Mike Maden - River of Gods

“How much is getting killed worth these days?”

“It was a one-off. Ten thousand a week, tax-free. But it was only supposed to be for three weeks, not three months.”

“Why’d you step back into it? I mean, really?”

Another gunshot rang in the distance.

“You know how it is,” Early said. He glanced over the village. “I know there’s something wrong with me, but I love this shit.”

Pearce frowned. “Killing poor stupid bastards in uniforms?”

“No. That’s the worst part of it. But you know as well as I do there are bad guys out there. Someone has to stop them.”

“We did. About fifty of them. And every one of those dead mutts out there thought we were the bad guys.”

“So who’s gone native?”

“Not me, Mikey. I hate the bad guys, too. I’m just saying, let the Tuaregs and the Kurds and all the others fight their own damn battles and get your ass back to that beautiful wife of yours and those two gorgeous kids.”

“That’s the plan, brother,” Early said with a groan as he stood. “And it may even happen, thanks to you.”

Pearce and Early made their way back to the well, looking for Mossa. Early called ahead on his shoulder mic. Mossa was in Ibrahim’s little storefront, studying the ancient French military map still hanging on the wall.

“I’m going to check on Cella. Holler if you need me,” Early said to Pearce. He left for another house. That left Pearce alone with Mossa.

“What is your plan now?” Pearce asked.

“How well do you know the history of the Sahara, Mr. Pearce?” Mossa still stared at the map.

“It’s a big pile of sand. I hear armies get lost in it pretty often.”

“Yes, they do, since at least the ancient Romans who crossed over here two millennia ago. The bones of many invaders are covered in the shifting sands. But it wasn’t always desert. There are cave paintings in the Tassili N’Ajjer that date to 6000 B.C. Do you know what they depict?”

Pearce shrugged. “No idea.”

“Grass, rivers, antelope, buffalo, cattle, elephants, giraffes. Even hippos. But so much has changed, has it not?”

“The world is always changing.”

Mossa ran his fingers over the expanse of paper desert. “And men must change with it. Even my people. But the Sahara is still our home, the land Allah himself has given us.” He turned to face Pearce, his own face still hidden by the indigo tagelmust .

“So you want to defend this place?” Pearce asked.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a shit hole, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“But it’s our shit hole.”

“It’s not defensible, especially if the government decides to bring in any kind of long-range ordnance or aircraft. They’ll pound this place to dust.”

Mossa nodded. “I agree. But letting go of things is becoming harder in my advancing years. If we leave, then the Ganda Koy win.”

“And if you stay, you die.”

Mossa stepped to the doorway and watched his men prepping their vehicles. “The way you fight is not our way. But it was… impressive.”

“War is changing, too.”

“You stayed to fight for your friend?”

“Yes.”

“And Cella?” Mossa turned to face Pearce again.

“No.” But Pearce thought about it. “And yes.”

“You knew her before?”

“She was a doctor. Saved the life of a friend. But that was a long time ago, in a different war.”

“I understand.”

“Dorotea is your granddaughter. Cella must have been with one of your sons.”

“She was the woman of my oldest son, Rassoul. He was also a doctor. He entered Paradise three years ago.” Mossa’s eyes bored into Pearce’s. “If we stay, you will stay?”

“If Mike stays, yes. He is my friend.”

“Mr. Early is a good man. A good fighter.”

“Better than you know, on both counts. Don’t waste him.”

Mossa laughed. “I have no intention of wasting him. Or you. No, you are correct. This place is indefensible. Let the sand have it.” Mossa crossed back over to the map and jabbed a finger into it. “We’ll retreat to here, in the mountains.”

“Do you have other men who can join us?”

“Not yet. The Malians have struck here, here, and here.” Mossa touched the map at each battle site. “And there is trouble throughout the region. The chiefs and elders asked permission to defend themselves as they see best, which is the best strategy now. We are like grains of sand in the wind. The best we can hope to do is keep stinging the eyes of the lions. We are still not yet strong enough to offer a pitched battle to a standing army.”

“Will the Mali army follow us into the mountains?”

“They will follow wherever I go. It seems that I am the prize. But we can hold them off quite well there.”

“Then we’re off to the mountains.”

“And soon. There are no survivors today, but perhaps one of their officers was able to get off an emergency message during the attack, quick as it was.”

“Even if they didn’t get off a message, the fact that none of them will be calling in a report will alert their command. Are there other army units in the area?”

“None more than a day’s journey away.”

“Then you’re right. We need to get rolling.”

“Any word from your pilot?”

“Not yet.” Pearce checked his watch. “She won’t be landing for another twenty minutes. I told her to maintain radio silence for security.”

“That is wise. Please be sure to inform me when you have news of my granddaughter.”

“Of course. But don’t worry, Judy is a great pilot.”

Pearce smiled to comfort the old man. He was telling the truth. Judy was a great pilot, but he was still worried. Murphy’s Law FUBAR’d more ops than he cared to remember. He wouldn’t relax until Judy and the girl were safe on the ground.

In the air

Mali–Niger border

7 May

Judy was still five minutes from the Niger border when the alarm blared. An air-to-air missile had locked onto the Aviocar. Her scope indicated the attack plane was some thirty miles behind her and closing fast. A military aircraft, no doubt.

She had no information at all about the Mali air force, but Ian had mentioned something about the Soviets earlier so she hoped that the jet behind her was just as antiquated, even if it was lethal. But even old, the jet behind her was still a heck of a lot faster than her two turboprops. She wondered how much time she’d have before it would launch its missiles. She guessed the military pilot probably required a visual confirmation. In her mind, that gave her thirty seconds, max.

Judy glanced over at the girl in the copilot seat. She was still out cold, which was good. Judy didn’t want the child awake, especially if things went sideways.

Judy stomped on the right rudder control and slammed the yoke into the firewall, banking the plane hard into a steep turning dive, hoping beyond hope that she could shake the radar lock. The negative g’s tingled in her gut and her rear end lifted out of the chair, pressing her small torso against the seat harness. Three seconds later, she reversed, stomping on the left rudder control and yanking the yoke as hard as she could toward her chest, lifting the plane in a steep left climb, pressing her hard against the chair at the same time her body rolled against the belts. She was riding the roller coaster from hell. Judy glanced over at the sleeping girl, her head pressed against the bulkhead. The alarm kept blaring. Not good. Maybe she deserved it, but the girl didn’t.