Mike Maden - River of Gods

“You’re putting me in a helluva position.”

“What kind of position do you think my friends are in over there?”

Kavanagh’s neck flushed red. “I wish to God you were still the president.”

The plane is already fueled and ready to go, according to the colonel,” Myers said.

“I still don’t think you should come. It’s risky,” Judy said. “And Troy would kill me if something happened to you.” She was working a piece of gum hard in her jaw.

“If something happens to me it’ll probably happen to you, so Troy will be the least of your worries.”

The two of them headed for the Aviocar, which had already been wheeled out onto the tarmac. They approached the plane. A square-jawed slab of meat in civilian clothes blocked the entrance to the Aviocar’s cargo door. Judy recognized him. It was Sergeant Wolfit, the man from whom Pearce had stolen the M4 carbine. Judy noticed that a new M4 carbine was slung across the sergeant’s broad chest, filling out a bright orange Tennessee Vols T-shirt. His narrow eyes bored a hole into Judy.

“We have permission to take this plane,” Myers said. “Colonel Kavanagh authorized it.”

Wolfit shifted his gaze to Myers. “I know, ma’am. I’m here to ask permission to join you.”

“Why?” Judy asked.

He tapped his rifle. “Sometimes men are handier than drones.”

“Permission granted. And please, call me Margaret.”

Wolfit’s flinty face broke into a wide grin. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Judy pushed past Wolfit and into the cargo door, turning left for the cockpit. Someone else was in the copilot’s seat, also in civilian clothes.

“Who are you?”

The silver-haired man smiled. “I’m a friend of Margaret’s. Name’s Kavanagh.” The colonel extended his hand. Judy shook it.

“Hopper.” She fell into the pilot’s seat.

“We already ran the preflight check. You’re good to go.”

“Thanks.” Judy reached into an oversize shirt pocket. Pulled out a Polaroid.

“Hope you don’t mind the company, Hopper.”

“Not as long as you keep your hands off the yoke.”

Kavanagh laughed. “I like your moxie, kid. But I probably have a few more years in the pilot seat than you.”

“Don’t bet on it.” Judy pulled the gum out of her mouth and stuck it on the instrument panel, then fixed the Polaroid on the gum. Her good-luck charm. It was a faded picture of her as a young girl on her father’s lap flying an airplane for the first time. Seemed especially appropriate now. There was a very good chance this flight would be her last.

Aéropostale Station 11

Tamanghasset, Southern Algeria

15 May

Pearce ran to his camel and pulled off the Pelican case, flung it open, and grabbed the firing tube, already loaded with the fully charged Switchblade UAV. He wished like hell he had grenades for the M-25, but he’d already used them all back at Anou. But at least he could use the Switchblade for surveillance.

Pearce ran to the hangar entrance, pulled the launch tube over his shoulder, and fired. The pneumatic whump spit the five-and-a-half-pound drone into the air high enough for its electric motor to kick in. The small plane sped into the hazy blue sky. If there were any bad guys out there, the Switchblade should be able to see them.

“I have an image,” Mann said, holding the tablet in his hands that served as both a flight controller and view screen. Pearce cross-trained all of his people to handle all kinds of vehicles for emergency situations like this. Even though Mann was a UGV specialist, he could pilot a UAV when the occasion called for it. Mann used the tablet only because he hadn’t practiced with the MetaPro glasses yet.

Pearce cursed himself for not thinking about the UAV earlier. He should’ve been more cautious. He packed the tube back into the case and crossed back over to Mann. Mossa and the other Tuaregs were peering around the German’s shoulders, too, trying to see what was going on. These hardened desert fighters had never seen such technology.

“Troy!”

Pearce whipped around. Cella pointed northeast, toward the horizon. He ran over to her.

“Look!

Pearce saw it. A white speck running low and fast, racing toward them. Looked like a chopper. Might be Ian’s backup ride.

Or not.

“Troy!”

Pearce ran back to Mann. Wished his friend had brought his comm set.

“I’m counting six vehicles. Due west of our position, about two kilometers, and closing fast.” He handed Pearce the tablet. Mann was right. They were screaming across the desert floor. He tried to zoom in, but when he did, he lost them—they’d race right out of the frame. When he zoomed back, he could see them but not really make them out. Looked like desert patrol vehicles, militarized versions of dune buggies. Two men each. Full-faced helmets. Fixed weapons on the platforms.

“Hostiles?”

“Identification unclear. But they don’t look like taco trucks to me.”

Pearce couldn’t help but grin. The last time Mann had visited him in San Diego, he had feasted on every Asian-fusion taco truck in town. Swore he’d buy himself his own truck when he got back home to Germany.

The noise volume in the hangar rose. The familiar echo of beating rotor blades. That chopper was suddenly closer.

“Keep me posted,” Pearce said, handing the tablet back to Mann. He ran back to Cella. Moctar and Balla followed him. Mossa stayed with Mann, fascinated by the technology in the German’s hand.

The helicopter was less than a thousand yards away now. It kicked up sandy dust in spinning vortices as it raced toward the hangar.

“You see the bird?” Early asked in Pearce’s earpiece.

“Yeah.”

“And the vehicles with guns heading our way?”

“Noted.”

“Any bets on who gets here first?”

Akilometer past the northeast end of the Aéropostale runway, Guo lay prone on the far side of a dune, hidden beneath a sand-colored sheet woven with reflective materials impervious to infrared sensors. He would be invisible to any optical camera overhead, and on an infrared monitor he would likely appear, if at all, as a glitch in the sensor.

His eye tracked back and forth through the high-powered scope. What made the modified rifle and scope special was the bullet it fired, developed by Dr. Weng especially for him. It was, in effect, a miniature guided missile. Based upon a design stolen from Sandia Labs, the bullet contained a miniature CPU, actuated fins, an optical sensor, and a power supply. The rifle scope contained a laser. All Guo had to do was paint the target with the laser and fire the bullet. The bullet’s CPU would instantly course-correct against variables such as wind speed, friction, and even the Coriolis effect.

Guo had observed Al Rus’s clumsy attack on Mossa’s caravan from a safe distance and the ease with which the AQS fighters had been dispatched by the fast-running UGV drones Pearce deployed. What wasn’t clear was the aerial strike against Al Rus directly. Was that UAV deployed by Pearce or someone else? Until he was sure, he would remain as invisible as possible.

Once again, Mossa and Pearce had escaped, but Guo knew exactly where they were headed for an extraction. The Aéropostale runway was the only logical choice out here. The best chance Guo now had to capture Pearce and kill Mossa was to intercept them there. He reported back to Zhao and explained the desperate tactical situation. Zhao authorized the deployment of Guo’s specially trained team of handpicked fighters from the PLA’s famed “Fierce Falcons” airborne assault unit. Guo kept them in reserve in Bamako, hoping never to deploy them. Now they were on the ground, racing for the airfield, two men each in fast-attack desert patrol vehicles equipped with Type 87 automatic grenade launcher rifles and 7.62mm machine guns. If they couldn’t kill Mossa, Guo would, and if necessary, Pearce too—along with his entire team.