Blue Warrior (31 page)

“They’re American citizens.”

“They’re enemy combatants, as far as I’m concerned.”

“You would’ve made one helluva president, Gary,” Fiero said. She raised her glass in a mock toast. “Or maybe you already are.” She finally took a sip of her drink.

The old man’s ego swelled. He knew she was piling it on, but he didn’t care. She was right. In many respects, he was the acting president.

“One more thing, Barbara, while we’re being so chummy. I need you to promise you’ll back us up on this should it ever come to a committee hearing or, God forbid, a full Senate inquiry.”

“You have my word. And I can keep my people in line. You also
have the chair of my committee in your pocket, along with the other neocon Republicans to back you up. You won’t have any trouble from us.”

“Good. One last thing. I want you to back off of Greyhill on this whole ‘soft on terrorism’ angle your campaign is running.”

“Why should I? It’s true, isn’t it?”

Diele darkened. “Doesn’t matter. Technically, he’s my boss and the head of my party. I’m supposed to watch out for him.”

“Technically, you are. Taking out Mossa takes one arrow out of my quiver, as per our agreement. But the truth of the matter is, you want Greyhill to get reelected so you can keep your job. I get that. But I want his job, too. So how about this? I keep hammering on this, and if he wakes up and finally sees the threats and starts to take action, we’ll all be better off. But if he doesn’t and the American public still supports him, he’ll still get reelected and you’ll still have your job. There’s a third possibility, of course.”

“What?”

“That I keep hammering, that it costs him the election, and in the spirit of bipartisan cooperation, I nominate you as SecDef or any other damn position you’d want in my administration.”

“Sounds like a step down to me.”

“Okay, then here’s a step up. I keep hammering at Greyhill from the outside while you pull your levers on the party on the inside, eroding confidence in his leadership. If my campaign is successful, Greyhill’s numbers will plummet before the convention, and you can ride in to rescue the nomination for your party.”

Diele’s face turned positively postcoital, brimming with satisfaction. “You and I always did work well together, didn’t we?”

“We’re the smart ones, Gary. We’re the ones that run the whole damn town.”

50

Tassili du Hoggar
Tamanghasset Province, Southern Algeria

12 May

A
fter the wadi they traveled east two more days deeper into the desert, riding in the mornings, resting in the heat of the day, then pushing on past sunset. They were making good time. Mossa explained that they weren’t riding traditional pack camels, but smaller and faster Arabian war camels that could cover over a hundred miles per day if needed, but for now their pace was more relaxed. Pearce and the others rode most of the day but walked the last few miles in the cool of the evening to spare the animals, tied nose to tail by ropes slack with indifference.

The desert had changed since the wadi. Now they traversed gently sloping dunes gradually rising toward the jagged teeth of the Hoggar Mountains in the distance. This was more like the Sahara of his imagination, though still not quite as grand as he’d pictured.

They all walked in silence. The desert seemed to require it. Pearce felt humbled by it, the way a student waits for the master to speak. The setting sun behind the caravan threw long shadows in front of Pearce, the head of his image stretching past the Tuareg walking in front of him. It would be night soon. He was lost in the rhythms of the camel’s unusual gait. Right rear, right front, left rear, left front, step after silent step. Every horse he’d ever known walked just the
opposite: right front, left rear, left front, right rear. There was something graceful, even hypnotic, in the strange, silent padding of the great white animals.

Troy had made no efforts to speak with Cella privately since they’d left the village. It was impossible to do so with her father-in-law hovering over her, and she had shown no interest in a private conversation. She seldom strayed more than a few yards from Mossa, especially now that there were no wounds or injuries to treat among the others. They seemed deeply connected, though they hardly spoke, either, except in the company of others. He’d noticed over the years that most Middle Eastern men seldom spoke to women, at least the older, traditional men, even when women were around, which was seldom. But Pearce suspected that their mutual silence was consensual rather than cultural. Cella probably felt very safe around Mossa. Perhaps their common grief had bound them together as well.

“What are you thinking?”

Pearce startled at Cella’s whispered voice. She had somehow managed to slip into step next to him without his noticing. Maybe he really had been hypnotized by his camel’s gait.

“Not much, really.”

“I love the desert this time of day.”

“It’s amazing,” Pearce agreed. The darkening blue sky was giving way to purple, and a swath of stars glittered in the vast expanse overhead. In the distance, a great rock arch towered over the sand, like a portal to another world.

“The Tuaregs are matrilineal. Did you know this?”

“Hadn’t really thought about it.”

Cella pointed at the jagged teeth of granite mountains looming far ahead. “Tin Hinan is the mother of all Tuaregs. She lived in the fourth century
B.C.
At one time she was buried out there.”

“But not now?”

“An American archaeologist stole her body in the 1920s with the help of the French army. Or so it is believed by some.”

“Sounds like an Indiana Jones movie.”

“I liked those movies. Especially the first one. I liked the woman in it, especially his woman. What was her name?”

“I don’t remember.”

“It doesn’t matter. I liked her.”

“Why did you like her?”

Cella’s face lit up. “Because when Indy accidentally found her in Tibet, she punched him in the face instead of kissing him.”

Pearce laughed. He jutted his chin out and thrust it toward her. “Knock yourself out.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“I probably deserve it.”

“You definitely deserve it.”

They walked along in silence for a while.

“I always thought you would come back to Milan,” she finally said.

“I did, too.”

“What happened. A woman?”

“A war.” He took a few steps. “And a woman. Later.”

“You leave her, too?”

He shook his head. “She died.” It was hard for him to say that, even now, a decade later. He thought of Annie often, but strangely, not so much on this trip.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“You lost someone, too. Your husband.”

“Yes.” Now it was Cella’s turn to be flooded with painful memories.

“How?”

“He came back here to be with his father when the war broke out a few years ago in Mali.”

“He was a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Killed?”

“Yes. A week after Dorotea and I arrived in Bamako.”

“I’m sorry. He must have been a good man.”

“He was. He deserved better.”

“Your daughter is beautiful. At least he lives in her.”

Cella’s eyes searched his. Pearce grew uncomfortable. What did she want to know? That he knew Dorotea’s eyes were the same color as his? That he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since the moment he put the girl on the plane? He looked away. They walked in silence for a while. Pearce wanted to catch up with Early, anything to get away.

“Have you been back to Lisbon?” she asked.

She said Lisbon casually, as if it meant nothing to her. Or him. After all, it had been six years before.

“Once. Business. You?”

“No.”

“No more UN work?”

“No. The clinic kept my husband and me busy enough.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He was a cultural attaché in Roma. We met at the opera, actually.”

“A cultured man.” Pearce hadn’t been to an opera since Milan.

“You almost met him. He would have come to Lisbon, but he had other business.”

Pearce thought he’d been slapped across the face.

“I didn’t know you were married when you were in Lisbon.”

“To my shame, I forgot I was married when I saw you again.”

Six years. It seemed like an eternity ago, until now. Memories of Lisbon washed over him. Now he knew why she didn’t stay with him. But what did that mean now? He didn’t know what to say to her. He fell back on his combat training. Fail forward.

“Your daughter is beautiful.”

“She will be spoiled rotten by the time I see her again. My father is a maniac. He has probably already bought her a horse, and maybe even a castle in the Tyrol to hide her from me.”

Low Tuareg voices called out. The camels stopped.

“What is happening?” Cella asked.

Early jogged toward them from the front. His sling was gone, but he clearly favored his injured arm.

“The boss wants to see you.”

“Problem?”

“Could be. Scout just came back.”

—

P
earce, Early, and Mossa lay flat on the crest of a dune next to the scout, a young Nigerian Tuareg named Iskaw. Towering chimneys of granite loomed a half mile ahead. The dunes were like waves of a rolling sea of sand washing up against the rocks.

Mossa held a pair of mil-spec binoculars to his eyes. He conferred with the scout in whispered Tamasheq, then handed the binoculars to Pearce. “Take a look. Just inside the rocks.”

Pearce glanced through the glass, but he hardly needed to. The small flickering campfire was easily seen by the naked eye. The firelight danced off of the tall stone columns above, almost like a strobe.

“Do you see him?” Mossa asked.

Pearce adjusted the focus. Now a shadow came into view. It stood in front of the fire, its back to Pearce. Couldn’t see his face. He wore Western clothes. Definitely not a Tuareg.

“A European,” Mossa said.

“I can’t make him out.” Pearce thought he saw a beard on the man’s face.

“The scout saw him clearly earlier. Swears he is a European. Tall, bearded.”

“Anyone with him?”

“No. By himself, out here. Very strange.”

Pearce handed the glasses back. “Can we go around him?”

“No, our camp for the night is just past his position.”

“Why there?”

“Water.”

“We can take him out,” Early said.

“But he may be innocent,” Mossa said.

“Out here? Maybe.” The big former Ranger wasn’t into taking chances these days.

“Only one way to find out.” Pearce rose. “You three wait here. If he cuts my head off, he’s probably a bad guy.”

51

Tassili du Hoggar
Tamanghasset Province, Southern Algeria

12 May

P
earce crept to within ten feet of the man by the campfire, his back still toward him. The air was sweet with the tang of burnt camel dung crackling in the flames.

“I thought you were a cautious man,” Pearce said. “I’m surprised you let me sneak up on you like that.”

August Mann turned around, a cell-phone-sized monitor in his hand and a grin on his dark, bearded face.

“No surprises. I’ve been tracking you with this SPAN. You can tell all of your friends to come out now.” Mann’s German accent punctuated his faultless English.

SPAN was a self-powered wireless ground sensor network. Mann had scattered the tiny sensors like seeds all around the area. Anyone who came near enough to one of the sensors lit up on his monitor, which was linked to a portable sUAV Mann had deployed overhead.

“Just you?” Pearce asked.

“One war, one German. What else do you need?”

Pearce laughed. The two old friends shook hands, grinning, warriors in the field together again. A brilliant engineer and a fearless fighter, Mann was Pearce Systems’ very first hire and now headed up their nuclear deconstruction operations in Europe deploying unmanned
ground vehicles (UGVs). It was good to have him here. The lanky German came from a long, proud line of military men. His grandfather had commanded a PZKW IV in Rommel’s Afrika Korps. Mann served briefly as a tanker with the Federal Republic’s Bundeswehr, too, before helping to develop their first combat UGVs.

“I assumed you’d bring some friends along,” Pearce said.

“I did.”

“Where are they?”

Mann pointed in the distance. “Out there, lurking in the gloom, keeping an eye on things.”

Like Pearce, Mann preferred the civilian side of drone operations these days, but when wet work was necessary he was the first to answer the call, usually relying on a cadre of trusted East European operators to assist him.

“How many?”

“Six.”

“How good?”

“Untested. But reliable.” Mann glanced at his monitor again. “How many with you?”

“Thirteen, plus one extra camel. Yours, as per your request.”

Mann showed him the monitor. “There are fourteen persons out there.” One blip was far from the others.

“Looks like we have company.”

“Problem?” Mann asked.

“Nothing but.”

Mann tapped his screen. A moment later, a shotgun blast echoed in the night. Mann smiled. “No more problems.”

“Reliable, and now tested.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for coming, August. No telling what’s waiting for us up ahead.”

After Mossa had laid out the route from the Adrar des Ifoghas to the airstrip, Pearce was able to pass along the GPS coordinates to Ian, Mann, and Judy along with an estimated schedule of arrival times—just
in case they lost radio communications. Mann had promised to arrive here at the Tassili du Hoggar with whatever reinforcements he could bring. He and his team had parachuted in just hours before. Judy was still scheduled to pick them all up in the Aviocar three days from now.

Pearce whistled in Early and the others out of the dark. Mann was introduced to Mossa and the rest of the caravan, along with the unburdened camel that had been brought along for him. One of Mossa’s men checked the corpse in the sand. He brought back an assault rifle and a pair of night-vision goggles smeared with blood to Mossa.

“He says it was an Arab,” Mossa said. “No stone.”

“What does that mean?” Mann asked.

“Shi’a pray with a stone,” Pearce said. “Sunnis don’t. Neither do Salafists. AQS is Salafist.”

They all pushed on toward the oasis farther into the narrow granite canyons, their tall spires scraping against a luminous moon. Soon there would be food and water, and then they could all bed down for the night. Mann’s aerial drone and ground team would keep watch over the caravan.

Pearce was exhausted, mostly from the heat. For the first time in his life he felt like he was getting too old for the field, but there was nowhere else he’d rather be, trudging through the desert beneath a canopy of stars in the company of brave companions.