African Ice by Jeff Buick

simple:
Don’t underestimate me.
She broke the eye contact and said, “I wish to meet my guides and porters, Colonel. Could you please introduce me?”
    He nodded and motioned for her to follow him. Close to the line of military vehicles was a group of twelve men lounging on the thin strip of short grass that separated the road from the jungle. As they approached, the men stood. Mugumba spoke to them in a dialect Samantha had heard, but could not place. She picked up an occasional word, but for the most part was in the dark as to what the colonel was saying. One of the twelve appeared to be the leader, and it was this man Mugumba introduced to Samantha.
    â€œThis is Faustin Amba. He organized the group you see here.” Mugumba waved his hand in the general direction of the other eleven. “They came down from Butembo this morning to meet you at the border. If they are not acceptable, we will find other porters. The choice is yours, Ms. Carlson.”
    â€œHello, Faustin,” Sam said, extending her hand. The man reluctantly took it—his grip anemic, almost nonexistent. It belied his physical stature: broad shoulders with powerful forearms. His curly hair was closely cropped along his gently sloping forehead. His eyes were widely spaced, their whites tinged with yellow. His nose was smooth, not pug, and his lips full. His jawline was round and firm, his chin prominent. He wore a sweat-stained, long-sleeved white shirt and faded Levi jeans. She looked directly into his eyes, putting his height at almost six feet. “Do you speak English?” she asked.
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œThe language you and the colonel were just speaking, what is it?”
    â€œAdamawa-Eastern, ma’am,” the man replied shyly.
    â€œYou are Bantu, with Sudanic heritage?”
    He nodded and she continued, this time in French.
“Il faut savoir comment se debrouiller?”
    Faustin looked shocked for a moment, then smiled. “No, ma’am, I don’t need to steal. If I guide you into the Ruwenzori, I earn my money honestly.
Servir, oui, se servir, non
.”
    She turned to a slightly puzzled Mugumba. “These porters will do, Colonel. Thank you for organizing them.”
    Mugumba addressed the porters in the Adamawa-Eastern dialect and they picked up their meager personal belongings and shuffled toward the line of military trucks a few yards away. They split up and sat with the troops already occupying the transport carriers. McNeil and Sam returned to their Land Rover and he took the driver’s seat. Their escort from Kigali to the border had disappeared, his job done. Ramage took the wheel of the second Land Rover. They fell into a gap between the third and fourth truck as the convoy pulled out and headed north.
    The road was in poor condition, rutted badly from the torrential rains that had fallen inside the last month. Once they cleared the treeless section near Goma, a result of the Rwandan refugees stripping the countryside bare for firewood, the jungle closed in on them and depleted the already waning sunlight. McNeil flipped on the headlights but they mostly illuminated the dust churned up from the preceding vehicle. He swore under his breath and eased off the gas, expanding the space between the trucks. He turned to Samantha.
    â€œWhat do you think of Mugumba?”
    â€œDon’t trust him in the least. How about you?”
    â€œThe same. And the son of a bitch knows exactly what armaments we brought with us. I don’t like it when people I don’t trust know too much.”
    â€œWill the missiles still be usable without the guidance systems?” she asked, grasping the upper hand grip as the Land Rover hit a deep rut. Even holding on, she still smacked the side of her head on the window. She winced in pain.
    â€œIt’s going to cut down the useful range by quite a bit, but we can probably still use them,” he answered, trying to keep the truck on