Mike Maden - River of Gods

“What? You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t read the papers?”

“I don’t make the call. I just answer it.”

Cella stood. “What call? To topple Hussein? Why him? Why now? Because he supports al-Qaeda? But most of the 9/11 assholes on the planes were from Saudi Arabia. Bin Laden is from Saudi Arabia. Why aren’t you invading them?”

“Hussein’s a war criminal. He used chemical weapons against his own people.”

“Do you mean the chemical weapons you Americans gave him? The ones you helped him use against the Iranians?”

“I’m a soldier, not a politician.” Pearce zipped up the pack. “I want to stay here with you, I really do. But I have a job to do first. When I’m done, I’ll come back.”

Her eyes raged, wet with tears.

“To hell with your war, and to hell with you. If you leave, don’t call, don’t write, don’t ever come back.”

Cella ran out of the room. Everything in him wanted to chase her.

But he didn’t.

Duty called.

The village of Anou

Kidal Region, Northeastern Mali

7 May

The Tuareg driver flashed the lights of his Toyota Hilux pickup three times. The sun had risen ten minutes earlier and the sky was pinking, but the great silver disk was still hidden behind the hills five kilometers to the east.

“Again.” Mossa scanned the sky for a speck coming from the southwest, binoculars held to his turbaned face.

The driver flashed his lights three more times.

“There.” The plane was ten miles out. Mossa recognized the make. He’d seen Aviocars all over the Middle East, one of the workhorses of the skies. At its current speed it would be landing in about two minutes.

“One more time, Moctar.”

Three more flashes.

Mossa brought the glasses back up. The plane’s wings waggled three times. “They see us,” he said.

Judy finished the last waggle and leveled the plane again.

“Two minutes, boss.”

Pearce pulled out the small duffel he’d snatched from AFB Karem and unzipped it. He removed an Air Force M4 carbine with an HK M320 grenade launcher slung underneath. He checked the magazine and safety.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Won it in a card game.”

“I’ve seen you play cards, remember?”

“Let’s just say there’s an Air Force Security Forces sergeant who’s gonna be embarrassed as hell when they do weapons inventory this morning.”

“I thought you weren’t expecting any trouble.”

“You heard Ian.”

“You stole that before Ian gave us the heads-up.”

“Can’t be too careful.”

“That’s great. You’re pissing in everybody’s soup today, aren’t you?”

“Just so long as you and I are okay,” Pearce said.

“Jury’s still out on that one. Keep your belt on. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

Mossa watched the pilot flare the wings as the plane approached. Sand and rock kicked up behind the aircraft but the wheels landed softly, without a bounce. Impressive.

He tapped his driver on the shoulder and the Hilux jumped.

Time to get the American.

Judy feathered the rumbling engines and the props slowed enough that she could release the foot brakes. She unbuckled her safety harness in the pilot seat and joined Pearce in the back.

Pearce stood at the open cargo door. He’d already secured the emergency stretcher to the deck in case Mike had to lie prone. Otherwise, he’d put Early in the more comfortable copilot’s seat and he’d take one of the folding jump seats back in the cargo area.

Pearce had his rifle slung over his back. He didn’t want to appear threatening to whoever was driving up, but he wanted the gun handy in case trouble pulled up instead. Both the rifle and the grenade launcher were racked. Safeties off.

The Hilux raced up to the cargo door. Three men. All wore desert camouflage fatigues and indigo blue turbans that hid everything but their eyes. The Blue Men , Pearce reminded himself. He half expected robes and camels. One manned the machine gun mounted in back, one drove, and now one stood in the passenger seat. All Pearce could see of the standing man’s face were his dark eyes, sharp and suspicious. The other two stared daggers at him.

“You are Pearce?” the standing one said.

Pearce nodded. “Where’s Early?”

The man motioned with his hand. “Come. We don’t have much time.”

Pearce didn’t like the way this was setting up. “Who are you?”

“I am Mossa Ag Alla.”

“Chief of all the Imohar!” the gunner shouted, careful not to point the weapon at Pearce.

Mossa waved a hand to silence the younger man.

“You were supposed to bring Early,” Pearce said.

“Yes, Early. Hurry. There isn’t much time.”

“You know about the Army convoy heading your way?”

“Of course.”

If Early was badly wounded, it might make sense that they wouldn’t have brought him out here, just in case Pearce didn’t arrive.

Or it was a trap.

Pearce said to Judy, “Mind the fort. I’ll be back.”

“And miss the chance to meet the missus? No way.”

Pearce’s icy gaze said otherwise. He yanked a comms link out of his vest pocket and put it in his ear.

“Fine,” Judy said. “At least snap a photo for me.”

“I’ll stay in touch.”

“Be careful,” Judy said, and headed back for the cockpit.

Pearce grabbed the small aluminum attaché case, then jumped down into the rocky sand. He scrambled into the back of the Toyota, and Mossa gave the order to drive with a wave of his hand. The driver mashed the gas pedal and the Toyota leaned hard into a steep 180-degree turn, then sprung upright as it rocketed for the village.

The pickup skidded to a halt in front of the well. Mossa stepped out of the Toyota and motioned for Pearce to follow. The other two stayed behind on alert. Pearce kept his weapon slung over his shoulder and gripped the aluminum attaché case in one hand.

Mossa marched to a nearby house and stopped. Bullet holes scarred the mud-brick walls. He motioned to the doorway illuminated in early-morning light. It was already warming up.

“Your friend is in here.”

Pearce nodded and marched past Mossa into the little house. This close he could see the lines around the older man’s eyes. The Tuareg fighter was five feet ten and powerfully built, but still four inches shorter than Pearce.

Mike Early sat at a small table drinking hot tea. The kettle still steamed where it sat on the hot coals in the fireplace. His left arm was in a sling, and an olive-drab shemagh was draped around his neck, the U.S. Army’s version of a keffiyeh .

“Troy? What are you doing here?” He stood. A wide, toothy grin spread across his bearded face.

“Came to get you out of here.” Pearce crossed to Early and bear-hugged his old friend. “Heard you were wounded and needed an evac.”

Early held up his slinged arm. “This? I’ve had cases of clap worse than this. It’s just a sprain.”

“That’s not what we were told.”

“Don’t blame him. I made the call.” The woman’s heavy Italian accent gave her away.

Pearce turned around. Cella stood in the doorway. He’d steeled himself for the moment but still nearly lost it. It had been years since he’d seen her. She was clearly exhausted and undernourished, but even in her faded camouflage she was stunning.