by Mike Maden
Bath hid her rage. She knew damn well how to plant false information on the web to impugn people. She’d practically invented the NSA’s handbook on the subject.
The Angel smiled. “I want to put Pearce and the others on Greyhill’s radar, too. I need Greyhill sweating every second that he doesn’t do something about this new ‘threat’ we’ve just uncovered.”
“Not a problem.” Bath was happy to oblige. People might get killed if Greyhill overreacted, but that was on him, not her. She was just the messenger. In her line of work, morality was a fiction she could ill afford.
39
Adrar des Ifoghas
Kidal Region, Northeastern Mali
9 May
The small band picked their way down through the shadows of the eastern slope while on the other side of the mountain the Mali army lay dead under the merciless afternoon sun.
After the battle that morning, Cella tended the few wounded Tuaregs while Mossa and his men dispatched the suffering survivors. They returned to the cool of the caves, ate again and drank, then Mossa led his men in the noonday prayers while Pearce and Early waited outside.
Pearce raised Ian on his recharged sat phone. Didn’t tell him about the battle, just that everything was on schedule. Got updates on Judy, who was comfortable but now restricted in her air base quarters. Cella’s daughter was already on a chartered flight to Rome.
He thought about Lisbon. Counted the years. Dorotea was a beautiful little girl. It was certainly possible. And those eyes.
First chance he got, he needed to talk to Cella.
After prayers, Mossa briefed Pearce. Mossa assured him that two devastating defeats in two days would send the Malians reeling back to Bamako. There’d be nothing to fear from them for a month, at least, and he’d be back well before then. But Mossa was no fool. He still posted guards, and rotated them frequently out of the scorching sun and back into the caves for rest, water, and food, waiting for the worst of the heat to pass before they began the next leg of their journey.
Mossa was wearing his indigo tagelmust, of course, but had swapped out his combat camouflage fatigues for a traditional blue kaftan and cloth pants, all in royal blue. Leather sandals had replaced his boots, too. Pearce wondered why the change.
Moctar and Balla volunteered to carry Pearce’s remaining Pelican case containing the M-25, Switchblade UAV, and firing tube. He couldn’t imagine them hauling his load on foot for the next six days, but then again, he didn’t know how he’d manage it by himself, either. But he couldn’t leave that technology behind. Too expensive, and too dangerous if the wrong people ever got ahold of it. He’d proven that already back in Anou. And, technically, it was still the property of the South African army, even if they hadn’t taken possession of it yet. He’d have to refund the Hybrid Quadrotor, of course, but at least he could truthfully report on its combat effectiveness.
Like Mossa, Moctar and Balla had rewrapped themselves in their tagelmusts. It was the Tuareg way. Both men were a decade younger than Pearce, but he knew that only because they had uncovered their faces the night before. Wrapped up again, they were ageless, mysterious, and fearsome.
“Moctar, a question.”
“Yes?” The young Tuareg had good English.
“Most Muslim women cover themselves, but not the Imohar women. Why is that?”
“Why would I want to cover my daughters’ heads? I want them to feel the wind in their hair and the sun on their faces, the way Allah intends.”
“Western women feel the same way. They refuse to be covered.”
Moctar laughed. “That is the difference between your people and mine. If I tell my women they shall be covered, then they shall be covered. But I give them the freedom to be uncovered because it pleases me. Your women don’t cover because it pleases them. Your women rule you. All your women wore hats before, yes?”
“Yes, quite often. Until the 1960s.”
“Women’s Liberation,” Moctar said. He pronounced it like a judgment rather than a fact. Pearce let it go.
Balla called out, pointing ahead. An RPG was slung over his shoulder, along with a pack carrying more HEAT rounds.
“And there is our transportation.” Mossa nodded at a small caravan of fourteen camels marching toward them, shimmering in the heat of the sand. Seven camels carried Tuareg gunmen, AKs slung on their laps. Seven other saddles were empty.
“Do you have a mechanical one of those?” Mossa joked, pointing at the camels.
“Actually, yes. It’s called an LS3—a Legged Squad Support System. It looks like a headless, skinless horse.”
“Truly? That would seem to be both a marvel and a nightmare,” Mossa said.
“I grew up mucking rich people’s horse barns. The LS3 has some advantages.”
“Mucking?”
“Shoveling shit.”
“The problem is the putting of the horse in a barn, not the shitting of the horse,” Moctar observed.
By the time they made it all the way down the mountain, the camels had arrived and were already kneeling. The camel driver saw Mossa and raced over. The two men embraced like old friends. Balla and Moctar began securing the Pelican case to a camel.
“Have you ever ridden one of these beasties?” Early asked.
“No,” Pearce said.
“You’re in for treat.”
“That’s what you said to me that time you tried to hook me up with that WNBA power forward.”
“Excuse me? I’d like to hear that story,” Cella said, chuckling.
“She was on a USO tour in Iraq. A big girl, let me tell you,” Early said, lifting his hand a foot above his head like a measuring stick. “About yea tall, and a French braid like a hawser, down all the way to the middle of her back. You know, from behind you could—”
“Forget it,” Pearce barked.
“Pearce! Early! Come!” Mossa beckoned them with his hand.
The six kneeling camels were still four-foot-tall mounds of muscle and very light brown hair, almost white. On top of each were wooden saddles with high slanted backs and elongated three-pronged forks where a stubby saddle horn should be. Each of the saddles was elaborately decorated with goat leather and brass cutouts in bright geometric patterns in bold colors, especially red and turquoise. The animals were further adorned with trappings of long leather strips and woven fabrics. The other Tuaregs remained mounted. Their hands were coal black, as were the small part of their faces he could see behind their veils.
Moctar pointed at Pearce’s camel. “Your ship of the desert, for a sea of sand,” he said. He laughed. “I heard that in a movie once.”
Pearce had ridden plenty of horses growing up in Wyoming. He’d even broken a few broncs in his youth—or at least tried to. He knew the key to riding an animal was to exude confidence. Nervous riders made nervous mounts. Pearce marched up to his camel, grabbed the fork, and hauled himself up on the stirrup, like he’d done it a thousand times before. The camel never flinched. None of them did. They were a serene bunch. The Zen masters of the Sahara. Pearce knew that a group of horses would have been far more skittish, especially around strangers.
“You’ve ridden camels before?” Mossa asked.
“Horses.”
“I rode an elephant once, in a circus near Tupelo,” Early said. “Cost me five dollars.”
“I should like to ride an elephant someday,” Mossa said as he mounted his own animal.
The camel driver and Mossa exchanged words. Mossa nodded, turned to Pearce.
“He would like to trade you for your rifle.” Mossa pointed at Pearce’s M4 slung over his shoulder.
“What’s wrong with his AK?” Pearce asked. “This thing is a little finicky in the sand anyways.”
“Mano likes the new M320 grenade launcher on it. He feels the side-loaded breech is superior to the previous model.”
Pearce smiled. “Man knows his stuff.”
“Mano Dayak is a dealer in such things. He can fetch a great price for that weapon back in Niger.”
“What would he give me for it?”
Mossa chattered a question. The driver answered.
“Two AKs and a camel of your choice.”
“Very tempting. Tell him I’ll think about it.”
The camel driver tapped Pearce’s camel with a crop and the animal’s rear end rose up. It felt like he was in the front seat of a downhill roller coaster. Pearce clutched the saddle with every ounce of strength in his thighs to keep from pitching forward, even though he was gripping the fork. A moment later, the camel stood on its front legs and leveled out. Pearce’s butt was nearly ten feet in the air. It seemed like twenty. He liked the view up there. But it also made him feel like a target.
The other riders all mounted their camels, and the animals rose on command. Mossa’s animal was blazingly white and the tallest by far, and the most ornately decorated. He prodded his camel with a commanding “Het-het” and took the lead. Pearce’s fell in line automatically, no doubt by force of habit. The small caravan was headed for the endless yellow horizon. As strange as the last twenty-four hours had been, he couldn’t begin to imagine what the night might bring.
40
Adrar des Ifoghas
Kidal Region, Northeastern Mali
10 May
Three a.m.
The bodies lay where they fell during the day, cut down by gunfire, grenades, or land mines. Most had bloated, baking beneath the scorching sun all day. The burned-out hulk of a six-wheeled BTR stood upended where it had died, a hole blown in the bottom deck by an RPG as the vehicle crested the trench line, the crew turned to ash.
In all, Guo counted seventy corpses on his way up the mountain. The Mali troops were brave enough but poorly deployed, and even more dismally led. As far as he was concerned, they had been useful for mine clearing at best. The hard way.
The veil of moonlight and the blanket of stars provided more than enough ambient light for this new generation of night-vision equipment. Two of Guo’s best men advanced to either side of him, quiet as butterfly wings. They were all kitted out in the same black tactical uniforms and fully enclosed helmets. The uniforms were temperature controlled and the headgear completely covered their faces, ears, and mouths, much like a high-tech motorcycle helmet. Black flexible “smart glass” wrapped across their faces, fronted by double-barreled night-vision goggles. Each helmet’s enhanced audio provided another tactical advantage over their opponents in the dark. Guo’s command helmet also featured POV windows from the other two operators’ cameras, giving him additional tactical information.
The three men easily located the Tuareg lookouts on the ridge above, two men dozing off and two others whispering in low tones. Telling stories, judging by the way they laughed and smoked. From their distant observation post, Guo and his team had counted fifteen Tuareg fighters in the battle, not including the three that fell. That left eleven not visually confirmed. He was certain Mossa was still alive. Why else would the other brigands remain behind?
His orders were clear. Kill Mossa, capture Pearce. That wouldn’t be easy, but glory was only glorious because it was hard-won. Thankfully, Guo had another tactical advantage to deploy. He blinked an order in his command window and the other two men halted, then took cover. They were just a hundred meters from the ridge.
Guo pulled a cylinder from a vest pocket and emptied the contents on the ground. Pulled a controller from another pocket. A hundred Madagascar hissing roaches scurried up the hill. Each of the giant cockroaches was fitted with cameras and sensors and steered with controls wired to their abdominal sensory organs and antennae. Software auto-piloted them to find warm bodies. Guo and his team tracked their movements and location on the helmeted smart glass.
Originally developed for search and rescue in collapsed buildings, the bio-bot roaches were excellent surveillance tools in war. Dr. Weng’s lab found that using living insects offered numerous advantages over manufactured ones. They had been designed, perfected, and field-tested over millions of years by Nature herself. The best humans could do was mimic natural systems. Weng found that the problems of propulsion, fuel, and load bearing were still overwhelming for miniature human-manufactured insects like mosquitoes and spiders. Even when they were successfully built, their range and payload capabilities were negligible. Retrofitted cockroaches provided a naturally selected, high-tech solution. It was only a matter of time before the hawk drones would be replaced with real ones controlled remotely, too.
Thirty minutes later, the bio-bots had located fifteen warm bodies. It was too dark in most of the caves for the roach cameras to function properly, so it wasn’t clear where Mossa and Pearce were located. Mossa’s death was imperative. Pearce’s capture was secondary. The three operators separated, moving into positions, dividing up targets. Guo gave the signal.
Suppressors muted the bark of their automatic rifles. Single shots took down the first three Tuaregs. Grenades tossed behind boulders took out four others. The team advanced up the hill. Guo fired a grenade launcher throwing flash bangs. Two more Tuaregs dropped, clutching their ears, until Chinese bullets shattered their brainpans. Guo and his men finally crested the hill. The remaining Tuaregs were clustered in two caves. No easy way to get them out. Guo pulled a white phosphorus grenade and tossed it into the first cave. When the phosphorus was exposed to the air, it flashed a brilliant white light and caught fire. A Tuareg leaped out of the cave enveloped in unquenchable flames, screaming. Guo’s men let him pass. A second came out, clothes ablaze, gun firing. He was cut down, but not before putting a round into the smart glass of one of his men. The operator’s POV video image on Guo’s command screen went black.
According to Guo’s display, there were still three people left in the first cave, and six more in the next, ten meters ahead. Guo dashed for the second cave and tossed another WP grenade. More screams.
WHOOSH! An RPG screamed out of the black maw of the cave and roared over Guo’s head. He dropped to the ground reflexively. Good thing. Bullets spanged into the rock just behind him. Had he remained standing, he would have been cut in half. His comrade called, two more down.
BOOM! A grenade went off ten meters behind him. His second video screen went blank. His last comrade down. Guo laughed, battle-crazed. This is how heroes died, he told himself. He tossed another flash bang into the cave, waited for two seconds for the flash to pass, then tossed in a conventional grenade. It thudded. Guo dashed in, gun blazing. Bullets tore high into the chest of a man against the far cave wall trying to raise a rifle. The other four were already dead.
Guo heard the crack of a rifle. A sledgehammer slammed into his back, square in the center of his body armor. Guo dropped to the ground and rolled hard to the left, drawing his pistol. He emptied the mag into the man’s chest. The Tuareg spilled to the ground, grasping sand in his fists until a last breath escaped his lungs.
Guo stood up unsteadily and surveyed the rest of the carnage. Five dead in here. But not Mossa or Pearce. Just a boy and four women, burned to death. Disappointing.
No glory in that.
He stumbled back out into the warm night air and loaded a new mag in his pistol. He approached the prone body of his man by the cave and checked for a pulse, but there was none. Blood soaked the sand around the corpse. Too bad. Guo edged his way as quietly as he could into the other cave. He crept along a broad, low-ceilinged passageway for several meters until he came to a large natural cave. There were two bodies on the ground. One moaned. Guo ran over to the one moaning. Not Mossa, not Pearce. He checked the other body. Dead. Not Mossa, not Pearce.
Guo kneeled down next to the bleeding Tuareg. He pulled a knife. The Tuareg’s eyes widened with terror.
“Where did Mossa go?” he asked in French.
Five minutes later, after much bloo
d and pain, the Tuareg died. And Guo had his answer.
41
CBS Studios
Washington, D.C.
10 May
Meet the Nation was the oldest of the Sunday-morning news shows, and its anchor, Howard Finch, the most ancient and venerable of the bunch.
“Senator Fiero, thank you so much for being here today. Presidential candidates are even busier than sitting senators, so I appreciate your taking the time to join us this morning. My sources in the know say that you have the Democratic nomination all but sewn up for 2016. That must feel pretty good.”
“As you well know, there’s nothing ever ‘all sewn up’ in politics, especially in the Democratic Party. We’re listening to the American people, and they’re concerned about the direction this nation’s headed.”
“My polling data suggests that the majority of Americans are pretty happy with the way things are going now under President Greyhill. For the first time in a long time, we seem to be fighting in fewer places, fighting fewer political battles over things like debt ceilings, and experiencing something of an energy renaissance, thanks to the new federal policies on oil and natural gas extraction.”
You’re a smug old bastard, Fiero thought. “There’s no doubt that our economy has enjoyed a temporary boost from the oil and gas industry, but of course, all of that began under former president Myers, not President Greyhill.”
“So you don’t give President Greyhill any credit for the peace and prosperity this country is currently enjoying?”
“Well, I certainly give him credit for not undoing the hard work that we in the Congress accomplished along with President Myers in helping right the fiscal ship, particularly in regard to the budget freeze. But there are still millions of people in this country, Howard, who haven’t been able to dig out from the wreckage of the financial crisis of 2008, and this country faces significant strategic threats that are ill-served by our current foreign policy.”