The Eye of the Sahara
Ouadane region, Mauritania
Out of a cloudless sky, two large military transport helicopters dove, their shadows raced along the desert floor. In unison, they banked over and, one after another, they touched down on the rim of a rocky plateau overlooking the expansive Eye of the Sahara. No sooner had they landed than the back doors of the MI-8s opened, disgorging men in desert fatigues carrying a variety of assault rifles and machine guns. Quickly, they fanned out and set up a secure perimeter. Some were Mauritanian army regulars while others were a team of Chang’s men. The helicopters, their holds empty, revved their powerful engines and then leaped back up into the sky.
A minute later, a golden helicopter dropped from the sky and landed in the center of the perimeter, sending up a billowing cloud of dust and sand. The instant the engine switched off, the doors to the helicopters opened. David Teplov and Colonel Chang climbed out and together they looked around at the desolate terrain that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Colonel Chang pulled a tan desert cap out of his trouser pocket and then placed it on his head. He had always hated the heat and the endless sand of the desert. The dry heat always made him think of what it would be like to be trapped in an oven. Chang preferred the more temperate climate of his native North Korea, but he went where the money was, and at this moment in time, the money was in the Saharan Desert.
David Teplov, his hands grasped firmly around his AK-74, stepped over beside Chang. A new scar ran down his left cheek from the shattered windshield glass that had flown everywhere when his SUV had been hit. He had yet another reminder of his many brushes with death. He’d decided to come along with Chang to ensure that Dmitry Romanov’s orders were followed to the letter.
A slender man with dark, East-African features walked over and stopped in front of Chang. “Colonel, the perimeter is now secure. The Mauritanian lackeys have the outer perimeter, and we patrol the inner cordon,” reported the man.
Chang nodded and thanked him.
Teplov stood silently looking out over the rocky and hilly desert, which reminded him very much of his time as an eighteen-year-old conscript in Afghanistan. He had learned his trade there, and once he had realized he was good at killing, he’d never looked back.
Chang smiled as his deputy, Ivan Kolikov, sauntered over and handed him a cool water bottle. “Good work, Ivan. Tell the men that they should be prepared for a stay in this location for up to a couple of days,” said Chang as he retrieved a satellite phone from his chest rig. He quickly called Romanov to tell him it was now safe for them to fly out to the dig site.
Chang stepped over to the edge of the rocky cliff, looked down and saw nothing that even remotely looked like a crash site. As far as the eye could see there were rocks and sand, jagged, red, dusty hills, and still more rocks. He checked his GPS one more time, just to make sure that they had not landed in the wrong spot. The coordinates checked out; he was precisely where he had been told to go.
Chang shrugged his shoulders. If this is what Dmitry Romanov wanted him and his men to do, stand guard over some worthless rocks, who was he to complain? He knew he would be well paid. Chang opened his bottle and took a deep swig of cool water. He looked out over the desolate and unforgiving landscape and wondered how long they would have to wait until their employer and all the excavation equipment showed up.
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