African Ice (10 page)

The army vehicles began to ferry across, with one of Mugumba's men directing them as Troy had done for the Land Rovers. The temporary bridge groaned under the weight, but held firm. Four of the trucks were across and being reloaded when the second-to-last vehicle pulled up, still covered with a tarpaulin—and still fully loaded. Everyone stopped and watched as the truck began the crossing. The cab was fine, slightly heavier but still well within the limits of the bridge. The rear axle was another story. As the tandem rear end moved onto the ramps, they began to bend. Slowly the rear of the truck slid toward the edge as the added weight overloaded the span. The driver felt the motion and gunned the truck engine, sending power to the rear wheels. The tires caught and jerked the truck forward quickly enough to hit the dirt on the far side before the ramps folded. Once across, the driver slammed on the brakes and jumped from the cab, swearing loudly in an obscure dialect.

Mugumba briefly inspected the bridge. The ramps were bent, but the structure was still intact. He motioned for the final truck to come across. The front wheels were not a problem, dropping slightly with the curve the previous truck had forced into the steel. The rear of the truck was not so simple. The tandem axle split the weight better than a single, but there was too much stress on the already weakened timbers that shored up the bridge. The first log shuddered for a moment, then snapped. The cracking sound was followed almost instantly by three more as the remaining logs split apart. The backbone of the bridge was compromised, and the metal ramps bent to the breaking point and then collapsed. The rear bumper smashed down onto the dirt, and for a moment the truck seemed stable, hung up on the dirt next to the washout. Then the edge caved in. The rear of the truck slid into the enlarged gap, and then pulled the cab with it as it careened over the cliff. The driver opened the door, but couldn't jump quickly enough. His screams echoed up the canyon as the truck crashed down the incline, rolling end over end until it hit the bottom with a sickening thud. No one spoke for a few moments.

“Finish loading the trucks.” Mugumba finally broke the silence. “I want to make Butembo by nightfall.” He made no reference to the dead man, nor did any of his platoon. The reloading was accomplished and the convoy moving within a half hour. The road remained treacherous but passable. An hour before sundown they pulled into the bustling city of Butembo.

Samantha jumped from the Land Rover the moment McNeil pulled in front of the Queen Anne, Butembo's premier hotel. She stretched her legs, gathered her hair off her shoulders and headed into the hotel. Reminiscent of the early Belgian influence on the country, the lobby was very European. High ceilings, ornate chandeliers and candelabra, overstuffed easy chairs with dark colonial woodwork, and smooth marble floors greeted her. She padded across the foyer to the reception desk and checked in. Her room was on the third floor and she spent no time getting stripped down and into the shower. Similar to Kigali, the water was ice-cold. By the time she finished washing the day's dirt off her skin, she was shivering. She shut the water off and towel dried. She glanced out the window as she dressed for dinner, scanning the rooftops, then raising her gaze and letting it rest on the distant mountains.

She had a limited knowledge of this remote city. It was nestled between two national parks and stood as the last civilization for travelers venturing in any direction. To the southwest was the vast, mostly uncharted Congo River basin. Satellite imagery was responsible for humans' understanding of this geography, not hands-on exploration. The major routes through the interior of the country were well known, but the river basin held more virgin land untouched by anyone but an occasional headhunter than the entire Amazon Basin in Brazil. On past expeditions she had marveled at the scope of the river system, the largest in Africa and second only to the Amazon in water flow. And flow it did, refusing to dry up in even the driest season, as it was fed from both sides of the equator.

Northwest Congo was mostly savannah with an occasional woodland thrown in. Easier to navigate, but hotter than Hades. Below Butembo to the south was the route they had come in on, rugged and unforgiving plateaus and rift valleys. But nothing could compare to the volcanic Virunga and Ruwenzori Mountains that sliced down the eastern border of the Congo like a jagged scar on a plush green field. Pic Marguerite, the highest peak in the Ruwenzori, topped out at almost sixteen thousand feet. Their target area was somewhere in the seventy square miles that lay to the south of this monster.

Samantha turned from the window, left the room and joined her crew in the restaurant. They ordered chicken, but from its texture they were pretty sure it was not chicken that arrived at their table. They appreciated that the meat was edible and cooked, and between the five of them cleaned the platter. The sun had slipped beneath the western savannah by the time they finished the last few drops of rye whisky Alain had brought to the restaurant. The trek had taken its toll, and they drifted off to their rooms shortly after to get a decent sleep. Dawn came early in the tropics.

Travis and Troy were engaged in a heated argument when Samantha arrived at the restaurant the next morning. They stopped as she arrived and it took fifteen minutes for her to find out what they had been discussing. Strippers. McNeil held the view that when the woman left a piece of clothing on, it added to the performance. Ramage disagreed. Everything off was better. Samantha just shook her head—she was surrounded by a bunch of schoolboys. Eventually, the conversation touched on securing a helicopter.

“There's a guy in town who rents his machine out by the hour,” Dan Nelson informed them. “But the fellow I was talking with told me the pilot will give customers a good break on weekly rates. He's an excellent pilot from what I hear—Billy Hackett. He's on the east side of town, maybe ten minutes in the Rover.”

“Okay, after we finish eating, Alain and I will check it out. Dan, I want you and Troy to open our gear and give it the once-over. Strip the weapons down and rebuild them. Run diagnostics on all the communications gear, especially the GPS systems. Sam, you should break open the crates and check your geological apparatus. Make sure everything's operational.”

Travis took care of the breakfast tab, then headed out with Alain in search of Billy Hackett and his helicopter. Sam joined Troy and Dan in a compound adjacent to the hotel, where the expedition gear had been offloaded from the military trucks. Five uniformed soldiers stood watch over the crates. The remainder of the military force was nowhere to be seen. Samantha watched the ex-SEALs as they methodically disassembled each weapon, made notes on a pad of paper and then returned each piece of equipment to a workable state. There were no wasted movements, no hesitation as to which piece fit where. She knew from watching them that these men were the consummate professionals—at killing people. Despite the numbing heat, it made her shiver.

Sam cracked open her crates and began to poke through the geological gear Gem-Star had provided her. For the most part, it was her first look at the equipment. She was impressed with what she saw. Gem-Star had spared no expense.

Aside from the usual binocular microscope, hand lens, geological pick and sample bags, was a mobile spectrometer.

The hotel manager, smiling eagerly, approached her as she repositioned her gear. The arrival of the team was a boon to his monthly take, and he wanted to personally meet the attractive woman who headed the team. He held out his hand.

“I am Martine Abouda,” he said pleasantly, enjoying the feel of her skin against his. “I am the manager of the hotel. If there is anything you need . . .”

“Sam Carlson,” she responded, “and I think we're okay. Your staff has done a wonderful job of making us feel welcome.”

“Sam Carlson.” He laughed. “You don't look at all like Sam Carlson.”

She chuckled. “It's short for Samantha. And thanks for stopping by.” She returned to checking her gear, and the man left.

A few minutes later Samantha snapped the final case shut and stood up. She swayed slightly as her equilibrium threatened to leave her, but caught hold of a nearby palm plant. The heat was outrageous and her temples throbbed as she fought to regain her balance. Don't stand up so quick, she reminded herself as everything came back to normal and she let go her grip on the palm. She walked back into the hotel, wondering how Travis and Alain were progressing with the helicopter.

Billy Hackett was laid out on a hammock when Travis walked around the side of the thatched hut that served as Hackett's house and his business address. A half-consumed sun-baked beer rested on his chest and an open package of cigarettes lay on the ground. Numerous butts and burned matches peppered the immediate area. Travis stood over the man for a moment, his shadow covering the pilot's face. He knew exactly what he was looking at.

Billy Hackett was ex-Nam—Travis had seen hundreds of these guys. Americans who had seen the dark side of humanity and lived to remember it. The war had been a travesty for all the troops, but the chopper pilots had been subjected to every conceivable act of violence on and above the battlefield. Bringing in the wounded, limbs torn from torsos, napalming suspected Cong infestations, knowing full well that innocent people lay below the propellant that scorched human skin and sucked the oxygen from the air. The machine guns that poked out the side of the Hueys rained death on anyone inside the target areas. From a hundred feet up, it took too much time to decipher between a child and a man with a gun. Every pilot had seen atrocities and had perpetrated them. They lived with the memories, none of them pleasant. They did what was necessary to survive—physically and emotionally. And that's what made them the best damn pilots on earth.

McNeil cleared his throat and watched the man's eyes slowly open. He shifted slightly and his shadow moved off Hackett's face. Hackett shut his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun and groaned. He sat up and rubbed his free hand across his face. He still clutched his beer with the other hand. He squinted at McNeil for a minute, then set the beer on the dusty ground and stood up.

“Your wife sent me around. Told me you'd be back here,” Travis said.

“Yeah, she does that kind of thing,” Hackett said. “What do you want?”

“I need to hire a helicopter and a pilot for some recon work. You available?”

“When do you need me?”

“I've got some specialized gear that needs to be loaded in the machine. Spherical imaging stuff of some sort. I'd like to get that done today and have you running a grid by tomorrow.”

Hackett nodded again. “I charge eight hundred American dollars a day. Fifty percent payable in advance. How many days do you need me?”

“I'm more interested in your weekly rate,” McNeil replied. “You'll be covering an increasingly small area as we zero in on what we're looking for. The more precise your search becomes, the more time you'll be spending on the ground. But I still want you working exclusively for us. You have to be ready to fly when we need you. What's the weekly rate for that?”

Hackett rubbed his chin and pursed his lips. A minute later he responded, “Four thousand a week. You pay me in advance for the week, a week at a time. If you find what you're looking for halfway through a week, I still keep the money.” He paused for a minute. “What
are
you looking for?”

“Differences in vegetation coloring for mining purposes,” McNeil said, studying the man. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?” Hackett shook his head. “What's a white guy doing here in the middle of Africa?”

Billy Hackett laughed, and Travis couldn't help smiling with him. It was almost contagious. The pilot was McNeil's height, but quite slender. He was pushing fifty-five and still sported a full head of blond bushy hair. He was unshaven, and gray hairs interspersed the thick five o'clock shadow that covered his prominent jaw line. His teeth were white, but crooked in a few spots—something that might have been easily fixed with rudimentary orthodontics. His eyes were deep brown and devoid of the haunted look so many ex-military pilots wore. They sparkled with a life of their own, telling the observer that a fertile mind existed beyond them. McNeil found himself instantly liking the man.

“What's a white guy doing in the middle of Africa?” Hackett repeated. “I married that wonderful woman who sent you back here to find me. I met her in Kinshasa ten years ago and we were married two weeks later. We went back to the States, but she hated the weather. Montana is just too fucking cold when you're used to this.” He waved his arms about as he spoke. “We tried California, but she couldn't stand the pace. So here we are, living happily in the Congo.”

“Third-world living,” Travis said. “Is your chopper in decent condition?”

Hackett looked insulted. “Most certainly. You want to have a look?” McNeil nodded and Hackett motioned for the ex-SEAL to follow him. A narrow path led into the jungle immediately behind the house, blocking out the sun and cooling the surrounding air. It felt good. Forty yards into the rain forest, they suddenly broke out into a round clearing. Travis stared, his mouth open. A fully functional helipad, paved and night-lit, sat directly ahead. On the circular patch of asphalt sat a spotless Bell 427, the sleekest baby in Bell's fleet. The sun reflected off the highly polished maroon finish covering the twin turbine engines, and all four rotors were buffed and properly tied down.

“Holy shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Now that's a helicopter.” He turned to Billy Hackett. “How the hell can you afford this thing?”

“It's not that hard,” the pilot replied. “I'm the only rotary wing air service for a few hundred miles. I get all the medivac work from the government, tourist flights in and around the Ruwenzori, government VIPs, and lots of commercial work for mining companies out of Rwanda and the Congo. This place is a gold mine.” He motioned toward a small Quonset tucked back into the tangle of ferns and vines that bordered the well-kept landing area. McNeil followed Hackett to the shed and waited as he entered a code into the electronic lock. The door opened and he walked behind Hackett into the darkened room. A motion-sensor light activated a ceiling-mounted bulb and the structure was suddenly illuminated.