Another indispensable survival tool of the hunter is his knowledge of how to exploit the terrain for camouflage and concealment.
The group’s construction of their road block took a little under two hours. When they were satisfied the job was done, several of them went over to join their fellows in the copse of tall grass and succulents, while others spread out amid the trees. A single man scaled up a bubinga to saddle himself in a fork of its widespread limbs and find a comfortable position for his Steyr SG550 sniper gun, custom-railed with an AN/PIS thermal, day/ night sight.
The men in the copse had also finished their preparations of the area. Their gloves and uniforms tacked with spines and dripping the pasty, whitish secretions of the euphorbia stems, they had cut fire lanes that were as unobtrusive as the log barrier.
Now the band of hired jungle fighters would plant their mortars, and rest, and wait.
It would be a while yet before the UpLink convoy reached them.
A few minutes before the outset of the Sette Cama supply and inspection run, Pete Nimec stood talking with Steve DeMarco, Joel Ackerman, and Vince Scull at the airport parking area where their UpLink team had gathered. Nimec was leaning back against the driver’s side of a modified Sword Land Rover, elbows propped on the hood. The other three faced him in a close ring. Their tight little huddle around Nimec, and the 4×4’s bulking frame behind him, would make it tough for anyone watching from out of sight to monitor their speech.
“The company execs ready over there?” Nimec said, and nodded toward a nearby line of Rovers and trucks.
“Tucked into their seats nice and comfy,” DeMarco said. “And actually glad to be headed into the jungle after finding out about the termites.”
Nimec couldn’t say he blamed them. “Freight loaded up?”
DeMarco gave an affirmative nod.
“Okay,” Nimec said. “It’s a broiler today, but let’s be sure we wear our vests. No exceptions. There should be extras stowed in the Rovers for the execs. We all know our jobs. Stay alert.”
“Knowing we’ve got the crawling eye on us,” Ackerman said, “it sort of comes easy, chief.”
Nimec looked at him. “I’m just being careful,” he said. “The bugging surprises me, but it doesn’t knock me out of my socks. After Antarctica, our base getting hit hard on a continent where there isn’t even supposed to be guns, I half expect anything. You need to remember where we are. This country’s surrounded by other countries where nobody’s in charge of the farm. Or everybody claims to be. I can imagine how some of the authorities here just might feel threatened by foreigners.”
“Even ones bearing gifts,” DeMarco said. “You think that could be the reason we’re being scoped? Some eager-beaver gendarme trying to impress his bosses?”
Nimec shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to downplay the seriousness of it. My gut tells me there’s a better than even chance we’re onto something else. But until we firm up our information, we should be careful about what we assume.” He paused, then shrugged again. “My point right now’s really that for the past week or so you’ve been protecting material assets. Ground freight. Everybody here knows it can put you into a certain mode. Today, with the VIPs going out, things are different. What we need to watch out for is different. There are human beings to protect. And I want to make sure we don’t let our guard down for a second. That we do what we always do when there’s more than the usual set of considerations about the safety of our personnel.”
The men were quiet.
Nimec watched a jet make its takeoff from the runway, gain altitude, and bank in their direction, its airframe reflecting the high sun, a silvery flare of brightness rushing across the open sky. The shoom of its turbos grew loud as it flew overhead and then began to fade.
Nimec turned toward Scull.
“What’s on your docket while we’re gone, Vince?”
“I want to follow up on the business with those French divers,” Scull said, and motioned with his chin. “We know the Rover’s clean?”
Nimec glanced toward DeMarco for an answer.
“Yeah,” he said. “I wouldn’t advise you to make any deep personal confessions in standard-issue vehicles like the one I’ve been driving around town, but these modified babies are checked for bugs at least once a day. Besides, they haven’t been anywhere except here at the airport, or over at the HQ site, where we’ve had men posted around the clock. Nobody besides our own’s gone near them.”
“What about guides and workmen?” Nimec said.
“They ride in the trucks or the standards. This vehicle’s okay, rest assured. If you don’t trust me, you can count on its intruder shock or bug detection systems. Take your pick.”
“Intruder shock?” Scull said.
“Anybody lays a hand on it who shouldn’t gets hit with fifty thousand volts, the same as with a stun gun. The zapper’s set every night.”
Scull nodded.
“Good enough, I just found myself a phone booth,” he said. Then he stepped past Nimec to the driver’s door and pulled it open. “You guys chill out a minute, I gotta make an important call.”
“Hello, Fred Sherman—”
“Sherm, it’s Vince,” Scull said into his secure cellular. It was much cooler inside the Rover than out on the blacktop, its mirrored windows blocking the sun’s powerful rays. “Since when do you personally answer your phone?”
“Since my receptionist left for the day along with everybody else who works sane hours,” said Sherman at the other end of the line. He was one of the top data hounds in Scull’s risk-assessment office at UpLink SanJo. “How’s it going?”
“Don’t fucking ask.”
“Nice to hear you sounding happy.”
“I try to be consistent,” Scull said. “Look, I need some info.”
“Sure. Tell me what it is, I’ll get on it first thing tomorrow.”
“I mean I need it right now.”
“Vince, it’s almost seven o’clock at night—”
“Not here in Africa, it isn’t.” Scull glanced at the dashboard clock. “Here in Africa, where I happen to be, it’s still before ten in the morning. The day’s young and the sun’s shining and it feels like a goddamn furnace.”
“Vince, come on. Another ten minutes, five minutes, I would have been out the door—”
“Good I caught you when I did, then,” Scull growled. “Is it a fluke or miracle of God, I wonder?”
“Ah crap, Vince, don’t do this to me—”
“You know the submarine cable maintenance outfit we contracted for our Gabon operation? Nautel?”
“Of course, I did most of the research on it—”
“Which is why I don’t have to explain how it’s the same fleet owner that was doing the job for Planétaire… and why I called you and not somebody else,” Scull said. “I want to see records from both companies about the African fiber outage back in May…”
“Oh. Well, that ought to be easy enough. I already have scads of them in my files…”
“And everything they’ve got on the accident that killed those two Nautel divers. Everything, Sherm. Internal review documents, too.”
“Different story there.” Sherman’s tone had lifted and sunk. “Nautel’s almost sure to cooperate, especially since we still haven’t inked our contracts. But it’s hard to get through to anybody who’s upper rung at Planétaire right now. With the company going bust, and those irregular accounting practices, quote unquote, being covered in the media, their top execs are all bolting down into hidey-holes. And taking their paper shredders with them.”