The Crisis (39 page)

Another explosion flings him through the air and he crashes into soft things, bodies. They push back, cursing: aim rifles; lower them at sight of his armband. The dead man at their feet wears a string of amulets, inscribed with a holy verse that deflects bullets. Another bends and strips it off the corpse and slides it onto his own arm.

Ghedi's in a secondary trench system. Ahead he makes out the low
buildings he saw that morning. Beyond them is the roadblock, then Uri'yah itself. An emaciated woman crawls through the dust as if swimming; she drags a dead child. One of the refugees driven into the minefield. There's no point feeding those who can't fight. But how has she gotten so far? And what grim determination drives her on, hauling her dead with her?

He's gathering his men when a yell comes from the direction of the huts. A line appears, wavering shadows dotted with pricks of light. Bullets whine and snap. Ghedi fires back until he's out of cartridges. The men search bodies, but find only a few rounds. The advancing line fall to their bellies and fire. Then a few rise and rush forward as the others lay down a hail of fire. His men hug the ground. One breaks and runs, throwing away his rifle. The attacking line rise and rush again.

A blow rocks his head back as something invisible strikes his mouth. When he puts his hand to it, it's numb and wet. Motors bawl in the murk. When he looks behind him men are scrambling down from trucks, aiming rifles. They're not Waleeli. His little party's surrounded and falling fast. A poppy-colored flame lights the murk again, and a wave of heat, smoke, and gasoline fumes rolls across the desert.

Ghedi looks forward, at the huts. He gets to his feet and rotates the stubby bayonet out again and locks it. “God is great!” he shouts. “Follow me!”

Lurching like a camel spider, he claws his way over the lip of the trench and charges into the gun flashes. And hears, behind him, the eager shouts of the men who charge with him, into the face of Death itself.

When tubby shapes snarl from the murk ahead and the charging line slow, twist to look behind them, then scatter in panic, he still lurches ahead. As lances of fire and smoke erupt from the bannered turrets and four, six, eight RPGs fly overhead and detonate on the trucks behind him, he screams and brandishes the rifle in the air.

The steel hulls of Juulheed's armored cars churn past from their great loop to the west and back, taking the enemy positions from behind, grinding over trenches and bodies and hastily discarded rifles, utterly shattering the enemy front. Ghedi stands erect, chanting into the sky through a smashed mouth filled with blood. The road to the capital's clear. No barrier remains between the Waleeli and their goal. “This is what God and His messenger have promised us.

“There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is his prophet!”

The chanted refrain from all around on the battlefield is echoed, as by an inhuman choir, by a roar from the very sky.

G
RÁINNE stood watching the rig with hands on hips, ignoring glances from men in dirty uniform trousers, sweat-soaked T-shirts, green hard hats with names and rank insignia, muddy boots. Even through shades and a bush hat, the glare was like a hot lead helmet. Far off a mirage danced on a salt flat, wavering and jerking like a lure dangled by the devil to tempt men to doom.

The soldiers were from Naval Mobile Construction Battalion 133, out of Gulfport, Louisiana. They called themselves “Seabees.” They'd introduced themselves as steelworkers, equipment operators, electricians. There were even a few women. One had given her the camouflage pants she wore.

She'd met the lieutenant in charge, and they'd followed her Land Rover from their airport staging point up the road to Nakar, where she'd led them off-pavement. Minutes later his Humvee had pulled up as he waved her over. “Sure you know where you're going, Doctor?”

But here they were, all the same. He'd told her 133 had teams and equipment to drill not one, but five wells at once. After the meeting with Ahearn she'd explored her conscience and her maps, trying both to test her hypothesis about the paleowater lens and to actually provide fresh water to the nomad Nasaris.

She'd plotted five locations. Four were in already-known artesian formations, where she was fairly sure they'd find water close to the surface, though it might not recharge. Which would mean the wells would run out, maybe in a month, maybe a year. There was a reason this was desert.

Number Five wasn't going to hit water. At least, not for a long time. If it came up fresh, Ashaara's future would be different. If it came up brackish, or contaminated with salts or sulfates . . . no geologist could change what was under the ground.

Now that fifth rig, perched on the blasted side of what looked almost
like some ancient volcanic crater, was roaring its way down into the dry dirt, sending fine blue smoke drifting on the desert wind.

The first day the Seabees had dug postholes and put up targets, then fired rifles for two hours, the cracks fading echoless into the desert. Some rite, perhaps, to remind them they were soldiers.

Then they'd put away their weapons and begun assembling equipment, and it quickly became evident they were also a good deal more.

The lieutenant had left a chief in charge. He'd immediately started preparing the site. A desert tan front-end loader had scraped away meters of gravel and sand, exposing bare rock. They'd leveled equipment, stacked pipes on wooden racks clear of the ground, and covered them with tarps. Unloaded barrels, electric lights, pumps, generators. Other teams dug pits and lined them with heavy green construction plastic, the edges carefully turned and buried to present a smooth surface to the wind. They bolted together a steel shed and positioned a satellite station and trucks for water, fuel, and maintenance.

By the end of the first shift everything was set up but the drill rig. They leveled the ground once more, then erected a steel tower. By the time the floodlights came on that evening drilling was under way. She'd sat out on the sand most of that day, keeping her sunscreen fresh and her hat pulled low, watching one man.

The Chief, they called him.

She'd known when Fletcher had stepped down out of his truck he was going to be significant in her life. His easygoing drawl was unlike any she'd ever heard. His muscles outlined under his damp T, the casual way he strolled among his troops, their obvious respect, all turned her on. He'd looked back, too. He wore a wedding ring. He chewed something, not qat, some kind of tobacco.
That
would have to go.

But they were both a long way from home.

He'd come to her tent that night. She'd already changed and dabbed on some Je Reviens. A heavy scent, but when water was scarce that was what you needed. She'd offered him a drink. It hadn't taken long after that.

His first name was Efrain. He said it was from his grandmother's family. She tried to feel guilty about her husband, but it seemed like so long since she'd cared. His chest hair felt like a wire strainer against her nipples. His mouth tasted of whatever he'd been chewing, but it wasn't unpleasant. Her first boyfriend had smoked.

None of this sounded romantic but it still felt very nice indeed to bring her legs back to her chest, in her sleeping bag, and take him in. It had been a long time and when she came it seemed to last for a month and a half
while she hung on, making small sounds she hoped didn't carry to the other tents.

When she returned he was looking into her eyes. Dipping his head to kiss the silver symbol on her flushed chest, then her nipples, first one, then the other. “Oh. God,” she said.

And he'd said, “My turn.”

 

ALL the next week the drilling went on.

The diesels chugged or roared, depending on how hard the strata was. The mud pump gurgled and spat. organized into teams, the Sea-bees drilled right through the dark hours. They averaged thirty to fifty meters a day, depending on what they were punching through. Every four hours they brought samples to her tent. She examined each core with a poker face, filing each in its own plastic sample box.

Fletcher spent the nights with her, but they treated each other with distant politeness on the rig. Did the others guess? There were probably a few discreet liaisons going on in the unit itself, the hardworking men and the sunburned, muscular women in sweaty T-shirts with navy-issue bras visible beneath. Those who wore them; not all did. As she passed she felt their gazes, men and women alike.

Efrain had frowned when she told him how deep this well would be. He'd never gone past nine hundred feet, and according to her estimate, the lens would be at least six hundred meters deep—more than twice as far. But he'd agreed, after saying he'd have to order more pipe.

The refugees had started coming the day after they began. She had no idea how they knew. The camp was fifteen kilometers away. Perhaps they'd heard the generators, in the night. They walked the entire way. They brought brightly colored water containers and left them in neat lines, weighed down by rocks in case the wind came up.

One day, bored, she climbed in the Rover and drove to Refugee Camp Three. Threw a scarf over her head; red hair had an unfortunate effect on the kids, and old women would scold her. She didn't understand their words, but she'd just as soon avoid spoiling anyone's day.

As they walked the camp the Swiss director explained the situation in French. “The coast road is our lifeline. We truck water in from the port and issue it with oral rehydration salts. Sometimes the bandits stop the convoys, or there are breakdowns. We keep a reserve for drinking but actually we're only ever three days away from being completely out.”

“How much do you use?”

“Each family needs forty to fifty liters for cooking, washing, and drinking. At the moment, that's thirteen thousand liters a day.”

“Chlorination?”

The woman looked at her proudly. “The water on the trucks is treated to one and a half milligrams per liter. That gives us an adequate residual concentration by the time it gets into the pots in their tents. Unfortunately, if we don't receive enough, they have to walk half a mile to a wadi.”

“What's that taste like?” Gráinne asked her.

“The treated water?”

“No, from the wadi. Is it bitter?”

The Swiss woman made a face. “I've not tasted it, Doctor. It's probably contaminated.”

“I agree. Let me ask you something. If I had a message for New York—could I send it through you?”

“No e-mail, but I have a radio. We talk to the airport several times a day. If you have a message, we can forward it.” She held her hand out.

“I don't yet. About your wadi source: it most likely is contaminated. Most surface water is. I could test it for you.”

“It wouldn't matter. What else can I give them? And there's no fuel to boil it. I truly am worried, if we have to keep them here much longer. Of course, most of our residents have lived in near-drought conditions all their lives. They're Afar, after all. The desert has made them what they are. Do you know how they refer to this drought? As a blessing from Allah. I'm never sure if they're being mystical, or just ironic.”

“I thought they were Nasaris . . . ?”

“That's a tribe of the Afar. They're a very clean people, so long as they're on the move. Unfortunately, they're not used to living in large, static groups.” She blinked, hugging herself. “You're alone, out in the desert?”

Gráinne smiled. “I have a hundred and sixty-eight armed troops with me. I don't really worry.”

“We all need to be careful.” The Swiss woman glanced away. “I see people about the camp I don't know. When I ask, I learn nothing. When I look again, they're gone.”

“I'll stay until we find you some water, anyway.”

“Oil, you mean?”

She'd blinked, then grinned. “Is that what they're saying? Believe me. There's no oil here.”

“Of course. Well. If you do find water, I have enough fuel to send a jeep twice a day. It would save many from dying.”

Gráinne had wanted to tell her then, this small worrying woman with her hundreds of children. But she couldn't. No one must know until she was sure, and her own office must hear it first. So she'd just patted her arm. “I hope I can help. But only the drilling will tell for sure.”

. . .

ANOTHER week passed. Now Efrain came every other night. He said he had to sleep sometime. She wondered where this was going. At first she hadn't. A fling, nothing more.

The trouble was, she'd miss him, when it was over. He always seemed to know what to do. She'd never met anyone like that. Reece had never seemed to know shite.

She couldn't go back to him. Nor to Ireland. Maybe Fletcher was just simpler, not better. He'd never said he wouldn't go back to his wife. And children. But whatever happened with him, her marriage was over.

Maybe he was her way of proving it to herself? She'd smiled wryly. “Overanalysis, O'Shea,” Dr. Kyriazis would have said.

She wished he, Costa, were with her now. To see if his great suspicion was right.

Every day was the same. A hearty breakfast, with eggs. The diesels roared. The mud pump gurgled. The water truck refilled the pits. The men shouted, manhandling the collar into position to take the next length of pipe. Foamy brown mud bubbled up and ran down into its settling pit. The smell of burning diesel fuel and shit drifted over the camp in the evening. They had a latrine for women,
all plastic
, with a minute sink built in and even a soap dispenser. Ridiculous, but better than squatting in a ravine, or worse, on an open plain, while your driver pretended not to wonder if your hair was red there too. No showers, though. She kept to her liter a day for an evening wash.

Out on the sand, lines of colorful jugs waited.

Was it possible? Today she might find out. She paced rapidly around the compound. No fence, no wire or guard posts. It wasn't that kind of camp, and anyway, out here in the Quartier Vide, whom had they to fear?