The New Guinea Job Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2018

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

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  Other books by Vince Milam:

  The Suriname Job: A Case Lee Novel

  The Unknown Element: Challenged World Volume I

  Pretty Little Creatures: Challenged World Volume II

  Gather the Seekers: Challenged World Volume III

  Acknowledgments:

  Cover Design by Rick Holland at Vision Press – myvisionpress.com.

  Story Consultant – Robert Ford

  CONTENTS

  Start Reading

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Thank you for reading The New Guinea Job

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  We sleep soundly in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.

  Chapter 1

  Luke flashed bright-red betel-stained teeth as bullets cracked overhead. Tribal tattoos crinkled at the edges of wild eyes. He’d formulated an attack plan. With his machete. We remained low, hidden. Hungry leeches littered the ground at our feet, heads raised, seeking. I considered, for the umpteenth time, a career change.

  He waggled his weapon, good to go. I held no intention of doing anything but easing away from our spot. Depart the area, the bullets, and the bloodsuckers. I shook my head. Luke frowned and indicated he could circle behind our attackers. Bushwhack them. I shook my head a second time and hunkered low, moving through the jungle. Luke Mugumwup, with a snort of disgust, followed.

  The Russians’ gold camp was the third on a list of four. I’d seen enough to confirm their operations and draw basic conclusions. The armed element among them were former Spetsnaz. Special Forces. They owned the look and the movement. As a retired Delta Force operator, I would know.

  We’d arrived at the clearing’s perimeter unannounced. Tents spread among the trees. One large tarp protected the cooking area from tropical downpours. Wet rain forest wood smoldered in a pit, the smoke lingering across the cleared area. A single small concrete block structure occupied the camp’s center. The geologists’ work area. The assay office and focal point. The area showed no trappings of company logos or insignias. A Russian government or private company effort. With Russians, an often indistinguishable difference.

  Luke had tapped my side with the back of the machete blade and lifted his chin toward the concrete structure. “Why?” he’d asked, head cocked and voice low.

  These guys hauled those blocks with ATVs. Lots of blocks. Unnecessary, imprudent effort. Rain forest timber surrounded us. Wood aplenty.

  “They’re Russians.”

  Luke accepted the answer at face value. He would log the short explanation as a tribal curiosity. Russians. Russians prefer concrete. I wouldn’t have argued. The first bullets from their automatic weapons bee-buzzed overhead as we contemplated the camp. My goal—walk in, Glock pistol hidden, and gather information. Our camp hosts held other ideas. The small contingent of Russian muscle shifted position at our sighting with killing neither their intent nor aim. The gunfire sent a message: get the hell out of here. I was happy to oblige.

  Once away and the firing ceased, Luke led. He knew which plants to avoid brushing against in the jungles of PNG. Papua New Guinea. Which tiny vegetative spikes would swell your hand like a beach ball. A slight shiver accompanied satisfaction at getting away from those damn leeches. Hundreds of them. Once latched, they’d grow the size of your little finger.

  We moved fast, silent. Sweat soaked every square inch of clothing. A tropical steam bath. But the triple-canopy rain forest hid direct sun, and deep shadows were our friends. We avoided the hacked-out ATV trails spread across the area. Booby traps presented a real and present danger.

  I’d sussed two gold camps yesterday. The British and the Chinese. And now check the Russians off the list. One camp left and back aboard our boat, the Sally, nestled on the bank of a Fly River tributary.

  I’d taken this gig from my regular client—a murky Zurich outfit called Global Resolutions. It smelled like a lucrative slam-dunk job. Big Money wanted in on the gold game. They contacted my Zurich clients. Send someone. Go check out a massive PNG gold find. Ascertain the current players’ capabilities, strengths, and weaknesses. Simple enough, with one twist.

  Word had it the Indonesians, the last camp on the list, were underfunded. A Big Money investment—for a slice of the gold pie—and the Indonesian contingent could become a player. A big player. If they found gold. A big if.

  My contract included insinuating opportunity among the Indonesian contingent. Hint at wealthy backers. Establish contacts and measure their reaction. No big deal. Then out of here and homeward bound. With any luck, the Indonesians wouldn’t lay a Russian-style welcome mat.

  Luke halted, a palm held down. Wait. Be still. I peered into the shadows and sought movement. The fluorescent-blue head gave it away. A cassowary. A strange jungle ostrich creature. It cocked its head and neck, watching us. A large horned comb ran along the middle of its skull. The head and neck feathers cast bright reflections. Jurassic Park central casting stuff. The fact it wasn’t making tracks spoke to its temperament.

  Luke hissed, loud. The six-foot-tall bird locked on the noise and assessed. Seconds passed and it eased away, silent, fading into the foliage and dark shadows. Papua New Guinea. A strange otherworld land. Three hundred thousand square miles of isolated island, north of Australia. Mountain peaks reaching thirteen thousand feet. Nine hundred tribes, and nine hundred distinct languages. Tribal warfare the norm. Remnants of headhunters and cannibalism. The whole nine yards. One of the Rockefeller clan had visited in the early ’60s. His body was never found.

  I seldom perform my work with an accomplice, a guide. But PNG called for it. Too strange, too unknown. And so far, Luke was a blessing. I’d contracted Luke through a fixer in Port Moresby, PNG’s capital. I found the fixer through Jules. Jules of the Clubhouse.

  “Darkness, deception, and folly, dear boy,” she’d said when I visited her
in Chesapeake, Virginia. An information-gathering visit, prior to giving Global Resolutions a firm commitment.

  “Nothing new there.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “How’d the whole thing start?”

  She shrugged and puffed her cigar.

  “How does any of it ever start? A word, a whisper.”

  “Anything more concrete?”

  “A geologist, now disappeared. A serious man, taken seriously.”

  She slid two black balls down a rail of her abacus. A charge. Information sold.

  “Disappeared?”

  “So it would seem.”

  I left the Clubhouse with a basic impression—a standard gig with minimal danger. Jules sold me contact information and a bit of background. She’d acquired her background on the PNG gold discovery through never-to-be-known channels. Jules was a card-carrying member of Spookville. Clandestine organizations and players swapping facts, innuendo, and lies.

  My chartered plane had flown over the area before landing at the nearest town, Kiunga. I marked the camp locations with GPS. The jungle wilderness offered another day at the office for Case Lee Inc. And the Russians popping caps in my direction wasn’t unexpected. They played for keeps and didn’t sweat the public relations.

  One more camp, then back to Kiunga, forty miles downstream. Most of my ilk—private contractors with, well, special skills—would have parked it in that mudhole of a town. Gathered information among the players—both bit and real—as well as rumor and innuendo from hangers-on and wannabes. But checking the bush camps kept me in high demand. Go the extra mile. Find answers. Report out.

  This was my job, my current career. And—the moments of regret aside—no apologies. I’m good at it. The Delta Force background offered firm foundation and allowed setting my own rules. I don’t murder. If pushed, I’d kill. But I’d come to avoid most of the killing. It weighed heavy.

  Luke led through steep terrain, always wet, the footing treacherous. We’d sighted a Chinese ATV at the bottom of a five-hundred-foot ravine, crushed and littered across a small stream’s boulders. It was ten clicks—six miles—to the Indonesians. We moved fast. I avoided mucking around this jungle at night. We’d run across a taipan snake earlier. The world’s deadliest. Over five feet long and aggressive. I could do without one of them in the dark.

  I’d started with the Brits yesterday. Their camp was well set up, professional. They’d built huts from plastic sheeting and small forest tree trunks. Raised sidewalks constructed from jungle limbs wove through the work areas, keeping them above the mud and muck. Several former SAS operators provided their security. Again, I know one when I see one. Operators.

  Small-engine dredges/sifters worked nearby creeks. Several pieces of equipment displayed “BMC”—British Mining Concerns. A large outfit, global. My Glock stayed hidden as Luke and I approached.

  “Bad place to arrive unannounced,” said an armed member of their security force, stopping our progress.

  “Tried sending a postcard. You didn’t get it?”

  “Funny.”

  A large open tent held assay equipment. Three men working at a table glanced up.

  “We’re figuring out claims,” I said. “We may set up shop. Don’t want to encroach.”

  The former SAS member called over his shoulder. “The Yanks are here.”

  One of the three men from the assay tent walked over. No handshakes, no introductions. I repeated our intent.

  “You didn’t see the flagging? Plastic surveyor’s tape? Red and white. All over the place. Three-kilometer radius.”

  Luke and I shared shrugs. “Not a sign of it.”

  “Bloody tribesmen.” He instructed another nearby member of the security force to mark their claim again. “Every claim is flagged. Different colors,” he said, addressing me, hands on hips and eyes hooded.

  “All right. Surveyor’s flagging. Three-click radius. Got it.”

  Silence.

  “Any luck?” I asked, lifting my chin toward the assay tent.

  Again, silence.

  “Well, enjoy yourselves and all that.” Luke and I turned and walked away. The Brits would scale up if they found sufficient evidence of gold. Roads, runways, massive excavation equipment. In my experience, British mining interests—and BMC in particular—didn’t mess around.

  Next, the Chinese. Men worked on repairing a small dredge. Metal-on-metal clanging echoed through the forest. The camp bustled. Their security force converged on us at the camp’s edge. They didn’t speak English. I tried Spanish and French. Nothing registered. Automatic weaponry escorted us into a sea of tarps strung between trees, hammocks underneath. The largest tarp protected their kitchen from rain. The next largest held tables of equipment, maps, and a very upset geologist. He ran toward us, screaming at the guards. I spotted a mishmash of equipment, including military generators and communication equipment. A Chinese government effort. A short while later we were escorted from the camp. Half a dozen weapons pointed toward the deep jungle, the message clear: leave. We did.

  Three viable gold camps. Each with concerted efforts and commonalities. Housing for thirty-plus men. Rudimentary—tents and tarps and huts—but livable commitment. A kitchen and latrine area. Mechanics shop, geologist station, labor, and a security team. No helipads yet, so everything hand-carried from the river or piled on ATVs. Serious efforts.

  Each camp with a major backer, waiting. Waiting for word of a major find. The disappeared geologist’s find. His disappearance was a little weird, but gold does crazy things to people. And the rumor mill whispered—gold, gold worth billions. Once, and if, a discovery happened, then Katie bar the door. Claim jumping, killing, mayhem, and chaos. Whoever desired backing the Indonesian contingent best have deep pockets. And boatloads of hard mercenaries backing their play. But someone would come out on top. I wouldn’t be around for the show, because I didn’t care. The money interests and geopolitical chess matches failed registration on the Case Lee give-a-damn radar.

  I cared about my mom and mentally challenged sister, CC. I cared about my three retired Delta Force friends. My brothers. I cared about my home, the Ace of Spades, moored in Chesapeake, Virginia. I may have cared about Jules of the Clubhouse. Feelings toward her vacillated on an emotional razor’s edge.

  We maintained a quick, silent pace until Luke slowed and stopped. Rivulets of sweat painted the raised-skin tribal scarification patterns across his back. I approached alongside him, bothered I hadn’t seen the warrior as early as Luke.

  The object of our stares stepped from the recesses of a massive flared tree trunk. Five feet tall—maybe—the tribesman held a handful of arrows taller than himself and a single bow. He wore a penis sheath, a dried-out gourd lifting his privates, tied to a string around his waist. He wore no other clothing. Bits of surveyor’s flagging festooned his wooly hair, woven into his locks. Red, white, blue, yellow. This cat got around.

  They conversed in Tok Pisin, the national language, a weird amalgam of tribal, Dutch, and English words. Luke hailed from the Sepik area, on the other side of PNG. The tribes populating this area, the Fly River basin, constituted the enemy. The whole lot of them. And Luke’s voice filled with disdain for having to lower himself and communicate with them. The tribesman opposite us returned the attitude, indicating utter indifference at Luke’s words. While Luke talked, he’d look into the distance and scratch a body part.

  Several blunt exchanges later, Luke signaled. Let’s move on. Walking past the tribesman, I nodded and smiled. He returned a dead stare.

  “What was that about?” I asked. We picked up the pace, putting distance between us and the tribal warriors unseen.

  “We pass through his ground.”

  “Tribal ground?”

  “Yes.” Luke continued scanning the area as we moved.

  “Everything okay?”

  “No.”

  All righty, then. Good to know. There was little point discussing it further. Whatever Luke and the tribesman ex
changed, I wouldn’t comprehend. Tribal nuances. Or tacit agreements. Or threats. The cultural chasm presented a leap too far. Luke and the tribesman communicated. Situations presented, subtleties of inflection and body language assessed. I stood outside the PNG cultural loop. Which led to acceptance and reliance on an old standby. Move. Move on and move fast.

  We did. Strange insects buzzed past, large and loud. More leech patches stepped through, and unseen birds called from above. I provided Luke Mugumwup a direction. He led. I kept a keen eye on our back trail.

  Chapter 2

  The Indonesian contingent came across as a dangerous mess. No organization, little exhibited acumen regarding mineral extraction, and armed to the teeth. No company or government indicators. A chaotic environment, but with a peculiar intensity woven throughout their actions. Luke and I circled their camp at a distance, observing and absorbing.

  My Delta Force training had honed a sixth sense. The ability for capturing a group’s vibe. Body language, facial expressions, tenor of voice, and rapidity of movement. A dozen indicators collected and digested. Conclusions drawn. Not a precise measure, but drawn assumptions had saved our butts more than once.

  These Indonesians, a motley crew, lacked the camp structure required for organized mining efforts. But they were comfortable, at home, deep within the PNG rain forest. And full of zeal. I couldn’t ascertain the reason for their focused fervor and commitment. But the vibe was uncomfortable, threatening.

  They held a confident wariness at our approach. A mixed bag of weaponry hung from waist belts—pistols and knives. Lots of knives. But each pointed a common weapon our way. New AK-47s. Automatic weapons, and nothing mixed bag about them.

  Camo tarps strung between trees provided rain protection. Several cook fires crackled, and shovels sounded from a nearby creek. Piles of gas cans, hoses snaked across the ground, a garbage pile smoldering. Wooden boxes and crates acted as chairs and tables. Amateur gold seekers, albeit well-armed ones. Whoever held ambitions of backing this gang best prepare a big-bucks investment. And prepare to watch their back.