made a fortune. He couldn’t begrudge the wealthy—the source of their gain also benefited the Ugandans, brought hope back to a bleeding, starving people.
Hope he’d never had growing up. Ojore—the age difference between him and Scott reminded him of his own brother. Half brother. When he’d needed the guidance, the advice, his brother hadn’t been there. Told Scott he was better off on his own. It’d cut Scott to the core. The one person he thought would “get it,” hadn’t. He’d never do to Ojore what his brother had done. Scott was here, to the end, with the young man.
“Weebale.”
After his thanks, Ojore turned, producing two work hats with mounted lights.
Scott slipped one on, tugging it farther down his brow than necessary. Though he had dark skin, thanks to his father’s Cherokee heritage and a decade at the mercy of the sun, his complexion was still considered “white” to the natives.
They stepped into a cage—an elevator that would take them down more than seven hundred feet. Groaning and creaking pervaded the wire cell, vibrations worming through Scott’s boots as they stood in silence. He suppressed the questions racing through his mind.
Twelve years in the Lord’s Resistance Army had forced Ojore to grow up fast, commit enough atrocities to last several lifetimes, and understand the importance of integrity and honor. So if Ojore said bad things were happening here, they were. But Scott needed to know what to report back to the UN and U.S. government.
The cage heaved and jerked to a stop.
Ojore pushed back the gate, stepped out onto hardened bedrock, and twisted on his headlamp. Scott did the same as he followed the man down a narrow tunnel, across a small bridgelike structure, then into another tunnel. Fumes and dust coated his face and nostrils as they moved deeper into the earth. Shinks, thuds, and grunts carried through the area. On the far side, men slung picks into the rock, hacking out chunks, while others searched the bin for precious gems. A conveyor hummed to life, the squeaking of the belts penetrating the dirty, thick air.
Amazed at the hundreds of feet of cored rock, striations marking ages, Scott let his gaze take in the surroundings. Several tunnels sprouted off the main atrium-like area. The muscles in his shoulders tightened at the thought that only one exit existed—the cage he’d just escaped. But they’d be fine.
Just as long as they didn’t find trouble.
At a juncture, Ojore stopped and cranked off his light, and once again Scott took his cue. With only the shadows and crunching of rock underfoot, they slunk forward. Ahead fifty meters, light escaped a large opening. A droning sound grew deafening as they approached. The massive vents and fans drew his attention.
With a pat on Scott’s forearm, Ojore pointed to the area that had already captured his attention, especially the man lifting a large chunk of rock. Several men clapped his back and laughed. Dread consumed Scott at the sight of the ore. He wasn’t a geologist, but he’d seen enough reports and been briefed on the mineral during his stint in black ops.
“Watch out!”
It took two full seconds for Scott to realize those words had been in English. His gaze struck a suited man who stood amid Ugandan miners. By the slick suit, clean hands, and manicured appearance, he didn’t belong here. Clearly American. Apparently checking up on his gold mine. And in charge by the way he shouted and ranted at the miners.
Better get moving.
Scott nudged his friend and started backing up, out of sight. Out of the tunnel. Out of whatever snafu they’d stepped into. Because if there was one thing he knew—these miners weren’t digging for diamonds. They were funding terrorism. Not because they were Ugandan. Or in a diamond mine. But because of what they mined: U 3 O 8 .
Aka yellowcake.
Uranium.
For nuclear weapons.
Thoughts colliding, he stared at the man—and tightened his muscles. The guy was staring
Hope he’d never had growing up. Ojore—the age difference between him and Scott reminded him of his own brother. Half brother. When he’d needed the guidance, the advice, his brother hadn’t been there. Told Scott he was better off on his own. It’d cut Scott to the core. The one person he thought would “get it,” hadn’t. He’d never do to Ojore what his brother had done. Scott was here, to the end, with the young man.
“Weebale.”
After his thanks, Ojore turned, producing two work hats with mounted lights.
Scott slipped one on, tugging it farther down his brow than necessary. Though he had dark skin, thanks to his father’s Cherokee heritage and a decade at the mercy of the sun, his complexion was still considered “white” to the natives.
They stepped into a cage—an elevator that would take them down more than seven hundred feet. Groaning and creaking pervaded the wire cell, vibrations worming through Scott’s boots as they stood in silence. He suppressed the questions racing through his mind.
Twelve years in the Lord’s Resistance Army had forced Ojore to grow up fast, commit enough atrocities to last several lifetimes, and understand the importance of integrity and honor. So if Ojore said bad things were happening here, they were. But Scott needed to know what to report back to the UN and U.S. government.
The cage heaved and jerked to a stop.
Ojore pushed back the gate, stepped out onto hardened bedrock, and twisted on his headlamp. Scott did the same as he followed the man down a narrow tunnel, across a small bridgelike structure, then into another tunnel. Fumes and dust coated his face and nostrils as they moved deeper into the earth. Shinks, thuds, and grunts carried through the area. On the far side, men slung picks into the rock, hacking out chunks, while others searched the bin for precious gems. A conveyor hummed to life, the squeaking of the belts penetrating the dirty, thick air.
Amazed at the hundreds of feet of cored rock, striations marking ages, Scott let his gaze take in the surroundings. Several tunnels sprouted off the main atrium-like area. The muscles in his shoulders tightened at the thought that only one exit existed—the cage he’d just escaped. But they’d be fine.
Just as long as they didn’t find trouble.
At a juncture, Ojore stopped and cranked off his light, and once again Scott took his cue. With only the shadows and crunching of rock underfoot, they slunk forward. Ahead fifty meters, light escaped a large opening. A droning sound grew deafening as they approached. The massive vents and fans drew his attention.
With a pat on Scott’s forearm, Ojore pointed to the area that had already captured his attention, especially the man lifting a large chunk of rock. Several men clapped his back and laughed. Dread consumed Scott at the sight of the ore. He wasn’t a geologist, but he’d seen enough reports and been briefed on the mineral during his stint in black ops.
“Watch out!”
It took two full seconds for Scott to realize those words had been in English. His gaze struck a suited man who stood amid Ugandan miners. By the slick suit, clean hands, and manicured appearance, he didn’t belong here. Clearly American. Apparently checking up on his gold mine. And in charge by the way he shouted and ranted at the miners.
Better get moving.
Scott nudged his friend and started backing up, out of sight. Out of the tunnel. Out of whatever snafu they’d stepped into. Because if there was one thing he knew—these miners weren’t digging for diamonds. They were funding terrorism. Not because they were Ugandan. Or in a diamond mine. But because of what they mined: U 3 O 8 .
Aka yellowcake.
Uranium.
For nuclear weapons.
Thoughts colliding, he stared at the man—and tightened his muscles. The guy was staring
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