbled under his left hand and he gasped in air sharply, for a moment not knowing whether he could compensate in time. He curled the fingers of his right hand deeper into the crack and tensed his back muscles to keep his body from swinging. A moment later he was stationary and stable. He found a new finger grip for his left hand, tested its strength and continued. He briefly caught a glimpse of the team members on the far side of the chasm as he arced his neck to search for a new handhold. To a man, they watched intently without making a sound. He swept his gaze back to the wall and upward. Anxious faces stared back at him. He locked eyes with Samantha, and mouthed
“It's okay.”
She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and he looked back to the ten feet of wall left before he reached the top.

This was the trickiest part. The uppermost rocks of the cliff face were the least compacted and most subject to erosion. Although they appeared solid, they were easily dislodged, and each time he looked for a new hold McNeil pulled out numerous rocks before finding a well-anchored one. The minutes dragged on and his strength began to wane. He was less than four feet from the top, and within inches of Samantha's outstretched arm, when both his finger holds crumbled at once. He stayed prone to the wall for a split second, then his body began to fall away. He pushed with his toes, willing them to give him the vertical lift he needed to grasp Sam's hand. He made it, barely, and caught her wrist with his right hand.

He saw the pain course through her as her torso was pulled tight into the rough rocks atop the gorge. She grimaced and clenched her teeth, and tears appeared at the edges of her eyes. He knew the pain must be excruciating. He prayed that the men behind her, holding her legs, could take the added weight. Slowly, he hoisted himself up, using only the lessening strength in his arm. He grasped her above the elbow, then pulled upward again until he could hook his loose hand under her armpit. His eyes were level with the rock edge, and he could see Hal and Beya, their faces drenched with sweat as they strained to keep Samantha from plunging into the gorge. He saw the fatigue, and he knew that they were finished, that they could hold her no longer. He made a move that would either save him or kill him.

With every shred of strength his well-honed body had left, he jackknifed hard left, then kicked his right leg out and up. The momentum of the slight pendulum gave him the added lift he needed, and he rolled atop the edge. He lay there for a moment, panting, then looked to Samantha.

“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, his breath coming in gasps.

“No,” she said. “I think you pulled my arm out of its socket. You should lose some weight.”

He laughed. He looked her in the eye and laughed like he had never laughed before. And she joined him. He cradled her smiling face in his hands, and when they had finally stopped, he said, “Thanks. You saved my life, you know.”

“Uh-huh, I know. You owe me one. And I wasn't kidding about my arm. It's really screwed up.”

He rose to his feet and pulled her up by her good arm. He gently grasped her damaged limb and tried to lift it. She winced when it reached about halfway, and screamed when he tried to move it a fraction farther. He slowly lowered it, and shook his head.

“It's dislocated,” he said. “You weren't kidding. It's pulled right out of its socket. Shit.”

Hal tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Mr. Travis, I can fix this.”

The diminutive man spoke the words without pomp or arrogance, simply with confidence. The same confidence that emanated from him as he guided the expedition through the dense jungle.

“Have you ever done this before?” Travis asked.

Hal laughed. “Many times. My brother played professional football for a few years, and there were numerous players with dislocated shoulders. It's quite common—that and gashes from cleats.”

“Your brother played in the NFL?” Travis asked.