Mike Maden - River of Gods

“By the third glass, the tea is thin, almost like water, and more sugar is added, and so it is very, very sweet, like candy. And do you know what we call this third glass, Mr. Pearce?”

Pearce shook his head.

Mossa lifted his small glass as he would for a toast, and grinned. “We call that last, sweet glass ‘Death.’”

After the last glass of tea, Mossa, Moctar, and Balla rolled cigarettes with fine Egyptian tobacco, filling the room with thick, oily smoke. Pearce declined the generous offer to join them but was surprised to see Early indulge. “When in Rome” was his response, but he seemed to really enjoy it. Confessed he’d taken up the habit again after joining Cella out here in the desert.

“You going native, Mikey?”

“This place grows on you, that’s for sure,” he said. “Sand, sun, stars. Nice to get off the carousel.”

Pearce looked up through the vent hole. A veil of stars and a waning crescent moon. He imagined a band of cavemen sitting in this very spot ten thousand years ago when the ground outside was lush with grass and the hunting was good. He understood what Early was saying. Wondered about Early’s wife and kids back in the States, though. He’d get the story later.

Mossa finished his cigarette, savoring the last tendrils of smoke curling up out of his mouth and into his mustache before stabbing it out in the sand. “Time to walk the perimeter. Join me,” he said, motioning to Pearce and Early. Balla stayed behind to clean up. Moctar, Mossa’s most devout commander, had already left for evening prayers.

The trip back through the low tunnel still bothered Pearce, but it didn’t seem as long as the first time, and they soon emerged into the warm night air. More stars. Mossa relieved himself against a rock. Pearce and Early joined him.

The towering stones formed shadows of jagged teeth in the thin moonlight. Pearce felt like he’d been swallowed. Mossa led them station to station, checking on the men at their posts. Three of them had night-vision binoculars—Russian, German, and French.

“Nothing,” they each reported. All quiet.

“The Malians hate night fighting, despite all of the training you Americans have given them over the years,” Mossa said.

Mossa led them to a perch overlooking the desert floor below.

“What are your plans now, Mr. Pearce?”

“I need to contact my people. Arrange for a flight out of here. I’m guessing I can’t leave from the same place I arrived.”

“The army will be here in the morning at the latest. There won’t be any place for that plane of yours to land.”

Pearce turned around. Pinpoints of campfires and firelight all across the mountains. In the distance, a small valley.

“What about over there?”

“The army is like a tide. It can’t wash away this rock, but it will crash against it. They will bring in their jets, also. Shoot down any plane they see.”

“Any suggestions?”

Mossa thought about that. “The army won’t cross into Algeria, not even for me. There is an airfield not far from here on the other side of the border. It should be safe to land your plane there.”

“Can you show me on a map?”

“Of course,” Mossa said. “But who needs a map?”

“I do. Better yet, GPS coordinates.”

“As you wish.”

Mossa showed Pearce the journey they would take. Turned out, “not far” meant a six-day journey. Distance, like time, had a different meaning out here. He wondered how many bones were buried in the sand.

Adrar des Ifoghas

Kidal Region, Northeastern Mali

8 May

Amegaphone barked in French in his dream. Distant, echoing. Strong mint tea made his mouth water. He woke. Pearce was on his feet before his eyes were fully open. It was dark in the cave, save for the fire pit and one lantern. He glanced up at the chimney hole. Still dark outside. Checked his watch. An hour until sunrise.

“No worries, Mr. Pearce. Just our friends announcing their arrival,” Mossa said. He was pouring tea. “Still time to eat.”

“What is he saying?”

“An invitation to surrender peacefully. If I refuse, he will come and seize me by force.”

Early was rummaging through the food crate. “How in the hell am I supposed to know what’s in these things?” He pulled out a black plastic bag. “It’s all in Turkish.”

“Think of it as a box of Cracker Jack.” Mossa laughed. “Take what you can get.”

Early grabbed three bags and hustled back over to the fire. “How do you know about Cracker Jack?”

Mossa feigned personal injury. “I may be a desert brigand and a feared terrorist, but I am not uncivilized.”

Pearce scanned the darkened corners of the cave. “Where are the others?”

The electronic voice echoed again. Pearce didn’t need to know French to hear the anger and fear.

“Balla and Moctar are out there, preparing to greet our friends. The women were moved to another cave further back for safety, along with the boy. When this is all over, there is a village that will take them in until they can return to their families.”

“How did you convince the boy to go with the women?”

“I gave him my pistol and told him to guard the women with his life. The best way to cure a young boy’s fears is to give him a man’s duty. Even at his age he feels the power of caring for those he loves.” Mossa nodded, agreeing with himself. “Yes. He will be a fine warrior someday.”

“And Cella?”

“Worried about your ‘friend,’ Mr. Pearce? Don’t. Early has his eye on her. So do I.”

“She’s doing one last check on the women before we haul out of here,” Early said. “Then she’ll come with us.”

“Us? It’s just me, remember?” Pearce had called Judy earlier with the map coordinates for the Algerian airstrip.

“It’s a dangerous journey alone,” Mossa said. “I will take you myself.”

An explosion in the distance.

Pearce knew the sound all too well. “Mortars.”

“And so it begins.” Mossa smiled, holding out a glass of tea to Pearce.

“And where he goes, I go,” Cella said, dashing into the cave, breathless. She dropped down next to Mossa, threw an arm around him in a brief hug. He patted her hand, handed her a tea.

Another explosion.

Pearce felt the earth tremble slightly under his ass. Medium mortar round, a hundred yards downslope. Closer. Still finding the range.

Early cut open the pouches. “Bingo. Looks like crackers, a bag of apricots… and chocolate.”

Three more explosions walked up the mountain, each closer than the last.

Mossa laughed. “You see? Just like Cracker Jack.”

The mortar rounds fell like hailstones on a tin roof. Lots of noise, little effect. Sheltered by tons of granite, most of Mossa’s people were hidden in mountain caves or natural spider holes. Heavy weapons opened up below. Diesel engines raced. The symphony of death. Pearce knew the tune well.

“What about aircraft?” Pearce asked. His stolen M4 was slung over his shoulder.

“They know we have missiles, so they will stay above twenty thousand feet. If they drop bombs from that height, they are more likely to hit their own troops. Useless.” Mossa burped, checked his watch. “They will begin their advance any minute now.” He glanced up at the cave ceiling, listening. The mortars stopped. So did the machine guns. The last echo of gunfire faded into silence.