Blood diamonds, p.4
Blood Diamonds, page 4
Wolfgang grinned and said, “What’re you gonna do, bite me?”
Before the man could finish, he was on the deck, having been head-butted so hard that for a second, his eyes rolled back in his head. Bibby had targeted Wolfgang’s lump, of course.
He hunkered down, his own forehead smarting. “Please, Wolfgang. It’s Mr. Bibby. I insist.”
To hell with unit integrity. At least for the moment.
Chapter 2
Luanda 4 de Fevereiro (LAD)
Luanda, Angola
Present Day
0630 Hours Local Time
Rookie, who had been sitting on the floor next to Mad Dog for the past two hours, leaned over and said, “You told me, and I quote, ‘Don’t worry about going to jail. We don’t break the law so much as navigate around it.’”
“I said that?”
“Yeah, you did.”
Takahiro Masaki, a former member of the army’s famed Delta Force, had been recruited only a month earlier after one of Mad Dog’s other guys, Bobby Foyte, an army Ranger who’d developed a bum knee, decided to make playing the market his full-time career.
Masaki was thirty, had strong Japanese features, a spiked haircut that added an inch to his five-foot-eight frame, and had left the army for something different: better pay. Getting busted had never been on his To Do list; it wasn’t on Mad Dog’s either. What the hell had happened to Jack?
“You told me I’d be like Bruce Lee with a Beretta.”
“I never said that.”
“You told me there’d be big commissions on top of my base pay. Big commissions, you said.”
“I might’ve said that.”
“You told me I could do this for a couple of years and be set for life, just like Foyte.”
Mad Dog raised his brows. “Bobby knew how to invest his money. He’s helping me, too, keeping some of it in the family. But as Scarface once said, you gotta make da money first.”
“Well, what the fuck, Dog? This kind of shit is totally unprofessional. I thought I signed on with first-class operators! How do we make the money in here?”
Mad Dog stiffened. “Just chill out, Rook. For some reason, Jack didn’t get to these guys. I don’t know why. Be patient. He’ll be here.”
“Why, because he’s a marine and won’t let you down? Fuck man, we’re all mercs now. He fucked us over.”
“No,” Mad Dog said emphatically. “He did not. If we recover the diamonds, he gets a bonus for recommending us. So he’s got no reason to fuck us over.”
Unless Bibby was right and Jack had a master plan that involved using Mad Dog and his team as a diversion. Shit. You never knew.
“Hey, Bossman, you want me to educate him?” asked Pope as he crouched down before them, sweat beading off his enormous shaven head.
Rookie laughed. “Yo, dude, you know the story of David and Goliath?”
“I know I can squeeze you like a packet of soy sauce. I’ll squeeze and squeeze till you pop!”
Billy Pope had been a lieutenant commander in the Navy who had served on both SEAL and SDV teams. He had been trained extensively in submarine insertion and extraction, was an expert rifleman, and liked to show off his Ninjutsu and Israeli Krav Maga skills whenever he had the chance. However, Mad Dog had never seen him squeeze another man like a packet of soy sauce. That was a new one on him. At six six, two hundred and seventy pounds, Pope was the biggest, most evil-minded motherfucker on the team. Sure, he looked like a big ape with no neck, but he was smart, too, an information specialist who could crack into computer systems as effortlessly as Bibby.
“Hey, Dog, you want some dirt on our famous fire team leader?” asked Rookie. “You know what he’s got in his ruck? A fuckin’ Barbie doll. I swear to God. He’s got a doll in there! He plays with dolls! Not blow-up ones. Little ones! Weirdest fetish I’ve ever heard of!”
Pope thrust himself forward, into Rookie’s lap. “You went through my ruck?”
“You went through mine!”
“To make sure you weren’t packin’ too heavy!”
“I wasn’t fuckin’ born yesterday! And I would’ve left your stuff alone if you hadn’t made a career out of picking on me. I’m the new guy. So fucking what? I’m Delta Force, cockbreath. You will respect that. You can call me rookie all you want, but my real name’s Godzilla, understood?”
“Your breath smells like Godzilla’s,” Pope said, grinning at Mad Dog. “But you got some balls—small ones, but you got ’em. You might die second instead of first, as I predicted. But you will die if you go through my shit again.”
“Lay off him,” Mad Dog told Pope. “He’s got the record just like you. He’ll prove himself.”
Rookie shook his head in disgust. “I hope you guys can prove something to me, because so far, this is bullshit.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, little man,” growled Pope. “Not at all.”
“Oh, I’m worrying. So far we got bad contacts, we’re in jail, and I’m working with a guy who carries around a Barbie doll.”
Mad Dog knew about the doll and he, too, had asked Pope why he carried it; he’d been fed the same line of shit, but you knew there was a whole story behind it, one better left alone until the man was ready to share.
“Enough with the doll,” snapped Pope. “It’s a good luck charm. That’s all.”
Rookie snickered. “Fag.”
Pope’s eyes bugged out. “Fuck you. Back in World War II, my great-grandfather was shootin’ you people out of trees.”
“Hey, enough with that shit!” cried Mad Dog.
It was amazing how one snafu could set tempers ablaze. Problems usually didn’t occur so early in a job; that was part of it, yes, along with the uncertainties, but his guys usually weren’t so tense.
Without warning, the door swung open, and in walked Jack Palansky. The marine-turned-security-guy appeared just as Dan had described him: “Big Polack. Kinda dumb-looking face. Little pudgy.” And he issued that stupid laugh, which was too high-pitched for a man his size. Still, Jack was a green marine to the core.
Mad Dog wormed his way to his feet. “Hey, Jack. I’d shake your hand, but I’m fucking handcuffed!”
Jack raised his palms. “Roger that. Sorry about all this. We had a little communication breakdown between the security chief and his brother-in-law. Their bad. Not mine. I got it all straightened out.”
Mr. Bibby stepped between Mad Dog and Jack. “Hello, Mr. Palansky. I’m Alastair Bibby. Mr. Bibby. And I must say we have a low tolerance for inefficiency, because as you know, it gets blokes like you and me killed.”
“Nice to finally meet you, too,” Jack said with a smirk. “We’ll be on our way now.” He turned to the others. “Welcome to Angola, boys…”
“Yeah, I hate it already,” said Pope.
A couple of aging, Russian-made, eight-wheeled BTR–60s, armored personnel carriers that were beat up to shit but still ran, waited for them on the tarmac. They inventoried and offloaded their gear into the vehicles, then set out for a full day’s drive west to Saurimo in the province of Lunda Sul, which lay in the northeast region of the country. There, about thirty-five kilometers from Saurimo, Morstarr had set up its mining operation in one of the world’s largest, most productive diamond mines.
While that area was diamond-rich, its inhabitants were still dirt-poor. Because the province was so remote, everything had to be flown or trucked in, though the roads were little more than broken tar and dust. Water and fuel were incredibly expensive. An ongoing operation to rid the roads of landmines was still in effect, though Jack assured everyone that his drivers knew the safe routes and that once they were in Lunda Sul, they would be safe. Neither the government nor any of the rebel groups, past or present, had bothered to plant mines that far out.
With time to kill during the road-trip phase, Mad Dog ordered his men to apply their war paint, which in this case was a specially formulated sunless tanning solution that would darken their skin to a medium black. From a distance, they would pass for locals, but up close they would need to say they were mestico (a mixed European and native African) which made up about 2 percent of the population. Still, a few people like Mr. Bibby just couldn’t pull off the black thing, war paint or no, so they’d keep him in balaclava to hide his face whenever they could.
On the other hand, Sapper, who was, of course, black, would fit in (though the tattoo on his neck might need some explaining). He made a point of ribbing the other guys about how much better they looked as black men.
When Mad Dog was finished smearing on his own war paint with Jack’s help, he grabbed a bottle of water and said, “So, Jacky boy, bring me up to speed.”
“I’ve had my guys go to some of the rural villages between the mines and the Congo border.”
“And?”
“Well, that’s a big area, tough, about a hundred klicks out to the Congo.”
“You do any more air recon since we talked?”
“We’ve done some, but the transport pilots we’ve been using are glorified cab drivers. Don’t know how good their eyes are. Don’t know if we can really trust them, either. And their flight paths are always the same, so the bandits know how and when to lay low. Yesterday we paid one guy to do a few passes along the border, but he didn’t see jack.”
“This is getting better all the time.”
“I’m worried that if we do any more air recon, we might put them on the run.”
“Maybe. So tell me about these villages.”
“First thing you notice is all the women. A lot of the men were killed off during the civil wars. It’s pretty sad. There’s no sanitation, and it’s amazing the people actually survive. But they don’t, not really. Most die before they hit forty.”
Mad Dog nodded impatiently. Had Jack taken conversation lessons from old Diaper Dan? Was he doing a humanitarian-aid commercial? “You telling me you don’t have a single lead?”
“Not a one.”
“Jesus Christ, Jack.”
Mad Dog’s friend smiled knowingly. “Relax. We’ve bought some eyes in those villages now.”
“That’s it?”
“No, that’s not it. I do have a place for you to start, little town about three hours out I call Jumoke’s Place. My men gathered some intel on one of the bandits who was seen there the day before the robbery. The old lady, Jumoke, is real nosy, and she likes gifts. We tried, but we couldn’t get much out of her. She knows more than she’s saying—at least my guys think so. She needs a bribe. And she’s the one who thinks they haven’t left. She seems real certain about that—which makes me believe she’s in bed with them, until someone else pays her more.”
“All right, I’ll cough up some of your boss’s money. We’ll see her first. Do a little recon before we come a knockin’. Soon as we get to camp.”
“It’ll be dark by then. A lot of ’em go to bed at sundown. Maybe you should, too. You jet lagging?”
“Yeah, but we’ll catch a few Zs right now. We didn’t come here to sleep.”
“God equals Gold, Oil, and Diamonds. Seems old Mad Dog’s got dollar signs in his eyes.”
“Used to be American flags—for both of us.”
“Times change.”
“Times do. But not us. Couple jarheads.”
Jack grinned wearily. “Ooh-rah.”
Morstarr Base Camp
Near Saurimo, Angola
1530 Hours Local Time
Angola’s northeast region was mainly a plateau, with altitudes about a kilometer south of Saurimo. A series of major, north-flowing rivers traversed the countryside and created valleys generally 150 meters deep into the plateau. They were heading to the southern edge of the rain forest belt, and vegetation varied between relativity thick forest cover to thin woods covering grasslands to wide open stretches that unrolled in lazy bumps toward the horizon.
The rainy season ran between October and April, and a brief shower had just ended as they neared Morstarr’s base camp nearly nine hours after they had left the airport. Mad Dog would have much rather flown, and there was a Boeing 727 cargo plane that made the run, but Jack had argued against it for security reasons. Too many curious eyes, too many people to bribe, and too much commotion at the airstrip.
Besides the trio of Quonset huts that the company’s management team used as field offices, a small cluster of about a dozen clay huts with thatched roofs stood near a dense tree line, already falling into a steamy darkness. Those huts housed the mine’s security team of fifteen men, local recruits who loitered outside the huts, half-dressed, smoking, and drinking sodas, their brows full of sweat.
Jack said two of the huts had been emptied out and that Mad Dog and his crew could have them. Inside they would find Morstarr security uniforms ordered to size.
Once they unloaded, the team would begin fieldstripping, cleaning, lubing, and performing functions checks on all weapons as soon as they got them unpacked to ensure they worked and hadn’t been tampered with by those bozos back at the airport.
While the team got busy on that, Mad Dog went off with Jack toward a hundred-foot-deep pit that spread out from the camp like an impact crater. Three feet of rainwater had collected in several of the corners, the mud assuming a dozen shades of red as the sun continued to set. Four giant backhoes, along with at least as many six-wheeled dump trucks, bulldozers, loaders, tractor trailers, and other heavy machinery and conveyor belts stood inert like gray-and-yellow monoliths. The crews had retired for the evening.
Mad Dog was impressed with what he saw and even more impressed with the Cuban cigar that Jack shoved into his hand. “They got a big operation here, eh?”
“This is one of three sites,” Jack said, lighting up his stogie. He handed the Zippo to Mad Dog. “You know anything about diamonds?”
“Yeah, I learned a little when I was buying all those wedding rings.” Mad Dog took a puff, sighed in ecstasy.
Jack laughed. “At least you gave it a try. But, hey, you see down there, we got these pipe-shaped igneous rock formations? They’re called kimberlite. That’s where the diamonds take shape.”
“What are you, a scientist now?”
“This is fascinating shit, man. Listen. Did you know that 70 percent of stones they haul out of here are considered gem quality? Diamond for diamond, that makes this place—”
“A gold mine?”
“I was going to say an incredibly profitable mine, one of the most profitable in the world before Mr. Fucking Wiseass interrupted me. That’s a good cigar, isn’t it?”
“The best.”
Jack lowered his voice. “Hey, I was thinking about something. You came a long way out here, and like I said, I think those diamonds are still floating around. But if they aren’t, there might be a way to get some…payment…anyway.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I put this security team together. I know their strengths and their weaknesses. So does the company’s CO and his team. Like I said, I think one of those suits is in bed with the bandits. They knew just when to hit us and how.”
“Or that could just be a coincidence. Or…and I’m just thinking out loud here…maybe the chief of mine security is in bed with the bandits.”
Jack chuckled. “You know, right now, I wish I were. Because that’s what I’m getting at. There’s no reason for you—for us—to walk out of here empty-handed. I mean, Michael, every day I’ve been here the thought has crossed my mind.”
“So you’re saying that if me and my guys can’t find the diamonds, we can steal some with your help?”
Jack pulled the cigar from his mouth, stared at the glowing tip. “Morstarr’s a huge company. Those suits are fucking each other over. One of ’em set up this whole thing. What say you and me fuck the fuckers?”
“I didn’t come here to steal, Jack. I came here to recover and collect the reward.”
“But you’re a merc now.”
“Which means I got no code, right? Bullshit. I’m not like those other assholes. That’s why I attract first-class operators. I’m not afraid to break the law, but if I can get results without going criminal, that’s what I do. There’s too much marine in me. So if I walk out of here with nothing, then that’s that.”
“You fuckin’ amaze me.”
“The amazing part comes when me and my boys come back here with the stash in hand and the two mil transferred to our account.”
“Hey, Zog?”
Mad Dog turned to face Boo Boo, who was trudging up the hill, wearing the same khaki shirt, trousers, baseball cap, and green jacket as the Morstarr security team.
Vincent Orrello was the oldest guy on the team, at forty-eight. He’d been an army medic in the first Gulf War, then he’d spent another ten years as a firefighter/paramedic assigned to some of L.A.’s toughest hoods. That he had no special-forces training was not a handicap, according to Mad Dog. Orrello practiced street medicine, the kind of down-and-dirty tactical stuff mercs needed if anyone got hurt. Sure, Ranger medics and other SpecOp medics knew their shit, but Orrello had also seen his share of trauma and had developed enough personal tricks to write his own protocol manual. Better still, he’d dealt with all kinds of people under stress and was a smooth negotiator when dealing with the “mentally impaired.” His monotone voice, unflinching eyes, and keen intellect soothed savage beasts, be they mercenary, military, or civilian.
The medic must have already inventoried his Special Operations Forces Medical Equipment Set (MES). That done, he had no doubt tested their micro Reverse Osmosis Water Purification Unit (ROWPU) in case they had to purify their own drinking water (you did not want to drink the tap water in a place like Angola). Custom made and about the size of a suitcase, the unit could produce enough potable water to refill the Camelbaks, canteens, and water cans for the entire team in less than twenty minutes from literally any water source. The last thing they needed was to get sick, forcing Boo Boo to play nursemaid to a bunch of queasy killers.
Though he saved lives, Boo Boo wasn’t afraid to take them. He carried an H&K MP–5K-PDW “Personal Defense Weapon,” a compact submachine gun that could be folded and neatly slung over his shoulder or back, or fired with one hand when carrying someone in a fireman’s carry. When it came time to rock ’n’ roll he would unfold the shoulder stock for accuracy and in a pinch add a silencer onto the muzzle. Presently, the weapon dangled from his shoulder.
