Sand and Fire (9780698137844) (8 page)

“Don't shoot 'em,” Buell shouted. “Let 'em burn.”

The two Japanese ran right through the Marine platoon, fell to the ground twitching and writhing. No one fired a shot. The other two danced around inside the pillbox, fire stirring fire.

The platoon took two other pillboxes in the same fashion, with no mercy bullets for burning men.

“Most of the enemy on Iwo Jima wouldn't give up,” Blount's grandfather said, “so they needed to die. But they didn't need to die like that.” He sat silently for a while, then added, “I just wish I'd done that a little different. But I reckon you take my point. If you gotta fight, fight to protect. Don't let vengeance burn a hole in you.”

There wasn't a whole lot Blount knew to say except “Yes, sir.”
However, he understood exactly what his grandfather meant. He'd felt the same rage in that Afghan cave, and he'd killed his enemy with the same fury. Grandpa's story didn't mean nothing was worth fighting for. It just meant you needed to be real particular about when you did it and why. Blount wondered if the flabby, cake-eater politicians who sent him out there ever gave these things as much thought as he had during the last five minutes.

Blount went out and got some Brunswick stew to share with Grandpa for lunch. The two men ate in silence, except for Blount's words of thanks for the counsel. The younger Marine left the older one to his books and television, and as Blount drove home, he hoped to find the right things to say to Bernadette and the girls.

While he waited, he cut up an onion and three cayenne peppers. He'd also bought extra quarts of Brunswick stew to bring home. Blount figured his wife wouldn't be in a mood to cook tonight, and the fresh onion and peppers would serve as condiments for dinner.

He was warming the stew on the stovetop when he heard Bernadette pull up. The girls came in first and went up the steps without talking to him. When Bernadette entered the doorway, she didn't look angry, only tired. She went upstairs, too, and Blount wondered if he was getting the silent treatment. A few minutes later she came back down in jeans and a tank top. Bernadette walked into the kitchen, came up behind him, put her arms around his waist.

“I'll be straight with you,” she said. “I don't want you to do this. But I knew what you were when I married you, and it was part of why I married you.”

Blount felt her place her face against his back. He stirred the stew with one hand, put the other hand over both of hers. He felt the moisture of tears soak through the fabric of his shirt.

“You just come back to me,” Bernadette said. “You always better come back to me.”

He felt a flood of relief so great that he teared up, too. The stresses
of deployments had broken up many a marriage, and Blount never forgot how lucky he was to have a woman this strong. He put down the spoon, turned around, and held his wife close.

“I will, baby.”

The girls seemed distracted during dinner. Something was on their minds; maybe they sensed what he had to tell them. After the meal, when he started to explain his plans, they said they already knew. Bernadette had told them after all.

“I don't want you to go,” Priscilla said, looking down into her bowl and sniffling.

“Me, neither,” Ruthie said. “But Mama says you're like the sheepdog guarding all the other animals in the barnyard.”

Blount smiled at his youngest daughter and then at his wife, and he mouthed the words
Thank you.

In the twilight, he took his family for a walk by the water. A pair of cormorants swished by overhead, and the night insects began their concert. From across the lagoon came the sound of an alligator's bellow, a low grumble followed by a hiss and a splash. That noise might have brought fear to some folks, but to Blount it just sounded like home. Don't mess with that alligator and he won't mess with you.

When they got back to the house, Blount said, “You-all go on inside. I'll be right back.”

He went into his toolshed, pulled the string for the light. Grandpa Buell's KA-BAR stood where Blount had left it, stabbed hard into the workbench. He placed his fist around the leather grip and wrenched it out of the wood. Tested the edge with his thumb.

Blount opened a drawer beneath the workbench, found a whetstone. He drew the blade across the stone for several swipes. Slid the knife into its sheath.

You and me ain't done quite yet, he thought.

I
n the AFRICOM operations center, Parson kept an eye on four separate video screens. One displayed a drone's-eye view of Libya's old chemical production facility at Tarhuna, southeast of Tripoli. That feed came from an RQ-4 Global Hawk. Two other screens showed Predator feeds—one from above an army base near Benghazi, and the other over the airfield at Ghadames. The BBC aired silently on the fourth screen.

The Combined Forces Air Component Commander—a three-star—had acted on Parson's suggestion to put drones over places that might hide uncataloged chemical weapons. Parson felt gratified that he could upchannel a recommendation and see some results. But he hardly considered himself a tactical genius; he realized he probably got his drones because nobody had any better ideas.

So far, watching the feeds was like watching grass grow, except there was no grass down there. The Predator over Ghadames recorded routine civilian traffic approaching and departing the desert airfield. The one over Benghazi showed nothing unusual for a base used by the new Libyan army. Parson made a mental note to request moving that drone somewhere else. He also considered moving the Global Hawk from over Tarhuna. So far it detected only a disused chemical plant, most of it underground. From sixty thousand feet, the facility appeared as little more than an indentation dug into the red sand at the base of a hill. Just three small buildings on the surface of the desert, with possibly more buried and invisible. Parson
had seen no vehicles or personnel since the Hawk got on station yesterday.

The workload had grown for Parson since the French officer, Captain Chartier, had left. By now Chartier had returned to Luxeuil Air Base to rejoin his strike squadron and get current again in the Mirage 2000. Parson envied his young colleague's flight duty. After a long career as a navigator and then a pilot, Parson found himself deskbound much of the time as his rank and responsibilities increased.

With little happening on the drone feeds, Parson turned his attention to the news. The BBC camera showed people milling about in some kind of auditorium. Parson looked closely and recognized the well of the United Nations General Assembly. A graphic on the screen read
AWAITING STATEMENT FROM UN SECRETARY-GENERAL
.
Parson turned up the volume. A few minutes later a balding man in dark-rimmed eyeglasses and a gray suit took the lectern. He began to speak in fluent English with a Slavic accent. The graphic changed to read
UN SECRETARY-GENERAL ANATOLY BERETSOV
.
With a grim visage, Beretsov began to speak.

“The United Nations Security Council has voted unanimously to authorize the use of armed force against terrorist factions in North Africa. We take this step with great reluctance to put the men and women of our militaries in harm's way. However, the use of chemical weapons against civilian targets represents an affront to all standards of human decency.

“The governments of Egypt, Algeria, Libya, and Tunisia have agreed to permit use of their airspace and, in some cases, their airports and other facilities. American and French forces have begun to deploy to the Mediterranean, and they will be joined by British, Spanish, and Italian assets as needed. All the members of the Security Council hope for a quick resolution to this threat to the lives and well-being of the innocent.”

Parson had already gathered and analyzed all the data on Mitiga International Airport. He'd found the field suitable for pretty much anything the allied countries might want to fly into it.

The next task would involve coordinating what went where—figuring out how to bed down aircraft at different fields to avoid a MOG problem. MOG meant maximum on ground: ramp space too choked with aircraft to accommodate any more flights. Number-crunching and logistics, basically. Parson mused to himself how a kid might look up into the sky at an airplane and think: I want to do that when I grow up. But nobody tells the kid if he does it long enough, somebody will take away that shiny jet and replace it with a damned desktop computer.

Parson glanced back at the drone feeds and still saw mainly just a lot of dirt. When his cell phone rang—his duty phone, not his personal phone—he turned down the BBC and said, “AFRICOM Operations. Colonel Parson.”

“
Bonjour
, sir. This is Captain Chartier.”

“Frenchie,” Parson said. “How the hell are you? Do you remember how to fly that rocket of yours?”

“
Oui, mon colonel.
I was an instructor in the Mirage, so it was like going back to a longtime girlfriend. She is fast as ever.”

Lucky bastard, Parson thought. Enjoy it while it lasts.

“So what's up?” Parson asked.

“I wanted to let you know my squadron has received deployment orders. We will leave Luxeuil sometime in the next few days, but we do not yet know our forward location.”

I've got a pretty good idea, Parson thought, but I can't say on a nonsecure phone line.

“Well, fly safe,” Parson said. “And give 'em hell.”

“
Certainement.
Oh, and I have sent you something. I mailed you a book by Saint-Ex.
Wind, Sand and Stars
.”

“Thanks, Frenchie. In English, I hope.”

“Of course.”

Parson felt a little stupid for not speaking or reading any language but his own. Especially when he got around people like Chartier and, to an even greater extent, Sophia. He worried about her down there in the Sahara with UNHCR.

“I appreciate it,” Parson said. “Let me know if I can do anything for you guys once you get in theater.”

“
Merci beaucoup.
Perhaps I say too much, but we will fly out with drop tanks installed and a full load of BGLs.”

Sounded good to Parson. The drop tanks would greatly extend the Mirage's range. And the laser-guided bombs—BGLs, in the ass-backward French acronym—provided devastating firepower against enemy vehicles and terrorist hideouts. Such a configuration would allow Chartier and his squadron mates to fly deep into the Sahara and strike hard, if necessary. The Mirage also carried the Damocles laser designator pod. The name amounted to a bit of Gallic poetry—the sword of Damocles over the enemy, just waiting to drop. Combined with the BGLs, the Damocles enabled pinpoint accuracy with heavy weapons.

“You boys are loaded for bear,” Parson said. “I just saw where the UN gave us the green light. Kick some ass.”

“
Bien sûr.
The
képis blancs
are mobilizing, too.”

Parson knew that phrase from recent briefings about allied militaries.
Képis blancs
meant white kepis, the iconic hats worn by the French Foreign Legion. To Americans, at least, they were the only French troops with a reputation for busting heads. Parson considered the Legion a singular and brilliant concept for creating a fighting team: Take guys from around the world, eccentric adventurers and cutthroats who wanted a new start in life. Tell this band of brigands they could have a clean slate as long as they behaved themselves, devoted their lives to France, and passed training that could make hard men cry. Such soldiers would bear allegiance to little but their units. Hence their motto:
Legio Patria Nostra
.
The
Legion Is Our Nation.
Tough enough to get away with wearing goofy white hats.

After Chartier hung up, Parson scanned the drone feeds again. He almost dismissed them as more of the same, but something at Tarhuna caught his eye. Three vehicles sat parked next to one of the buildings. Parson felt sure the vehicles had not been there before. He looked closer and saw they were flatbed trucks.

“Son of a bitch,” Parson whispered. He lowered himself into his desk chair, not taking his eyes off the screen. Men swarmed around the trucks. They entered the building empty-handed and came out in pairs, struggling with large drums or barrels.

Parson checked his computer. It remained logged in to a secure satellite-based text connection with the Mission Control Element at Beale Air Force Base, where the Global Hawk's controllers worked. Normally, Parson's duties wouldn't put him in direct connection with Beale, but his bosses granted him access because he'd made the original suggestion to monitor the potential weapons storage sites.

ARE YOU SEEING THIS?
Parson typed. He didn't even know the name of the officer on the other end. The names changed as shifts changed, but the duties remained the same. His answer came a few seconds later.

AFFIRMATIVE. KASSAM AND HIS BOYS?

Parson considered his answer for a moment, then typed
NOT THERE TO PICK UP THEIR WIVES FROM WORK, I'LL WAGER.

In fact, he could think of no legitimate reason for anyone to do anything at Tarhuna. He glanced up at the screen, then back down at his computer. Thought to himself: Wait a minute. He looked back up at the feed. What were those guys wearing? Parson typed as quickly as he could.

CAN U ZOOM CLOSER?

AFFIRM.

After what seemed like a long wait, though it could have been no
more than a minute, the Global Hawk zoomed in. The men working around the trucks appeared to move with ant-like motions, with one mind and one accord. They wore bulky suits, and something covered their heads and faces. Whoa, Parson thought. Chem suits.

THEY'RE WEARING MOPP GEAR
, he typed.

Parson's suspicions had turned out right. If those bastards were dressed like that, they were handling chemical weapons and they knew what they were doing. When it came to bad guys, Parson worried more about competence than fanaticism. You could take out a wild-eyed moron with relative ease. The job got harder if the jihadist had some skills.

As Parson considered the problem, a reply came from Beale.

IMAGERY CONFIRMS GAS MASKS.

Yep, Parson thought, I could have told you that. So who are we dealing with here? Veterans of almost anybody's military would have at least some training for work in a chemical environment. The governments of the U.S. and European countries mandated the training for fear their troops would get slimed by the other side. Other services trained because they might
use
such weapons. These dudes could have learned this drill in the old Libyan army. Or in Iraq, Syria, or Iran, for that matter. Sadiq Kassam probably recruited his motley little troop from all over.

The Combined Forces Air Component Commander needs to know about this, Parson thought. Put some steel on that target if possible.

HAS THIS BEEN UPCHANNELED TO CFACC STAFF?
Parson typed. His answer came quickly.

AFFIRM. STRIKE AIRCRAFT UNAVAILABLE AT THIS TIME.

That was too damned bad. To an airman, this was a target begging to be hit. But the Air Force didn't have fighters or bombers ready at a moment's notice all over the world.

Barrel by barrel, the worker ants down there loaded all three trucks. When finished, they spread tarps over the barrels and secured
the cargo with tie-down straps. Yeah, Parson mused, you probably wouldn't want a drum of concentrated mustard agent rolling off your truck and breaking open all around you. Parson typed another message:

YOU'RE GOING TO FOLLOW THESE GUYS, RIGHT?

Parson wanted to blow away the insurgents right now, but with no fighters on alert close by, that wasn't an option. The Global Hawk itself carried no weapons. But it could see where the bastards went. No reply came for a while. Parson wondered if something was wrong. Finally, the text box read
BEALE MCE IS TYPING.
Then the answer popped up.

WE'LL TRACK THEM AS LONG AS WE CAN.

What? Why wouldn't they stay on the trucks indefinitely? This is what AFRICOM had been looking for. Parson tapped at his keyboard.

WHAT DO U MEAN BY THAT?

This time the reply came quickly.

HAWK IS ALMOST BINGO FUEL. VERY SORRY, SIR.

You gotta be kidding me, Parson thought. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, quivering just a little because he was so ticked off. If we lost the insurgents' trail, when would we ever find them again? When these trucks blended unobserved with the flow of other traffic, they would effectively disappear. Parson stopped himself from writing his natural response, clenched his fingers into fists. “Damn it,” he muttered. “Damn it, damn it, damn it.” Other officers in the room glanced up from their computers. Parson shook his head. Mind your own damned business.

He took a deep breath, calmed himself enough to write something reasonably professional. Parson typed
HOW MUCH MORE TIME ON STATION?

FIFTEEN MINUTES AT BEST,
came the answer.

We're going to lose them, Parson thought. He tried to come up with a way to salvage the situation.

CAN WE REDIRECT THE PREDATORS TO TARHUNA?
he typed.

He got the answer he expected.

THEY CAN'T GET THERE IN TIME.

Parson massaged his temples, sighed hard. He pushed his chair back from his computer and looked up at the feed. One of the trucks began to roll.

“We had you,” Parson whispered to himself. “We had you dead to rights.”

Nothing left to do but suggest the obvious. Parson typed again.

FOLLOW AS LONG AS YOU CAN. AT LEAST WE'LL KNOW WHAT DIRECTION THEY WENT.

His answer came quickly this time:

YES, SIR.

The first truck began moving along a narrow paved road, and the other two vehicles followed. Parson checked the data displayed along the edge of the video screen. The information included altitude, speed, heading, and other flight information. Based on the Global Hawk's heading and sensor orientation, he determined the trucks were rolling south.

So that narrows it down, Parson told himself. South into the vastness of the Sahara.

The Hawk followed the trucks for a few miles but then veered away. The vehicles disappeared in the upper left corner of the screen as the drone broke off its surveillance.