Chapter One from RED DIAMOND

Sierra Lazarus downshifted her orange KTM motorcycle and parked beside the Flying Doctors’ hangar.  She thrust the kickstand down, hung her helmet over the handlebar, and hurried across Wilson Airport’s scarred tarmac.  Dark clouds shrouded the rising sun like an executioner’s hood, the anvil-shaped forms filled with lethal power.  The glass inside the hangar vibrated as a rumble of thunder reverberated over the nearby plains.  Sporadic bolts of lightning jolted above the savannah grassland of Nairobi’s game park.  The season of the long rains had arrived. 

Today’s flight promised to be a challenge.

Sierra secured her captain’s hat with hair pins, an old trick from her Air Force days.  She strode toward the plane, the pungent smell of high-octane fuel stinging her sinuses and spiking her adrenaline.  Flying was the ultimate rush. 

The wind howled, plastering her freshly pressed uniform against her skin.  Dr. Jaffer Komo, the Medical Director, stood beside the old Beagle Bulldog’s wing.  Dressed in loose pants and a battered flight jacket, he supervised the mechanic’s pre-flight check on the relic.  The ex-RAF aerobatic plane, with its distinctive yellow and black paint job, had been imported from England.  A wealthy Kenyan coffee farmer had donated it to the Flying Doctors.

“Your message said to be here early,” Sierra said.  “Guess winning last night’s poker game made me first on the call list this morning.”  

“The price you pay for a royal flush.”  Jaffer wagged a finger at her.  “Seriously, I need you to fly to Moyale.  Someone in Father Ramsay’s family is dying.  He needs to be here tomorrow so he can make the next flight to the United States.” 

Moyale.  Great.  Her favorite destination.  The border town straddling Kenya and Ethiopia was a hotbed of political strife. 

“Father Lockwood will go with you to replace Father Ramsay at the mission.”  Jaffer leaned his hefty frame against the Bulldog and looked up at the sky, his ebony face intense.  

“Where is this Father Lockwood?”

“He should be here any minute.  You have your meds with you?”

“Right here, Doc.”  Sierra tossed a fanny pack with her medications inside the cockpit, touched that Jaffer cared.  She owed him an enormous debt for hiring her when no one else would.

“Mzuri sana mtoto.”  Very good, my child, Jaffer said in Swahili.  “Take care of yourself.  I’d like the chance to win back my money next week.”

“Save your shillings.  I’m on a hot streak.”  Sierra grinned. 

“In your—”  A Toyota Land Cruiser roared through the gates in a cloud of red dust, drowning out Jaffer’s reply.  “There’s the good Father now,” he said.

The priest climbing out of the truck was dressed in black and wore the Roman collar.  Long and lanky, his wide shoulders narrowed to a slim waist.  He reached into the backseat, grabbed a duffle bag, then turned toward them.

That face.  All angles and planes, lean and weathered—she knew it intimately.  The world tilted at an unusual slant.  Intense blue eyes scrutinized her as he crossed the tarmac, his stride swift and powerful. 

“You must be Dr. Komo.”  He dropped the duffle bag on the ground and offered his hand to Jaffer.

“Welcome, Father.”  Jaffer closed his large hand around the priest’s and smiled.  “I’d like you to meet Sierra Lazarus.  She’ll be your pilot.  Sierra, this is Father Carson Lockwood.”

Lockwood turned to her, the slight rise of his eyebrows challenging her to deny his identity.  When they’d first met, he’d answered to another name.  Neither one was real.  He shook her hand, holding on longer than necessary.  “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lazarus.” 

            “The pleasure is all mine,” she said. 

Son of a bitch.  What the hell was he doing here?  Dressed as a priest, no less.  Last time they’d crossed paths he’d worn black leather with a Browning 9mm in a shoulder holster.  Sierra felt her face redden at the memory of what she’d been wearing.  Uncertainty crept inside her, but she maintained a poker face. 

Had Lockwood found out about the red diamond? 

“Is that all your luggage?” she asked, anxious to load the plane and get him out of here.  Jaffer had to be protected from her secrets.

“Not quite.”  Lockwood strolled over to the Land Cruiser.  He pulled out a large wooden case and dragged it across the tarmac.

“Whoa,” Sierra said, “that can be sent later.  In this weather, we need to keep cargo to a minimum.”  She gave Jaffer a pointed look.  As if on cue, a wind gust almost knocked the cap off her long, blonde hair. 

“Ma’am.”  Lockwood touched his Roman collar, mischievousness sparkling in his eyes.  “It’s my duty to spread the word.”

Jaffer nodded.  “Bibles.  I’m sure Sierra can accommodate you.”

She’d accommodate him all right.  The unease she’d experienced at his arrival transformed into anger.  No way would she let him interfere in her plans. 

Sierra climbed onto the wing and slid open the canopy, allowing entrance to the cockpit from above the wings on either side of the plane.  She hopped down and let Jaffer load the case into the rear of the Bulldog.  Whatever was in that box, it sure as hell wasn’t Bibles.  He strapped down the container with a cargo net reinforced with bungee cords.  She glanced at the foreboding sky.  Time to get moving, or they’d get caught in the storm.  That would give “Father” Lockwood something to pray about.

Jaffer jumped to the ground.  “You’re all set.”

“Thanks.”  Sierra climbed back onto the wing.  “After you, Father.” 

He hesitated.  “Unusual plane.” 

“The Bulldog’s built for aerobatics.” 

“Sierra has won several competitions in this baby.”  Jaffer patted the side of the airplane, beaming like a proud parent.

“I can imagine.”  Lockwood’s mouth tightened, as if he held back a grin.  He turned to Jaffer.  “Thank you for all your assistance.”

“Not at all.  We appreciate your generous patronage.”  Jaffer wasn’t usually so solicitous, but the church donated truckloads of money to the Flying Doctors, and he obviously wanted to stay in their good books. 

“God bless,” Lockwood said. 

She tried not to gag.  His familiar laugh rumbled in her ears.  While Jaffer checked with the mechanic, Lockwood stepped closer and lowered his voice.

“Interesting alias, Ms. Lazarus.  Guess I’m not the only one who’s been resurrected.”

She ignored the biblical reference and moved toward the plane.  Hell, she’d renamed herself after consuming half a bottle of scotch.  Saint Lazarus.  That was her all right.

“You’re ready to go,” Jaffer said.

A bolt of lightning snaked across the sky in the distance, followed by an earthshaking grumble of thunder, but inclement conditions didn’t intimidate her.  The Flying Doctors flew twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred sixty-five days a year for medical emergencies.  Yet Lockwood, appearing out of nowhere, dressed as a priest, disrupted her equilibrium. 

He climbed into his seat and strapped himself into the five-point harness.  Sierra leaned over and tugged on the straps.  Their eyes engaged in a heated battle.  Her heart accelerated.  The man had charisma—the dangerous kind.  She looked away first. 

Anxious to get into the air, Sierra hurried to the left side and hopped in.  After securing the harness, she put on her headset.  A thousand questions flooded her mind, but she forced them aside.  During the flight, she expected serious turbulence.  Maybe that would shake a few answers out of him. 

She passed him a headset and gave Jaffer her usual preflight salute.  Although Lockwood’s arrival had unsettled her, she couldn’t let her friend sense anything was amiss. 

“Fly safe,” Jaffer said as the first spats of rain landed on his wide forehead.

“Will do.  See you tomorrow.” 

She checked the brakes.  They responded well.  She turned the ignition key, then flipped on the fuel switch and pressed the starter button.  The engine roared to life.  She spoke into her mike.  “Five Kilo Yankee Alpha Echo Romeo to tower, over.”

Static buzzed in her ears, then a voice answered.  “Tower to Five Kilo Yankee Alpha Echo Romeo.  Runway two seven is available for immediate take-off, no reported traffic in the area, over.”  No wait for take-off because no one else would be crazy enough to fly in this weather.

She taxied to the runway and turned the plane into the wind.  The engine revved to seventeen hundred rpm.  She tested both mags to make sure they worked independently.  The plane shook as the wind pummeled the fuselage.  After finishing her pre-flight checks, she confirmed clearance for take-off.

Rain splattered the canopy as Sierra straightened the plane and pushed in the throttle.  Accelerating down the runway, the headwind catapulted the Bulldog into the air.  The plane ascended, visibility dropping as they reached cruising altitude.  For now, she could fly by Visual Flight Rules, but if it got any worse, she would have to switch to Instruments.  Sierra lived for the challenge.  The sky was her home. 

Now safely in the air, she would get her answers.  “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Interesting question from someone who tried to kill me last time we met,” Lockwood said. 

“That was a lifetime ago.”  At least it felt that way.  In truth, it had only been six months.

The tiny plane buffeted up and down and jerked side to side in the turbulence, as if they were inside a cocktail shaker.  Lockwood clenched his jaw and his hands balled into tight fists.  She allowed herself a little smile.  It appeared he wasn’t all that keen on flying in these conditions. 

She banked right and aimed north.  “How did you find me?”

“There aren’t many female pilots.  You should have stopped flying.”

            “I couldn’t.  Just like you’d never take a vow of celibacy.  What’s with the priest outfit?”

“Just catching up with an old friend.”

“You couldn’t really know Father Ramsay.”  Sierra had a hard time picturing Lockwood being friends with the portly priest.

“Ramsay and I go way back.  That’s why I’m relieving him from his post.”

“Right.  You delivering sermons.  I don’t think so.  What are you really after?”

“Just expanding my horizons.”

“More likely your wallet.  Look, as long as I’m not on your radar screen, I don’t care.”  In Antwerp, her efforts to wrangle information out of the smuggler had been in vain.  Every word out of his mouth had been a lie. 

“Business before pleasure.  Tell me what the situation is like on the ground in Moyale.”

Damn.  His close proximity and charm transported her back to that night at Hotel Corinthia.  If she wanted to keep the upper hand, she had best avoid those memories.  She considered her options.  He was headed to Moyale.  No doubt there would be diamonds—maybe he could prove useful. 

Lockwood sought information about Moyale.  For now, she’d share what she knew.  “Total anarchy.  The Borana and Gabra tribes are fighting over water and pasture.  The Ethiopian soldiers are murdering, raping, and pillaging the Kenyan border towns, accusing everyone of harboring Oromo Liberation Front soldiers.  I wouldn’t recommend a long stay.”

“Just long enough,” he murmured.

Before she could reply, the sky blackened and the storm seized the Bulldog in its jaws like a lion shaking its prey.  The plane lurched from side to side in the whirling eddies.  Sierra’s hand tightened on the stick as she fought for control.

The rain intensified.  Rivulets of water streamed across the windshield like liquid mercury.  Time to switch to instruments.

“Five Kilo Yankee Alpha Echo Romeo to base.  Request permission to switch to IFR, over.”

Nothing but static.  She tried again.  No answer.

“Are we out of radio range?” Lockwood asked. 

“It’s not unusual to lose contact in this area, especially in bad weather.  If we see another plane, we can get them to relay our position to Nairobi.”  Sierra’s training kicked in.  A familiar calm settled over her as she analyzed her alternatives.

“Can you fly around the storm?”

“We have a limited fuel supply and the long rains are more widespread than traditional thunderstorms.”

“Look, I wouldn’t have insisted on going to Moyale if it wasn’t important,” he said.

“I’ve flown in worse.”  She wondered if she’d be struck down by lightning for the lie—flying with a “priest” and all.  Visibility was less than half a mile, and the creaking and groaning of the Bulldog wasn’t typical.  She descended a few hundred feet to see if she could avoid the worst of the storm.

Through the bubble-like canopy, a reflection caught her eye.  The glow from the exhaust of another plane.  Talk about good luck.  They could radio Nairobi for her.

“This is Five Kilo Yankee Alpha Echo Romeo, flying at eight thousand feet.  I have visual contact, over.”

Static crackled in her headset.  She tried again, then glanced behind her.  The plane, a single-engine Mooney Ovation, had closed the distance between them.  The red and white paint job made it easy to spot in the rain.  Its nose was glued on a line to their tail.  Why weren’t they answering her call signal?

A burst of light flashed and the unmistakable ping of bullets pelted the Bulldog’s fuselage.  What the hell? 

The Mooney was shooting at them.  Sweat rolled down her back and her focus intensified. 

Instinct kicked in.  She pulled back on the stick and thrust the throttle wide open, forcing the nose upward.  The Bulldog completed a hundred eighty-degree loop.  Now upside down, her harness bit into her shoulders as gravity worked its magic. 

Below, the Mooney zoomed ahead.  It might have more horsepower, but it didn’t have the Bulldog’s maneuverability.  She rolled the plane back upright and shut off their navigation lights.  There.  That should lose them.

“Forgive me, Father.” 

A green hue suffused Lockwood’s face.  Guess he wasn’t a fan of aerobatics. 

“I thought Africa was famous for its hospitality,” he said, voice heavy with tension.

“Friends of yours?” she asked. 

“I don’t have any friends,” he croaked. 

“No surprise there.  Who the hell was shooting at us?”

“You’re the local expert,” he said, “you tell me.”

She wasn’t buying his innocent act.  “That’s it.  I’m heading back to Nairobi.”

“No.  I need to reach Moyale tonight.”

Something in the timbre of his voice disturbed her.  What did he want in Moyale?  “You’re not in charge.”

“Moyale’s our destination unless you want Jaffer to know about the cargo on your previous job.”

Blackmail.  Exactly what she expected from him.  Dammit.  No way could she risk exposure.  Reclaiming the red diamond, the one link connecting her grandfather’s murder with her missing father, meant everything to her.  If flying to Moyale was the price of Lockwood’s silence, she’d comply.  For now.

She banked left and headed north.  He sat back in his seat, a smug look on his face.  Smug, but green.  She promised herself he would pay for it later.

The rain abated.  She dipped the nose down.  The reduced altitude would allow her to fly in the valleys around the mountains, helping to hide them from the Mooney.  Jaffer’s choice of airplane had proven invaluable.  She zigzagged through the saw-toothed escarpment, avoiding the heaviest precipitation. 

She scanned the sky and found the Mooney locked on their tail again.  Bullets stung the fuselage in a torrent of lead.  Time to move.

“Hold on!”  Sierra pulled back on the stick and sent them soaring into a steep climb through the heavy cloud.  The plane rocketed upward, the G-forces pinning her against the back of the seat.  Rain pounded the windshield.  Sierra scanned her instrument panel.  Twelve thousand feet.  She leveled the plane.  Large chunks of hail hammered the fuselage like a drummer pounding steel garbage cans. 

The Bulldog shimmied right, then left.  She pushed the throttle full forward.  As if in slow motion, the plane yawed dully to the left.  Right rudder, hard.  Like the sudden twist of a roller coaster, the plane jarred to the right.  The Bulldog wasn’t responding.

Through the cacophony, Sierra felt the engine stumble.  Engine revolutions were like sheep—you didn’t notice a few were missing until the entire flock was counted.  Twenty seconds later, she had nothing to count.  The rpm needle dipped, then dropped.  The engine stalled.

Shit.

Nothing.

Ice.  The carburetor must have iced over, starving the engine of air.  Or maybe one of the bullets had severed a fuel line. 

No power.

They would have to glide down and find a place to land.  She aimed the nose slightly downward.  Once she got underneath the cloud cover she could search for an empty field or road.  She scanned the instrument panel, calculating her options.  Years of Air Force training guided her. 

“Hey, what’s up?  Things seem a little too quiet,” Lockwood said.

“What you don’t hear is the engine.  We have to a make a slight detour.  A prayer might be helpful.”  She gave him a tight smile that felt more like a snarl. 

Gray ice caked the windshield and the wings.  While Lockwood’s deep voice cursed in her headset, Sierra strained to see through the ice.  The plane glided downward at five hundred feet a minute.  Her hand remained steady on the stick.  Their situation wasn’t ideal.  On the plus side, at least they’d lost the Mooney.

Wide slabs of ice tore away from the wings.  Half the windshield cleared.  Heading through the clouds and the teeming rain, she searched the valleys for an open field.  She spotted a cup-like basin below—wide enough for landing, but the length of the strip would be cutting it close.  A quick glance at the surrounding peaks made the basin her only option. 

She reached for the radio, then stopped herself from calling in the mayday.  The only plane in radio range was the Mooney.  She didn’t want their kind of help.

Aiming for the clearing, she completed a sharp, almost vertical “S” turn, first left, then right, losing just enough speed and altitude to land upwind and miss a nearby cliff.  She guided the Bulldog lower.  Her target was one end of a muddy basin and the landing would be rough. 

Approaching the squat basin, she ran through her emergency landing checks: seat belts secure, fuel turned off, master electrical power off.  She kept the Bulldog’s nose tilted upward to maintain critical air speed as they descended.  She released the cockpit hatch lock, her fingers numb from gripping the stick. 

“Help me pull it back,” she yelled into her mike.  She didn’t want them trapped inside if the plane crashed.

Together they yanked the hatch open, the howling wind and rain screaming past the cockpit.  The Bulldog glided farther than she wanted, wasting precious runway behind her. 

Lockwood was ghost white, his hands gripping the dash.  She flashed back two years to the incident in Iraq.  The rods in her back were a permanent reminder of how that landing had ended.  She blinked and refocused, clearing her mind.  It’d be different this time.  She had control of the aircraft.

The Bulldog’s wheels touched down, then bounced back up and down again hard.  Fans of sludge sprayed upward, plastering the fuselage in a haze of brown.  The plane slowed, but not fast enough.  Through the mud-spattered windshield, the wall of the basin careened toward them. 

“Brace yourself!”  She resisted the urge to close her eyes.  Fingers of panic gripped her throat. 

The nose of the plane slammed into the rocky embankment. 

< Back to Novels