I’d guess around the Second World War. Then a short time later the villagers begin suffering what sounds like radiation poisoning. Then it’s discovered this place has the highest cancer rate in the world. The guy who did the initial medical survey probably thought the mine was irrigation canals or something and never put the pieces together. Usually pitchblende isn’t dangerous. It needs to be refined before radiation concentrations are high enough to cause illness. But not here apparently. The natural concentration of uranium 235 was high enough to cause birth defects and cancer.”
The old woman spoke to her granddaughter. She went back into her hut and returned with something in her hands. It slipped when she handed it to Mercer. He picked it up from the ground. It was a metal canteen with a waterproofed canvas cover. The olive-drab canvas was frayed and brittle but remarkably intact. The metal was still bright. It looked government-issue to Mercer. He slid the canteen out of its cover and a scrap of paper fell to the ground. Written on it were the words “Property of Chester Bowie.”
He showed it to Cali. “That’s an American name if there ever was one. I think the History Channel got it wrong.”
The daughter translated what her grandmother was saying. “The first man. He gave this to my grandfather’s father.” The old woman pulled something from around her neck, a leather thong she wore as a necklace. Hanging from it was a small copper object fastened to the leather by a tiny wire cage. “The second men, the ones who came later, gave her this.”
The old woman handed the necklace to Mercer. The pendant was a misshapen bullet. Mercer looked at the woman, confusion written on his face. She hiked up her skirt to reveal one of her thigh-sized calves. The black skin was puckered by a small scar on the outside, and when she turned her leg he saw a much nastier exit scar, the skin shiny and gray even after all these years.
“They killed many of the workers when they were finished with the digging,” the daughter translated. “They used fast guns and just a few escaped into the jungle. My grandfather’s father and all his brothers died.”
Cali looked to Mercer. “I don’t understand. The Americans killed the miners to hide what they’d done?”
“I can’t believe that,” Mercer replied even with the evidence in his hand. “I know the whole project was shrouded in secrecy, but I just can’t see Americans systematically killing innocent villagers.”
“If not us, then-”
Mercer never let Cali finish her question. It was the brief instant of silence, the absence of the omnipresent jungle sounds that launched him into action. In one swift movement he shoved her into the dirt, covering her body with his own as automatic fire erupted from behind them.
The barrage struck all three generations of women. The old woman took two slugs in her chest, the fat rippling with the impact before she fell back off her stool. Her granddaughter and great-granddaughter were stitched across the stomach and head, both dead before their bodies hit the earth.
Banshee cries and more gunfire followed as elements of Caribe Dayce’s army attacked the isolated hamlet. Mercer caught a glimpse of a teenage rebel soldier with an AK-47 nearly as long as he was tall. His young body shuddered as though he was holding a live wire when he fired the weapon into a hut.
Mercer’s first instinct was to save as many people as he could from the onslaught. But with only a single pistol, he knew he didn’t have a prayer, so he opted for his second choice and that was to save himself and Cali. The truck was a mile away and it would take the rebels at least ten minutes to satisfy their bloodlust. They had a chance if no one saw them.
He rolled off Cali, grabbed her knapsack, and started to slither toward the old woman’s hut. He felt Cali respond to the tug and follow him. The hut’s mud walls hid them from the rebels but otherwise offered no practical protection. Once inside, he got to his feet, locked eyes with Cali in the dim light to make sure she was okay, then kicked out the back of the hut. A thin strip of vegetation ran along the crest of the bluff before it dropped to the river. He considered making a dash for the water but there was no cover on the sloping bank. They’d be cut down long before they reached the water, and even if they made it, the river offered no cover. They were trapped between the army of Caribe Dayce and the Scilla. He led Cali into the hedge, not knowing when he’d drawn his pistol but not surprised it was in his hand, a round chambered, the safety off. He’d also given Cali her pack to free both of his hands.
The attack had originated from farther upstream, so Mercer pressed Cali ahead of him. If they were caught from behind he would take the first rounds and hoped his sacrifice would see her clear. They stayed low and Mercer kept a hand on her back to steady her pace. Quick movement would catch the eye of even the least trained soldier.
A gush of smoke overwhelmed them as the rebels put a hut to the torch. Someone within screamed as the thatched roof ignited as though it was soaked in gasoline. The scream was ended abruptly when the roof collapsed in an explosion of sparks. There seemed to be no break in the gunfire. As soon as one weapon went silent, another rebel found a target and opened up.
Mercer didn’t dare look at the carnage behind him as he and Cali threaded their way through the thin tangle of trees and ferns. He’d seen it before. He’d been orphaned by such an attack not five hundred miles from here. His hand on Cali’s back was as much to steady her as it was for himself.
Fifty yards from the edge of the village the strip of jungle ran out. Mercer and Cali paused, keeping low in the shadows of a tree. Mercer finally looked back. Smoke billowed from several huts, and indistinct figures moved through the haze, some firing weapons, others dropping. No one seemed to be looking in their direction. Dayce had assumed his attack would overwhelm the village so quickly that there was no need to station sentries on the perimeter.
The mine was another hundred yards away. The trenches would provide cover, and beyond it the jungle grew thick and impenetrable. Mercer surveyed the ground, picking his route through the barren land, while another part of his brain dealt with the adrenaline overload that was flooding his system. Next to him Cali seemed to be faring better. Her eyes were wide, her body loose and ready.
“We’ll make it,” she whispered, adjusting her pack so it rode high on her shoulders.
“I know.” He forced confidence into his voice.
They struck out, commando crawling across the damp ground, and had made half the distance when Mercer saw a pair of rebels cross the dike separating the mine from the edge of the bluff. Dayce
Mercer was an expert with the Beretta but he had no chance at this range. There was no cover nearby, nothing to hide them. He had no choice and brought the pistol to bear. His mouth had gone stone dry. He watched them come, two boys with bandoliers crossing their thin chests, sandals made of truck tires on their feet, their AKs battered but serviceable. They were thirty yards off when one finally spotted Mercer and Cali lying on the ground. His mouth opened in a surprised O. His partner saw the duo an instant later and his face went savage. He shifted his weapon to fire.
Mercer had his sight picture and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked. The first rebel went down. The next shot was hurried and Mercer was positive the round went high, but the second rebel dropped his AK-47, clutching his shoulder, and began to wail as he collapsed.
Cali and Mercer were up on their feet before the youth had fully fallen. They ran stride for stride, accelerating like sprinters out of the blocks, eating distance with each pace. The distinctive crack of the pistol had created an eerie lull in the gunfire behind them. It lasted just long enough for Mercer and Cali to cover another thirty yards before rebels began firing in their direction.
They covered another ten yards before the gunmen calmed themselves enough to aim. Hornet swarms of 7.62-millimeter rounds cut the air around the fleeing pair, stitching fist-sized craters in the dirt at their feet. A round hit something solid in Cali’s pack and the force of the impact saved her life. She pitched to the ground as a half dozen rounds sped through the space where her head had been.
Mercer barely broke stride as he dragged her back to her feet, then bodily tossed her into the trench now three yards away. She rolled with the impact and fell into the ditch as Mercer leapt over her, hitting the far wall of the eight-foot-wide trench and sliding into the fetid water.
“Are you okay?” he gasped, spitting a mouthful of water.
Cali stripped off her pack, taking just a moment to examine the bullet hole. She tossed it aside and nodded wordlessly, her cheeks flushed and her breathing coming in irregular gulps.
“Come on.” Mercer took her hand and began wading through the thigh-deep water. It would take less than a
