Ejecta (3 page)

And that was how the tribesman had been able to guide Guiscard and Palmer from
Le fort,
to a secondary road that was headed south, as it passed between rows of distantly seen
hamadas
or plateaus. The boxy truck shuddered like a thing possessed as it rolled onto a stretch of what the French call
tole ondule
, or “corrugated iron,” and Palmer thought of as “washboard.” A surface common to many back country roads in Arizona. Palmer knew the four-inch high corrugation was the result of heavy braking, aggressive acceleration, and usage by trucks with bad suspensions.

The ride was similar to what it would be like if one were strapped to an enormous jack hammer. Palmer’s body shook uncontrollably, the old C303 rattled like a bucket of loose bolts, and gear bounced up and down back in the cargo compartment. At that point Damya turned to look in at them. He was equipped with a pair of motorcycle goggles and his blue veil whipped back and forth. A harness held the Tuareg in place, but Palmer knew that if
he
could feel the effects of the road, then the scout was suffering even more. “Faster!” Damya mouthed, and gave Guiscard a thumbs up.

The Chadian acknowledged the request with a cheerful wave and pressed down on the accelerator. “We need to increase our speed to about fifty-miles per hour,” Guiscard explained. It was necessary to yell in order to make himself heard over the noise of the engine. “Then it will smooth out!”

That was more than a little counter intuitional from Palmer’s point of view—but all he could do was hang on and hope for the best. And it wasn’t long before the ride began to smooth out just as Guiscard had promised it would. The improvement came at a price however. By skimming the tops of the corrugations the Volvo was providing them with a better ride, but less contact resulted in less control, so it was necessary for Guiscard to keep both hands on the wheel.

Making the situation worse from Palmer’s perspective was the fact that the increase in speed made it more likely that they would race past the Mongo Iron without noticing it. Still, each passing hour would make it harder for Damya to track the Mog, so that had precedence.

The slightly elevated two-lane track ran straight as an arrow through a large basin filled with powdery white sand. There were diversions where frustrated drivers had paralleled the road in an attempt to escape the
tole ondule
and had created a braided roadway. Sometimes the strategy worked and sometimes it didn’t. Occasional vehicles could be seen to either side. Ancient wrecks for the most part, half-concealed by drifting sand, never to run again.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, but was actually no more than fifteen-minutes, the C303 arrived on the south side of the basin where the road began to climb the side of the plateau beyond. An HJ75 rounded the curve ahead, flashed its lights in the traditional Saharan greeting, and rattled past. The back of the truck was loaded with children who waved as their clothes whipped in the wind.

Guiscard had to work after that, muscling the 4 X 4 through a series of switch backs, choosing to attack some rocks, while avoiding others. The trick was to put the thick bottom tread onto the sharper rocks to avoid damage to vulnerable side walls, stay out of the deepest potholes, and maintain traction throughout. All of which required a significant amount of concentration.

Having conquered the incline the Volvo arrived on top of the
hamada
where Damya signaled Guiscard to pull over. Once the truck came to a stop, the scout hurried to free himself from the harness, and drop to the ground. Then, having pushed the goggles up onto his forehead, he made his way over to the
piste
and the tracks recorded on it.

The scout was down on his haunches, eyeing the surface of the road, as Palmer got out. It was difficult to open the passenger side door due to the presence of the jury-rigged seat. But Palmer was able to squeeze through the narrow opening and went to join Guiscard. He was standing near the edge of a sharp drop-off peering through a pair of beat-up binoculars. Palmer felt the full force of the sub-Saharan sun—and wished he was back in the air-conditioned cabin. There was a breeze, but it blast-furnace hot, and brought no relief. “Here,” Guiscard said, as he gave the glasses to his friend. “Take a look.”

Palmer brought the binos up to his eyes. The view from the top of the
hamada
was truly spectacular. From the turn-out the geologist could see sections of the road as it switch-backed down to the desert floor below, a strip of white
piste
, and the jagged mountains beyond. They seemed to shimmer in the heat.

“They passed here,” Damya confirmed, as he appeared next to Guiscard. “But the wind will steal their tracks. We must hurry.”

So it was back into the Volvo and onto the road again. Damya had chosen to ride in the back seat, but wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and Guiscard was focused on driving. That left Palmer to wish for a beer that he knew he shouldn’t have, and try to stay awake, as the 4 X 4 came down off the plateau and onto the road below. But a lack of rest the night before, plus the drone of the engine proved to be too much, and the American was asleep when Guiscard touched his shoulder. “Wake up slacker,” the Chadian said cheerfully. “We found something.”

The “something” proved to be a camping spot half-a-mile west of the
piste
Palmer had seen from the top of the plateau. And, when he got out to look around, it became apparent that people had been there recently.
Very
recently judging from the occasional wisps of smoke that issued from a fire-blackened pit. “The Mog was here,” Damya emphasized. “Along with two other vehicles. The bandits made coffee and ate lunch.”

That was promising, since they were closing the gap, and Palmer was about to say as much when something caught his eye. A rock that wasn’t a rock! Moments later he was there, kneeling next to the Mongo Iron, checking to make sure the meteorite hadn’t been damaged. Having no need for what they perceived as a worthless boulder, and eager to lighten their load, it appeared that the bandits had taken advantage of the lunch break to dump the iron onto the ground where it had been left.

Up until that point Palmer hadn’t spent much time with the iron, hadn’t gotten to know it, the way he usually did. Because it was his opinion that each meteorite has its own personality, its own mysterious
feel,
even if the geologist in him knew that was silly. But silly or not Palmer felt that there was a brooding quality about the iron sitting in front of him. And something else as well…. It was almost as if the meteorite was alive in some strange way. Although that was stupid.

“So,” Guiscard said lightly, as his shadow fell across the meteorite. “You found it! Well done, especially since I want my fee…. But now what? It’s too heavy for the Volvo…. Assuming the three of us could lift it.”

“We’ll have to leave it here,” Palmer answered regretfully. “Then, once we recover the Mog, we’ll come back for it. In the meantime let’s get some GPS coordinates and try to make it less noticeable. The odds of another meteorite hunter happening along are a thousand to one but you never know.”

So more rocks were gathered up and heaped around the iron in order to make it less conspicuous. Then, eager to close with the bandits, the threesome were off again. But more slowly this time. Because it wasn’t long before the road became little more than a very primitive track and any sort of dust plume would give them away.

Damya was back in his specially rigged seat by that time, both because the light was starting to fade, and because the primitive road continued to branch left and right as it followed an underground river. Evidence of which could be seen in the green plants that had driven their roots down to the point where they could tap into the liquid hidden below.

Palmer was worried, because even though there were weapons in the back of the Volvo, they weren’t where he could reach them. And the further they went from the main road the more likely an ambush was. So the American felt relieved when Damya signaled for Guiscard to stop. Having freed himself from the harness the Tuareg made his way around to the driver’s side window. “The bandits will stop soon,” the scout predicted. “And stay the night. We must hide our vehicle—and proceed on foot. Then, if Allah smiles on us, we will steal the Mog!”

The plan not only made sense, but left Palmer with the impression that the Tuareg had participated in such raids before, and not necessarily on behalf of the government. So Guiscard drove the 4 X 4 off the road—and parked it behind a thicket of spindly bushes. “Can I make a suggestion?” Palmer inquired, as the two men came together at back end of the vehicle.

“Please do,” his friend replied. “In fact, given your combat experience, feel free to make lots of them!”

Palmer nodded. “Okay, I’ll take you at your word…. I think Damya’s plan makes sense—but execution is everything. Assuming we can locate their camp, and approach on foot, stealth will be extremely important. Because if it comes to a firefight we’re going to lose! Then, if we can penetrate their perimeter, it's going to be about speed. Damya says they have two vehicles in addition to the Mog. So we'll have to disable them, jump in your truck, and haul ass! You have a key?”

“Yes,” Guiscard answered, as he patted a pants pocket. “Right here.”

“Excellent,” Palmer replied. “Once we’re clear of the camp you will stop here so I can jump out and drive the Volvo. Let’s leave the driver’s side door unlocked and the key in the ignition.”

“That’s a good idea,” the Chadian agreed, as he opened the rear doors. “How about an emergency reflector? We could put it out next to the track so I’ll know where to stop.”

“Perfect,” Palmer responded, “And don’t forget the iron…. We need to pick that up on our way out. Okay, let’s gear up.”

The better part of fifteen-minutes passed while the three men armed themselves, shouldered small day packs, and made their final checks. “Let’s jump up and down, and see how noisy we are,” Palmer suggested.

The answer was
very
noisy as various items of equipment
rattled
and
jingled
. So another five-minutes was spent securing loose items before Damya could lead the others west along the game trail that paralleled the main track. The sky was a beautiful shade of lavender by then. The first stars could be seen, and the temperature was beginning to plunge.

The rifle clutched in Palmer’s hands plus the empty feeling in his gut and the almost supernatural acuteness of his senses were all reminiscent of night operations in Afghanistan. The only sounds to be heard as the geologist followed Guiscard up the trail were the occasional click
of one stone striking another, the soft swish
of a branch as his arm brushed by it, and the steady rasp of his own breathing.

But Palmer knew how quickly that could change…. Because he could remember the deafening boom of an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) going off, followed by the sudden rattle of automatic weapons as insurgents opened fire on his platoon, and the screams as his men began to die. And each death was a broken promise. A personal failure. Sins for which he could never atone.

Such were the memories running through the ex-marine’s mind as a helicopter
roared
overhead! The sound was so congruent with Palmer’s memories he thought he was back in Helmand Province for a moment, until the chopper passed overhead, and lights appeared directly in front of them. Headlights, judging from the glare, which were being used to illuminate an improvised LZ.

The helicopter constituted a nasty surprise, but made such a loud racket that Damya was able to run forward, secure in the knowledge that any noise he and his companions made would be covered by the chopper, which had already begun to descend. And it was a pretty good bet that any sentries would be focused on the aircraft rather than peering into the surrounding darkness looking for infiltrators.

A short sprint took the three men within five-hundred feet of the desert encampment, where a pile of tumble-down rocks offered a place to hide as the brightly illuminated EC-135 Eurocopter settled onto its skids. Palmer had a pair of binos out by then. So as the helicopter’s twin Turbomeca engines began to spool down he had an excellent view when a door opened and Police Chief Bahir Jann appeared. Ironically it was the Mog’s headlights that were focused directly on him, and judging from the way some of the bandits surged forward to greet the official, Jann was no stranger to them. “Uh oh,” Guiscard whispered from a few inches away. “What now?”

“We wait,” Palmer replied pragmatically. “And hope for the best.”

***

It was too late for “the best,” or so it seemed to Guiscard. There was no point in saying so however. But had the Chadian chosen to look skyward he would have seen a meteorite streak across the velvety sky. An omen perhaps had the engineer been able to understand it.

Seattle-Tacoma International Airport

After two-years in central America, following muddy trails through the hot, steamy jungle, the airport’s crowded corridors came as a real shock. It took the better part of half an hour for Sara Devlin to gather up her possessions and catch a cab. A shuttle would have been less expensive, but she was in no mood to be crammed into a van with six burly businessmen for the half hour trip into Seattle.

It was raining, which made sense on a cold, gray November day, and the wipers made a persistent
squeaking
sound as they swept back and forth across the taxi’s windshield. The driver wore a burgundy colored turban, and judging from the snapshots fastened to the sun visor, was a dedicated family man. He glanced at Devlin in the rearview mirror as the taxi cleared the airport’s round-about and headed north towards the freeway. “Are you staying in a hotel?”

It was a reasonable question given the fact that Devlin had given her destination as “…downtown Seattle.” Devlin shook her head and fumbled for the scrap of paper that had Marvin Leander’s address on it. “No. You can drop me at the 720 Olive building.”

The driver nodded as he steered the Crown Vic down the on-ramp to the freeway below. The taxi merged onto I-5 northbound a few minutes later. And it wasn’t long before they passed Safeco Field, which never failed to remind Devlin of her father and the summer evening when they had gone there to boo the Yankees. It was the bottom of the 7
^th
, and the score had been tied, when Alex Rodriguez fouled one back into the stands where a much younger Sara Devlin had miraculously been able to catch it.