Broker studied the files for hours, and when it turned dark, he closed the folder, leaned back and stretched. This wasn’t the approach he would take. Repeating the investigation Isakson had conducted would be pointless.
He would attack this problem from the other end. It was time he put his own badasses to work.
Chapter 13
Two thousand five hundred miles away, Roger sighed and looked up at the night sky barely visible through the thick blanket of the forest.
They had made their way from Copper Canyon in Chihuahua, Mexico, northward and crossed the border a while back and then drifted toward Coronado National Forest in southeastern Arizona, not far from the Mexican border and Nogales, Sonora, in Mexico. They had spent several days here, drifting through the vast forest that covered more than a million and a half acres, soaking in the solitude and wilderness… and fishing.
This was the life — fat fish lining his belly, a comfortable sleeping bag, the vast emptiness of the forest surrounding him, silence echoing around him… A clanking behind him disturbed his thoughts, and he twisted around to see the source.
A tall, sinewy black man was washing up after their dinner, his body language expressing disgust. Bwana glanced at Roger. ‘Hey, Rog, you know this is called camping. When two guys go camping, they share stuff. Stuff like work. It’s called distribution of work. I thought you, having gone to college, would know all about this.’ He banged a saucepan and plate together to make his point.
‘Hold on right there, buddy,’ Roger drawled, rubbing a palm through his close-cropped brown hair as he adjusted his lean and muscled frame on the sleeping bag. He twisted on his side, propping himself on an elbow. ‘I thought we agreed on alternating the work. Me doing the fishing in the morning, you cooking and cleaning in the evening, and the next day we alternate. It’s called rotation. I studied that in high school football, not in college. I’m sure you had some schooling, didn’t ya?’
‘Rotation is fine when the chores are evenly distributed, but they aren’t. You eat like a hog, actually you eat like three prize hogs celebrating their birthday, and I end up doing more work.’
‘I can’t help it. I’m a growing boy; I need all the nourishment I can get. Besides it’s your fault, you cook so damned well.’ Roger laughed.
Bwana glared at him and then chuckled. He finished drying, tidied the campsite, laid out his bag on the other side of the bank of glowing coals, and settled down.
Silence crept over them, both of them perfectly comfortable in the silence, perfectly comfortable in the dark.
Bwana Kayembe was born to a Congolese father, a school teacher, and an American mother, an aid worker with an international charity, in Luvungi, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. His earliest memories were of the lush green canopy of forest just a stone’s throw away from the huts in the village, and of the towering hills weeping rain as they overlooked the village.
Robert Kayembe, his father, a forward-thinking man, had witnessed the birth of an independent Congo after years of Belgian rule, but independence did not bring stability or peace to the country. The country was in a state of constant strife, with tribal rivalries and ever-present rebels resulting in the land going through two presidents by the time Bwana was born.
Robert migrated to Shelby County, Tennessee, along with his wife and four-year-old Bwana, having decided that the intelligent and inquisitive child deserved all the opportunity he could get.
Bwana grew up with a long gun on his arm in their farm in Arlington, hearing stories of faraway lands and different people, and this fueled a desire in him to see what lay beyond the horizon.
The Army ROTC course at the University of Tennessee set off a chain of events that eventually led to his joining the 5th Special Forces Group (Airborne) and driving with four others in a Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected vehicle (MRAP) through the valleys and mountains of Eastern Afghanistan one wintry morning.
The MRAP was designed to deflect and nullify the improvised explosive devices (IEDs) that the insurgents used, and numerous soldiers owed their lives to it, but it lacked maneuverability and was like a drunken boxer when driving in rocky, mountainous terrain in ’Stan.
The valley was full of mines, and the vehicle had to stick to a well-rutted path, but the steep turns and bends resulted in such slow going that Bwana jumped off the vehicle and guided it around bends, fully knowing there were snipers about.
The first few turns were navigated safely, and then came the fourth turn, a particularly steep one, and as Bwana rounded the bend, he came across the goats. His attention was half focused on the width of the road, and he was calculating angles and distances for the vehicle grinding behind him when he stopped short on seeing them.
Goats. There were about thirty of them, a hundred yards away, some of them lying down, some feeding on the grass off the mountainside, doing all the things that goats did, with not a care in the world. Bwana backed up slowly, alert for an ambush, scanned for a goatherd, and found none. He could hear the engine’s revs dropping as they slowed for his return, and he waited, his M-4 coming to his hand as naturally as he drew breath.
He risked a quick glance around him as he heard a shout from the MRAP, calling out for him; he was alone, just him and the goats, the vehicle and its occupants a few yards around the corner, a galaxy away.
He opened his mouth to respond, and the first shot rang out from ahead on the slope of the mountain, missing him by several feet, the sniper not taking his time. Seven, no, eight men rose from amidst the goats and trained their guns on him and opened fire.
Bwana had already dropped to the ground, roaring, ‘Ambush,’ the stock coming smoothly to his cheek, his first shot taking the man on the left.
He started crawling back urgently, seeking shelter behind the turn, firing in short bursts, making them duck behind the animals, and then one of them raised his upper body, clutching something in his hand. Grenade. Goodbye, Bwana. It was a good ride while it lasted.
The man’s head exploded in a red mist, the flat bark from behind coming to him simultaneously, and then a louder, larger noise, the I-6 diesel of the MRAP drowning them all out and rifles opening up at once, taking out all the ambushers now exposed by the scattering goats.
The cluster of rocks ahead — the sniper’s hide — exploded, clouds of mud, blood, and stone rising in the air, shimmering in the thin sunlight before dissipating slowly as the echoes of the guns died.
Silence crept up on them, broken by the bleating of the wounded animals, their cries cut short by single shots as Roger moved grimly among them, ending the misery of those wounded beyond help. He was flanked by two others, checking and confirming that the ambushers were all dead.
Bwana still lay prone, his M-4 trained on the sniper hide till he felt a hand clasping his shoulder.
Roger smiled down at him. ‘Don’t go to sleep down there, partner. The day’s still ahead of us.’ He rose, offering a hand to Bwana, helping him rise to his feet, that clasp of hands unbroken to this day.
Bwana looked at the dark shadow that was Roger on the other side of the coals. Roger never spoke about himself. Bwana knew he was an orphan and had grown up with a foster family who couldn’t wait to see the back of him, and had no one else to call family.