Blue Warrior (23 page)

“Five kilometers and closing,” Mossa said in English, for the Americans’ sake.

Early and Pearce exchanged a glance. That missile launcher was a Soviet weapon, nicknamed Grinch in military circles. It was the functional equivalent of the American Stinger missile.

The Hind banked hard left to chase one of the trucks on the far end. The gimbaled machine gun roared again. Sand sprayed around the truck. The other Toyotas turned, chasing the Hind, firing their machine guns. Bullets sparked on the helicopter’s heavy armor. No effect.

“Now,” Mossa said.

The Grinch puffed, blowing the missile out of the tube, then the missile engine kicked in with a roar. It raced toward the turning Hind, a trail of crooked white smoke marking its path.

The Hind knew a missile had locked on it. The pilot juked hard just as the Grinch missile launched, and dropped antimissile flares.

Too late.

The Hind erupted in a fireball as the finger of smoke slammed into the hull. The top rotor separated from the chopper, pinwheeling away as the rest of the wreckage rained toward the sand.

The Tuaregs cheered and clapped Balla on the back.

“Built in Russia, killed by Russians,” Early joked.

“Serves them right,” Pearce said.

Mossa turned to Pearce. “That should buy us some time.”

36

Adrar des Ifoghas
Kidal Region, Northeastern Mali

7 May

M
ossa lead the way.

The boy hovered close to the Tuareg chief. Cella was next, shepherding the four women. Pearce and Early were behind them. Moctar, Balla, and the rest of the fighters took up positions among the rocks, hidden from view. Pearce assumed they were left behind to watch for signs of Mali troops.

Mossa wended his way between two tall pillars of granite split like a V, opening a dark chasm in the mountain. He stepped over the inverted apex of the V and disappeared. The others followed suit. Pearce found himself in a broad, low-ceilinged passageway. He had to duck several inches in order to avoid hitting his head, but the dark air felt like a cool water bath compared to the heat outside. Mossa’s LED flashlight washed on the path in front of him. Enough light bounced off the ground that Pearce could make out dim scratchings on the rock walls. An alphabet he didn’t recognize. Pearce couldn’t tell if they were a hundred years old or a hundred thousand. Didn’t care. His pulse was quickening and his legs ached. He was grateful that Moctar and Balla had volunteered to carry his cases.

Pearce wasn’t part of the 2001 assault on Tora Bora or Operation Anaconda in 2002, but he’d seen some of the classified after-action
photos when he was at The Farm. Al-Qaeda made great use of natural caves like this one in Afghanistan. The Russians had bombed the hell out of the underground sanctuaries but never did the damage that American B-52s were able to inflict. The idea of being buried under tons of rock had never appealed to him, especially after the stories his dad told him about the North Vietnamese and their tunnel complexes. His dad had volunteered a few times to crawl down those holes with nothing but a Smith & Wesson revolver and a flashlight. And those tunnels were made only of dirt. His dad was a helluva storyteller, even when he was drunk, which was most of the time. But the way he’d describe slithering on his belly through the dark underground, twisting around ninety-degree bends, waiting for bayonets or grenades or poisonous snakes to strike out at him from the dark, had made him cry as a child. As a small boy, they sounded like monster stories, but they were true—and they had happened to his father. Crying, of course, meant an ugly sneer from his old man and the back of his thick, gnarly hand, but young Troy was as scared for his father inside of those tunnels as if he had been there himself.

And now he was. Or so it seemed. His heart raced.

No, he reminded himself, you’re not under the dirt and on your belly and there aren’t any Charlies just around the corner waiting to shoot you in the pitch-black.

A few steps later he emerged out of the short passageway into a tall, spacious cave big enough to fit a house in, and light poured in from a kind of natural chimney that led up to the surface. The light would be dimming any minute when the sun finally set, but for now it was a relief, like when the movie projector finally kicked on inside of a dark theater. Beneath the open chimney hole was a fire pit, smoldering with coals that filled the room with a smoky haze.

Circling the fire pit were several small woven rugs. In a far corner, another collection of rugs. But what really caught Pearce’s attention was the collection of ammo boxes, stenciled crates, and stacks of bottled water. Moctar and Balla set Pearce’s cases next to them.

Mossa gestured for Pearce to take the rug next to him on his right.
The boy immediately plopped down on the rug to Mossa’s left. Moctar and Balla headed for the supplies while Cella took the women to the far corner.

Pearce sat down, glad to finally take a load off of his weary legs. It had been a long day. What began as a short flight across the border to pick up Early had turned into an all-day gunfight. He hadn’t eaten all day and was on the verge of dehydration.

“You look tired, Mr. Pearce,” Mossa said.

“You’re not?”

“Exhausted!” Mossa laughed. “It has been a long day, but a good day. A day of days.” He glanced at Early. “How is your arm?”

Early held up his salt-stained arm sling. “Who wants to arm wrestle?”

Mossa chuckled beneath the folds of his
tagelmust
. “We should rest. We have much to talk about later.” Mossa clapped Pearce on the knee, then reached up to the end of the indigo cloth and unwrapped his headdress, exposing his face for the first time.

Pearce sensed something in Mossa’s gesture. He had imagined what might be underneath all of that cloth. But that was the point, wasn’t it? The Tuareg’s handsome face was long, with a narrow jaw and medium lips, and his light brown skin was mottled with blue indigo, no doubt sweated off of his garment. His nose was narrow and high-bridged, almost aquiline—maybe Pearce imagined a Roman general somewhere far back in his bloodline. His dark hair was long and straight, but shot through with gray, as was his thick mustache, the only hint of his true age. He had to be at least sixty years old, maybe seventy, Pearce reasoned, if his son was the same age as Cella.

Pearce stole a glance at Early. The big former Army Ranger winked at him. What did the unveiling mean?

Mossa lay down on his side, his head resting on the ten meters of indigo cloth bunched up like a pillow. The boy lay down, too. He wouldn’t get his own
tagelmust
until he reached adulthood. With the Mali army on its way, Pearce wasn’t sure the boy would get to live that long.

—

P
earce dreamed of curry stew. Dreamed he was scooping up giant spoonfuls of it into his mouth, tangy and sweet. The dream was so vivid he could smell it. His eyes fluttered open. Battered aluminum pots steamed on bright orange coals, burn marks etched on their sides. A blue metal teapot, too. Clearly, the fire had been built up while he was asleep. The warmth of it actually felt good here in the cave.

Pearce sat up, groggy. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He rubbed his eyes, yawned.

“Just in time for chow,” Early said. He nodded at the plastic bottle near Pearce’s knee. “Drink up.”

The cave was black now, illuminated by a half-dozen solar-powered lanterns.

Cella and two of the women arrived with small aluminum bowls and spoons. Cella ladled up the contents in the pots into the bowls and the women passed them out. After the men were served, the women got their own food and returned to their corner of the cave to eat.

It was strange for Pearce to see Cella like this, so quiet and unassuming, but yet not subservient. More like an actor playing a role, earnestly. Yes, she was definitely playing a role, he decided, obeying the rules of the clan that had adopted her. But she was also their doctor, and Mossa’s daughter-in-law, which gave her an exalted status. She seemed happy, straddling two worlds.

Pearce took a bite. It was hot. Chicken and curry. Not bad.

“Where did this come from?”

“Turkish rations, courtesy of Colonel Gaddafi,” Mossa said.

“The curry’s good,” Early said with his mouth full.

Pearce checked his watch. It was just past nine. He looked at the boy. He was greedily spooning food into his mouth as fast as he could. Mossa rubbed the boy’s head with his hand and said something. The boy smiled, and curry dripped down his chin. It was good to see the kid finally smile.

Balla and Moctar were slurping their curry and chatting with each other between hot bites.

Early leaned in close. Whispered. “These guys, taking off the veil? That’s a big deal. Means they trust you. It was a month before I ever saw their faces.”

“He’s righteous?” Pearce whispered, nodding at Mossa.

“Yeah. Good leader, out on point. His people love him. So does
she
.” Early nodded over at Cella, not wanting to mention her name.

“What’s the story there?”

“Have to ask her.”

Cella approached with a tarnished silver tray with small, thick glasses and a box of sugar cubes. She set it down in front of Mossa. She turned to leave.

“Stay, daughter, and drink tea with us.”

She nodded her thanks. The boy scooted over, and Cella kneeled next to Mossa.

Steam flumed out of the blue teapot’s long open spout. Mossa leaned over with a rag and picked it up by the handle.

“Black Chinese tea is first brought to a boil,” Cella explained.

Mossa lifted the teapot and set the spout near the first glass, then raised the pot dramatically into the air. A long stream of steaming tea poured into the small glass, frothing it up from that height. He lowered the pot just as dramatically, perfectly timing the fall with the filling of the glass, tipping the pot up at the last second, not spilling a drop. He repeated the practiced ritual, one glass after another.

The boy’s eyes were wide with excitement. He said something in French.

“What did he say?” Early asked.

“He said, ‘Just like my grandfather used to do,’” Cella answered.

Pearce fidgeted, impatient.

Cella laughed. “He’s only getting started.”

Early nudged Pearce. “You’re on Tuareg time now, buddy. Sit back and relax. This will take a while.”

Early was right. When Mossa had filled the last glass he set the blue
pot down, opened the lid, poured each frothy glass back into the pot, and repeated the process all over again. The old chieftain was completely absorbed in the ritual.

“Guess he never heard of K cups,” Pearce said.

“It’s their way of processing the tea, blending it and cooling it, until it’s just right,” Cella said. “But it’s really about something more than tea, isn’t it?”

“And this is just the first round. There’s two more afterwards,” Early added.

Mossa spoke as he continued to pour and process with flourish. “The first glass we drink is strong and bitter, like life. The second glass is mixed with sugar, and so is sweeter. Like love.”

Mossa lowered the pouring pot, frothing the last glass. He set the pot down, finished with pouring. He picked up the tray and held it toward Pearce. Pearce picked up a glass. It was, indeed, cool to the touch. Mossa passed the tray around and everyone but Cella took one.

“By the third glass, the tea is thin, almost like water, and more sugar is added, and so it is very, very sweet, like candy. And do you know what we call this third glass, Mr. Pearce?”

Pearce shook his head.

Mossa lifted his small glass as he would for a toast, and grinned. “We call that last, sweet glass ‘Death.’”

—

A
fter the last glass of tea, Mossa, Moctar, and Balla rolled cigarettes with fine Egyptian tobacco, filling the room with thick, oily smoke. Pearce declined the generous offer to join them but was surprised to see Early indulge. “When in Rome” was his response, but he seemed to really enjoy it. Confessed he’d taken up the habit again after joining Cella out here in the desert.

“You going native, Mikey?”

“This place grows on you, that’s for sure,” he said. “Sand, sun, stars. Nice to get off the carousel.”

Pearce looked up through the vent hole. A veil of stars and a waning
crescent moon. He imagined a band of cavemen sitting in this very spot ten thousand years ago when the ground outside was lush with grass and the hunting was good. He understood what Early was saying. Wondered about Early’s wife and kids back in the States, though. He’d get the story later.

Mossa finished his cigarette, savoring the last tendrils of smoke curling up out of his mouth and into his mustache before stabbing it out in the sand. “Time to walk the perimeter. Join me,” he said, motioning to Pearce and Early. Balla stayed behind to clean up. Moctar, Mossa’s most devout commander, had already left for evening prayers.

The trip back through the low tunnel still bothered Pearce, but it didn’t seem as long as the first time, and they soon emerged into the warm night air. More stars. Mossa relieved himself against a rock. Pearce and Early joined him.

The towering stones formed shadows of jagged teeth in the thin moonlight. Pearce felt like he’d been swallowed. Mossa led them station to station, checking on the men at their posts. Three of them had night-vision binoculars—Russian, German, and French.

“Nothing,” they each reported. All quiet.

“The Malians hate night fighting, despite all of the training you Americans have given them over the years,” Mossa said.