Eventually the track widened and we came out of the gloom, but even before we stopped, men who were full of impatience were shouting and hammering on the vehicle with sticks. The women above me made noises of pure dread as they climbed off the tailgate onto the ground. I dropped my head so that I could see what was going on and saw a dozen soldiers milling about, waiting on the human cargo, smacking them with those sticks like they were cattle, herding them toward some kind of marshaling area. Another truck was parked beside my ride, pointing back the way we came in. I dropped onto the mud and scampered across beneath it. Beyond this second truck, on its far side, the forest beckoned with a thousand places to hide. I dived into a thick screen of elephant grass and worked my way clear of the parking lot.
The forest here was mostly banana tree, some other kind of palm with fleshy leaves that grew close to the ground, and the usual elephant grass. I figured that it was probably an abandoned plantation because I could move through it reasonably easily. I made a wide circle and, as I worked my way around to what must have been the downwind side of whatever was going on here, the air brought with it the smell of unwashed bodies, exhumed earth and the murmur of a crowd of voices. What the hell was this place?
I changed direction, got down on my stomach and wriggled forward through the scrub, taking it slowly, the smells and the sounds concentrating. And, suddenly, the earth fell away beneath my hands. I was on the edge of something. I separated the leaves in front of my face and dropping away more than a hundred feet was a pit of the damned. Several hundred souls caked in orange dust and mud, driven by soldiers with long sticks and rifles, passed buckets of the mud up a complex labyrinth of terraces, ramps and ladders, and they were then tipped onto bigger piles of mud being worked over by more human beings urged on by beatings. The captives here were slaves, no other word for it. As I watched the scene, which reminded me of one of those old church paintings depicting a vision of hell, a man slipped and dropped his bucket, and two of the guards thrashed him with their sticks while he cowered and eventually rolled himself into a ball. Unfortunately, he rolled a little too far and fell off the terrace, dropping ten feet to a lower level where he landed on his head. No one went to the man’s aid, though several soldiers rushed at him with their sticks and the beating started over. They didn’t seem to realize, much less care, that the guy wasn’t moving, not even to protect his head.
I glanced over toward the area where the trucks were parked. Soldiers handed buckets to the women I had shared the truck with and then divided them into teams. Down in the pit, more women worked alongside the men. Some children were down there too, I noticed. The lethargy of the workforce was matched by most of the soldiers. But there were others in uniforms present who watched over the proceedings with more than a passing interest. These men occupied a couple of shanty-style buildings over by the parking lot that were set back from the edge of the pit. Unlike their uniformed counterparts down in the hole, these men were clean and dust-free. They loitered on the rickety, uneven verandas, waved away the flies and upended green beer bottles.
Bushes thrashed about nearby, distracting me. Jesus, there was something large and determined coming through, heading straight for me. Whatever it was came close, and then stopped. I pulled my Ka-bar and held my breath. I didn’t want to think about what it might be, but thought sharp teeth and claws were probably in my immediate future. It moved again and suddenly a black face with wide yellow eyes burst through the foliage in front of me and stopped. We looked at each other, neither of us sure what to do. I saw his knife, an old rusty blade, and knew he’d figured it out. He stuck the thing into my ribs but the crude blade glanced off my body armor. The guy was small and determined and surprisingly strong. I grabbed his wrist, and managed to roll on top of him and pin his knife between our chests. He was a civilian, or maybe a soldier out of uniform. I held my Ka-bar across his throat and pushed the blade into his Adam’s apple, his breathing coming out short and sharp.
‘Américain?’ he gasped, eyes widening with surprise. ‘Vous-êtes Américain?’
No point denying it, there being a low-viz brown and tan Stars and Stripes patch on my shoulder.
‘We,’ I told him, in the worst French accent I’d probably ever heard.
The guy stopped struggling.
‘Then you help,’ he said in broken English.
‘Is that before or after you stick me?’
‘Oh, pardon, monsieur.’
‘You speak English.’ I said.
‘Oui, a little.’
‘Then let’s go with that.’
I happened to glance up just as the Chinese guy, the one from the FARDC encampment, emerged from one of the shanty hovels. Colonel Cravat was with him, following a few paces behind. Then Lockhart made an appearance, stepping from out of the hut and trotting up behind the two men. The three of them met out in the open with a man covered in orange dust accompanied by a couple of soldiers. The uniformed guys on the verandas were all turned toward them, their body language expectant. Something was going on.
One of the soldiers accompanying the man covered in orange dust held something toward Lockhart. He accepted it, examined it, and passed it on to Colonel Cravat, who then handed in to Fu Manchu. As all three examined the item, they became animated. Whatever it was obviously excited the crap out of them.
Lockhart and Colonel Cravat spoke with the orange man and he pointed down into the pit, showing where he found whatever it was that was getting them all in a lather.
Then Lockhart held the object up to the beer gallery and yelled, ‘Door!’ which was met by a rousing cheer, raised bottles and plenty of backslapping.
‘Door? What door?’ I muttered.
‘D’or,’ said the man lying beside me on the ground, also watching Lockhart and the others. ‘Gold.’
Rendezvous
The soldiers and the man who made the strike each received a bottle of beer. A nugget of gold in exchange for a beer. I licked my lips and thought, yeah, fair trade. All three of them then shuffed off back down into the pit. Lockhart, Fu Manchu and Colonel Cravat headed for the shacks and the men on the verandas crowded around to inspect the find.
‘Who is that man?’ I asked the Congolese beside me. ‘The officer — the one with the white scarf tucked into his shirt. You know his name?’
‘He is Colonel Innocent Lissouba. A very bad man.’
I repeated the name to fx it in my memory.
‘He came to my village. His soldiers took all the women and all the men. They killed many. I want to kill him.’
The man wriggled forward to get a better view of the pit.
‘My wife, she is down there,’ he said, trying to spot her.
‘Where’s your village?’ I asked. He gestured off in a direction away from the village I’d just witnessed being plundered for the able-bodied. There were many more laborers down in the pit than I’d seen transported here, which meant there were other villages nearby. For all I knew, Lockhart, Lissouba and his cohorts were out scouring the countryside, press-ganging anyone strong enough to lift a shovel.
‘You are American! You must help me free my wife, my people.’
‘Do I look like Bruce Willis?’ I said.
‘Bruce Willis, yes!’
The guy was excited.
‘I’m not Bruce Willis. I’ve got hair.’
He went back to scouring the pit.