by Mike Maden
The squad leader couldn’t believe his good fortune. He turned to his corporal with a feral grin and said in Songhai, “See?”
The corporal grinned back. “Such a beauty.”
“We have time, if we’re quick about it.”
The sergeant lowered his weapon. He towered over the trembling girl. “Show us,” he said, nodding at the house. He pulled out a chocolate-flavored PowerBar from a pocket and held it up to her. She snatched it out of his hand. He laughed. “If you are telling the truth, there will be more.”
“I am telling the truth,” she said, leading the way in.
True to her word, two other teenage girls were in the room, both sitting on the bed, clutching each other in fear. The sergeant, the corporal, and another soldier stepped into the cool of the house.
“Look around. There is only one other room,” the girl said, pointing at the doorway. “My bedroom. I’m the oldest now.”
“Show me,” he said, barely able to contain himself.
She nodded and stepped into her bedroom. She turned around. “See? I—”
The sergeant clapped a heavy hand on her mouth and wrapped his other arm around her back, forcing her onto the bed. He heard a commotion in the other room. His men, no doubt, having their way with the younger ones.
The sergeant’s broad nose nearly touched the girl’s face. Her eyes flared with fear.
“I’m gentle, I promise. I don’t like to hurt girls. Don’t scream, don’t bite. I’ll be quick, and then we’ll be on our way. Okay?”
She nodded yes beneath his hand, and he felt her body relax a little.
“Good. Quick and gentle. I promise,” he said again with a brotherly smile. He stood back up and unbuckled his belt, dropping his trousers. She saw the hardness of his manhood beneath his boxers. He pulled them down, then fell back on top of her, grabbing her shoulders.
“Here, let me help you,” she said, reaching one hand to the back of his neck as if to kiss him.
“Yes, good,” he grunted as she guided him toward her face.
The knife blade in her other hand plunged straight into his ear. His scream lasted until the tip of the thin steel blade plowed through his ear canal and into his brain stem. His body flew up and away from her in a violent spasm, then crashed to the floor.
Mossa stood in the doorway, his eyes smiling beneath the veil. He wiped his own bloody dagger on his trouser leg.
“You did well, little sister.”
“My sisters?”
“Untouched. We killed the others before they could harm them.” He sheathed his blade.
The girl leaped out of bed and kicked the sergeant’s corpse in the head, then spat on it.
“Bring me a hundred more of them, Mossa, I beg you!”
30
The village of Anou
Kidal Region, Northwest Mali
7 May
Early and Pearce scrambled up to the third floor of the only three-story building in the village. It was fifty meters back from the wall, but it had the best view. Pearce and Early shouldered their rifles and muscled the big Pelican cases up the narrow stairs.
Inside the house was a horror show, not unlike the many poor houses Pearce had cleared out in Iraqi and Afghan villages after the hajis had been inside. Blood, bullet holes, busted furniture. And the requisite pile of human feces in the corner. Predators marking their territory. They climbed a rickety wooden ladder through the hole in the roof and took up their position.
—
Pearce lay flat as possible on the roof to keep out of sight of the army troops who would be scanning the rooflines for trouble. He couldn’t see the street below him from his position, but the roar of the BTR’s big diesel in the road near his building told him it was almost showtime. A two-foot-long firing tube lay by his side, extracted from an opened Pelican case.
—
The BTR slammed to a stop at the well, as expected. The hatches were still open. Mossa was sorely tempted to toss the grenades inside, but Pearce had authority in his voice when he spoke, the kind of authority that comes only from men who have commanded in battle and lived to tell about it. So Mossa kept to the plan, and he and Moctar rolled four grenades beneath the BTR just as it skidded to a stop. Even the thin bottom-plate armor was too thick for the grenades to penetrate. But that was the point. They didn’t want to take any chances and destroy the vehicle.
Moments later, the grenades exploded, shredding all eight tires.
—
The exploding grenades were Pearce’s signal. He stood with the tube launcher and fired, throwing a Switchblade UAV into the sky. The electric-motored aircraft carried a high-definition video camera, laser target designator, and Wi-Fi transmitter.
—
Red Berets piled out of the trucks as fast as they could dismount, NCOs shouting orders in their ears. The soldiers fanned out and raced for the sand-brick wall for cover. Out on the road, they were completely exposed. The wall was their only protection outside of the village. Without it, they’d be sitting ducks.
The big transport trucks revved their diesels, belching black smoke out of the exhaust pipes as they raced backward out of harm’s way.
—
Pearce was still standing on the roof. The BTR’s machine gun opened up, pulverizing the mud-brick buildings in the square. The building shuddered under the soles of his boots, as the BTR had turned its massive gun in his direction.
—
Moctar and Mossa charged the BTR. The side hatches slammed shut as the two Free Men clambered up the back of the vehicle and onto the top, emptying their AK-47s into the open roof hatches. The 14.5mm gun silenced. Mossa listened. Nothing. He peered in. Blood and brains were splattered all over the compartment filled with gun smoke.
—
I haven’t flown one of these for a while,” Early said. “You should let me work that thing.” He nodded at the weapon at Pearce’s feet, a specially modified M-25 grenade launcher with a high-capacity magazine.
“No worries. The Switchblade’s on autopilot. You’re just the backup.”
Pearce pulled on a pair of what looked like old-school mountaineering sunglasses. They were actually a mil-spec version of MetaPro holographic glasses loaded with Pearce Systems proprietary targeting software. The MetaPro glasses were mirrored to the Switchblade’s onboard camera that broadcast a 3-D stereoscopic image of the battlefield inside the MetaPro’s HD lenses, giving Pearce a holographic bird’s-eye view of the Red Berets crouching behind the wall.
Early watched incredulously as Pearce’s fingers danced in the empty air in front of his face, swiping, sizing, and tapping a giant invisible touchscreen.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Selecting targets.”
Once the targets were selected, the Switchblade’s computer transmitted data to the programmable “smart” laser-guided 25mm grenades in the M-25 launcher for a firing solution.
Pearce snatched up the bull-pup-styled grenade launcher, pulling the M-25 buttstock tightly into his shoulder.
He fired, putting all twenty rounds in the air.
—
The Mali soldiers hugging the wall had nowhere to hide. Airbursting grenade rounds exploded just a meter above their heads. Pure carnage. It was as if Pearce jammed a twelve-gauge shotgun against the back of each man’s skull and pulled the trigger.
The Tuareg Hiluxes leaped across the sandy moonscape. Two raced for the fleeing trucks, stuck running backward in a single line of retreat along the hard-packed road. The three other Toyotas flew across the sand and rounded the wall, firing in enfilade at the few surviving soldiers, limping away as fast as their wounded bodies could manage or cowering by the wall clutching their unfired weapons. A half-dozen Red Berets who screwed up enough courage to race through the gate toward the well before the grenade attack were cut down by the
14.5mm gun in the immobilized BTR. Mossa had turned the gun around and stood in the turret firing the big weapon, his feet slipping in blood.
—
The first two Toyotas quickly caught up with the trucks. Like ships o’ the line in the age of sail, the pickups came along broadside the five trucks, brandishing their 7.62 machine guns. The trucks didn’t stop. The first Toyota fired short bursts and blew out the tires of the rearmost truck, the first in the line of retreat. The tires shredded, wrapping around the rear axles and flipping the big truck over. The next truck in line slammed its brakes, slowing its crash into the toppled vehicle. The remaining three trucks slammed their brakes in time, avoiding a crash altogether. As tempting as it was to open fire on the vehicles, Mossa gave strict orders to capture the fuel in their tanks. Of course, he gave no orders when it came to the surrender of the drivers. None was needed.
In the desert, the Free Men took no prisoners.
31
The village of Anou
Kidal Region, Northwest Mali
7 May
Another gunshot beyond the wall ended someone’s misery. It was a kind of mercy, Pearce knew. If a wounded man were left out here beneath the blazing sun, his death would come eventually, but only after insufferable pain over many hours—if he was lucky. Wild dogs might finish the job, too. War was a bloody business, and suddenly he was up to his neck in the crimson tide all over again. But today was different. It wasn’t cold-blooded revenge. He’d picked up a gun again to protect his friends. That was different from butchering a ruthless foe to even a score. His soul was still reeling from Johnny’s death, but he needed to keep that dark memory locked up inside for now.
The Tuareg fighters were draining the army trucks and the BTR of their last drops of fuel so they could fill their Hilux fuel tanks to the brim. Jerry cans were recovered from the trucks, too, and a few more rounded up in the village. Those would get filled with diesel next and loaded into the pickups for transport. Fuel was harder to come by than water in the desert.
Pearce repacked the Switchblade UAV into the firing tube. The spring-loaded wings, tail, and ailerons folded up easily. There were two more compressed-air firing chargers left in case Pearce needed to relaunch in the near future. The rest of the South African UAV combat system was already packed up in separate smaller storage cases and all of them placed back in the big Pelican, a completely self-contained unit. Unfortunately, Pearce had fired all of the programmable X-25 grenades, but at least the little UAV’s camera could still be of use. And there was still his M4 carbine with the 40mm grenade launcher, and Early’s vicious SCAR-H.
“Never even got a shot off, thanks to you and your model airplane. Speaking of which, that new rig of yours is something else. Love the modification.” The M-25 grenade launcher was designed for line-of-sight operation, meaning that the operator had to see the enemy location in order to aim it. With the aerial surveillance modification, not only was there almost nowhere for a bogey to hide, but the operator could “fire and forget” since the UAV remained locked on each target.
“You would’ve been more impressed if you’d seen anybody get inside a building. When the bad guys play hide-and-go-seek, the M-25 always wins.”
“Can I keep this?” Early asked, tapping the M4.
“I have to give it back to the owner, otherwise I lose my five-dollar deposit. So tell me about this Mossa guy.”
“He’s a pretty big deal.”
“Then what’s he doing out here?” Pearce waved a hand at the tiny village.
“The Tuaregs are like the Kurds. Big enough to be located in several countries, but not strong enough to carve out their own nation for themselves. Well, maybe until now. Tribes and clans from Algeria, Niger, Libya, and Mali are gathering around him, or at least the idea of him.”
“What’s so special about him?”
Early shook his head. “Hard to explain. But he has the same effect on his people that Richard the Lion-Hearted had on the English when they were waiting for him to come home.”
“Sounds like you’ve gone native. Dreams of Lawrence of Arabia?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m only here as long as Cella’s here, and now that her daughter’s out, I’m hoping she’ll follow soon.”
Pearce set the firing tube into its molded slot inside the case. “Last I heard, you were grouse hunting in Argentina, living the life of a retired country gentleman.”
“Grouse hunting gets boring after a while. They don’t shoot back.”
“I’d consider that an advantage myself.” Pearce shut the lid of the Pelican case and snapped the throw latches.
“I’m not exactly crazy about it either, but for the money Cella’s father is paying me, I can put up with it a while longer.”
“How much is getting killed worth these days?”
“It was a one-off. Ten thousand a week, tax-free. But it was only supposed to be for three weeks, not three months.”
“Why’d you step back into it? I mean, really?”
Another gunshot rang in the distance.
“You know how it is,” Early said. He glanced over the village. “I know there’s something wrong with me, but I love this shit.”
Pearce frowned. “Killing poor stupid bastards in uniforms?”
“No. That’s the worst part of it. But you know as well as I do there are bad guys out there. Someone has to stop them.”
“We did. About fifty of them. And every one of those dead mutts out there thought we were the bad guys.”
“So who’s gone native?”
“Not me, Mikey. I hate the bad guys, too. I’m just saying, let the Tuaregs and the Kurds and all the others fight their own damn battles and get your ass back to that beautiful wife of yours and those two gorgeous kids.”
“That’s the plan, brother,” Early said with a groan as he stood. “And it may even happen, thanks to you.”
Pearce and Early made their way back to the well, looking for Mossa. Early called ahead on his shoulder mic. Mossa was in Ibrahim’s little storefront, studying the ancient French military map still hanging on the wall.
“I’m going to check on Cella. Holler if you need me,” Early said to Pearce. He left for another house. That left Pearce alone with Mossa.
“What is your plan now?” Pearce asked.
“How well do you know the history of the Sahara, Mr. Pearce?” Mossa still stared at the map.
“It’s a big pile of sand. I hear armies get lost in it pretty often.”
“Yes, they do, since at least the ancient Romans who crossed over here two millennia ago. The bones of many invaders are covered in the shifting sands. But it wasn’t always desert. There are cave paintings in the Tassili N’Ajjer that date to 6000 B.C. Do you know what they depict?”
Pearce shrugged. “No idea.”
“Grass, rivers, antelope, buffalo, cattle, elephants, giraffes. Even hippos. But so much has changed, has it not?”
“The world is always changing.”
Mossa ran his fingers over the expanse of paper desert. “And men must change with it. Even my people. But the Sahara is still our home, the land Allah himself has given us.” He turned to face Pearce, his own face still hidden by the indigo tagelmust.
“So you want to defend this place?” Pearce asked.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a shit hole, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“But it’s our shit hole.”
“It’s not defensible, especially if the government decides to bring in any kind of long-range ordnance or aircraft. They’ll pound this place to dust.”
Mossa nodded. “I agree. But letting go of things is becoming harder in my advancing years. If we leave, then the Ganda Koy win.”
“And if you stay, you die.”
Mossa stepped to the doorway and watched his men prepping their v
ehicles. “The way you fight is not our way. But it was . . . impressive.”
“War is changing, too.”
“You stayed to fight for your friend?”
“Yes.”
“And Cella?” Mossa turned to face Pearce again.
“No.” But Pearce thought about it. “And yes.”
“You knew her before?”
“She was a doctor. Saved the life of a friend. But that was a long time ago, in a different war.”
“I understand.”
“Dorotea is your granddaughter. Cella must have been with one of your sons.”
“She was the woman of my oldest son, Rassoul. He was also a doctor. He entered Paradise three years ago.” Mossa’s eyes bored into Pearce’s. “If we stay, you will stay?”
“If Mike stays, yes. He is my friend.”
“Mr. Early is a good man. A good fighter.”
“Better than you know, on both counts. Don’t waste him.”
Mossa laughed. “I have no intention of wasting him. Or you. No, you are correct. This place is indefensible. Let the sand have it.” Mossa crossed back over to the map and jabbed a finger into it. “We’ll retreat to here, in the mountains.”
“Do you have other men who can join us?”
“Not yet. The Malians have struck here, here, and here.” Mossa touched the map at each battle site. “And there is trouble throughout the region. The chiefs and elders asked permission to defend themselves as they see best, which is the best strategy now. We are like grains of sand in the wind. The best we can hope to do is keep stinging the eyes of the lions. We are still not yet strong enough to offer a pitched battle to a standing army.”
“Will the Mali army follow us into the mountains?”
“They will follow wherever I go. It seems that I am the prize. But we can hold them off quite well there.”
“Then we’re off to the mountains.”
“And soon. There are no survivors today, but perhaps one of their officers was able to get off an emergency message during the attack, quick as it was.”