Page 24 of Cooper

“You’ve got forty-eight hours to get the woman to sign over the land. If she doesn’t, we will release every military and para-military resource on her. She will not be able to hide anywhere. There will nowhere safe for her. And if you assist her, we will come for you.”

Ham held up a fist to the men around the table to hold their tongues. They all wanted to take that challenge but even with all their tools, weapons, and skills, they could not fight thousands of troops.

“Forty-eight hours, gentlemen. I look forward to seeing the signature.”

It was so quiet in the conference room, you could have heard a pin drop. The screen was black, the sound no longer coming through the speakers but their hearts were turning black with anger and frustration.

“This is so much bigger than we thought,” said Rush. “Whatever the riches are in that mine, it’s beyond what wethought. There has to be more to this than we know if the American government and military are willing to wage war against anyone who tries to take it.”

“I don’t think there’s a choice,” said Bianca’s soft voice from the doorway. “Before you ask, I heard it all. I wanted to hear it all. I will not risk your lives or the lives of the people in that region for whatever is down there. I didn’t know it was mine, I didn’t even know it existed. Signing it over seems like a no-brainer.”

“It might not be that simple,” said Ham staring at the woman. “There could be so much more beneath the surface, no pun intended. We need some time to figure it out.”

“You don’t have time,” she whispered. “Let me sign the papers. They can have the land and I can have my freedom.” She slid the signed document across the table and turned to leave. Once again, the room was filled a deathly silence that made them squirm in discomfort.

“Do the Argentine people even know what’s happening down there?” asked Rush.

“Actually,” smirked AJ, “you’re thinking along the lines that we were thinking. And yes, they do and they don’t. Politics in that region is always precarious at best. Right now, there is a small group of freedom fighters that have been trying to overthrow local corrupt governments. Mayors, rich land managers, governors, that sort of thing. They’ve done okay but can’t make it to the big cities because they don’t have the manpower or the weapons.”

“We could fix that,” said Patrick. “We could deliver weapons to them by midnight.”

“And who do we give them to?” asked Ham. “We don’t know who these freedom fighters are or whether they’re better or worse than what’s already there.”

“I might have an idea,” said Tobias with a serious expression. “The indigenous tribes of Argentina. It’s the same everywhere. The land technically belongs to them. Argentina's indigenous peoples comprise nearly 3% of the national population. I know that’s not much but they hold a lot of weight and power in preserving their land.

“There are four major groups including the Mapuche, Qom sometimes called Toba, Wichí, and Guaraní. Official data recognizes dozens of distinct indigenous communities across the country's diverse regional landscapes.

“The Mapuche primarily inhabit the Patagonia region in the south. The Qom, or Toba, and Wichí are located in the northern Gran Chaco region. The Guaraní live heavily in the northeastern province of Misiones and border areas. And the Kolla and Diaguita, reside largely in the northwestern provinces like Jujuy and Salta. Which is exactly where we’re talking about.”

“Brother, I like your thought process here but only three percent? I’m not sure that will help at all,” said Ham.

“It would if other indigenous societies got involved,” said Zeke walking into the room with Kiel, Trak, Joseph, and Nathan. “We have the names of every leading indigenous organization in the world. Something we do on the side.” He said it with a smirk and they all knew he wasn’t joking.

“We could get them down there,” said Trak. “Send money for airfare and they could be protesting, with cameras, within twenty-four hours.”

“Bianca already signed over the land,” said Coop holding up the document.

“Hold onto it. For now,” said Zeke. “Let us try to figure out what’s really in those mines and why every government dick is salivating over it.” Ham looked at the other men in the room and realized it might be the only help they could count on.

“Do it.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The first buses arrived before dawn, crawling across the Patagonian steppe with their headlights dimmed against the dust. By sunrise, the empty road had become a river of people moving toward the fenced drilling site, their banners lifting and snapping in the hard western wind.

“Boss? We have a problem. A huge problem. We’re stopped cold,” said the foreman speaking to Garcia, hundreds of miles away.

“Whatever the fuck it is, fix it!” he yelled.

“I don’t think you understand, boss. This can’t be fixed.”

Mapuche families stood at the center of the gathering, facing the rigs that had been assembled on land they regarded as ancestral territory. Elders carried staffs wrapped in woven bands, while children held painted signs demanding cleanwater, living soil, and the right to decide what happened beneath their feet.

Behind them, thousands of supporters filled the plain in widening circles. Delegations had come from the Andes, the Amazon, the Arctic, the deserts of Australia, the forests of North America, the highlands of Mexico, and communities across Africa whose own lands had been marked by extraction.

Aboriginal Australian representatives raised a banner painted with ochre-colored handprints. Beside them, Maori visitors carried carved staffs, and Sámi activists wore bright woven bands over heavy coats, their colors vivid against the gray-green scrub.

From Mexico came Indigenous farmers and water defenders who spoke of poisoned wells and fields that no longer yielded as they once had. They joined representatives from Native nations in the United States and First Nations in Canada, many carrying eagle feathers, drums, and placards naming rivers threatened by pipelines and wells.