Chapter One
Near Mongo, Chad
The sub-Saharan landscape was divided between bright, almost searing blue sky, and the khaki colored earth that lay sprawled below, as the big four-wheel drive Unimog turned off the piste and onto a nearly invisible track leading east. Not in a straight line, the way a road laid down by French colonial engineers might have, but in a series of seemingly random twists and turns. “This was no more than a game trail originally,” Andre Guiscard explained from his place behind the Mog’s enormous steering wheel. “So it follows the path of least resistance.”
Guiscard had been born in Chad to a French father and Tuareg mother, but he'd been sent to the University of Arizona for his education, which was where he and Alex Palmer had become acquainted. The Chadian had thick black hair, his father’s hatchet-like nose, and his mother’s coloring. He was wearing a much washed Bono tee shirt and khaki shorts. A pair of reflective aviator-style sunglasses completed the outfit. The truck slowed as Guiscard down shifted and navigated through a rocky obstacle course.
Alex Palmer held onto a grab bar, and waited for the right rear tire to roll over a boulder, before making a reply. The American had light brown hair, sunburned skin, and squint lines that radiated from the corners of his green eyes. Creases bracketed what a former girlfriend once referred to as a “serious mouth.” He wore a gray T-shirt, blue shorts, and a pair of scuffed Timberland hiking boots. “It’s amazing you came across this place,” Palmer commented. “Talk about out in the middle of nowhere.”
“Yes, and no,” Guiscard replied matter of factly. “The government pays me to look for water…. And one way to do that is to visit abandoned villages. Because even if a well gave out at some point in the past, there’s always the possibility that we could deepen it, and make the location habitable again. Such places are not only important to our people––but to the refugees from the Sudan.” With that Guiscard let out the clutch, fed fuel to the five cylinder diesel, and guided the big 4 X 4 up past the skeletal remains of an ancient VW bus. The path rose before turning to the right and disappearing over a rise.
* * *
Meanwhile, from a spot about a quarter of a mile away, a man wearing a bright blue shesh (headdress) and matching robes was watching the vehicle’s progress. His name was Basel Naravas and activity, any kind of activity, was of interest to him. Especially when such a handsome vehicle was involved. As the bandit peered through a pair of very expensive Nikon binoculars, the big Mercedes truck lurched up out of a ravine onto the top of a rise. It was white, with a chromed star over the radiator, and a roof rack loaded with gear. The spacious crew cab could seat four, five in a pinch, with a flat bed behind. A small crane could be seen there, flanked by lockable tool boxes, all of which filled Naravas with lust. Because not only was the Unimog worth a lot of money in and of itself, it could be used to make more money, in a land where reliable transportation often meant the difference between life and death.
So who were the people in the truck? What were they up to? And what would be required to separate them from the Mercedes? Such were the questions on the Tuareg’s mind as he elbowed his way off of the ledge and motioned to his son. The Mog couldn’t go far, not on that track, so it wouldn’t be hard to catch up. Then, Allah willing, the machine would be his.
* * *
The engine roared as the truck waddled up out of a gully and into what had once been a village. Of course that was previous to the Sahara’s latest incursion into the semi-arid grassland called the “Sahel.” There wasn’t much to see beyond the foundations for some circular huts, an old car body, and a fire pit that had clearly been used within the last few days. By nomads most likely—who had spent the night there.
The diesel rattled and died. Doors slammed as Palmer and Guiscard got out of the cab. The interior was air conditioned so exiting the truck was like stepping from a refrigerator into a blast furnace. Palmer pulled a sweat stained baseball hat onto his head and squinted into bright sunlight. There was a pair of Ray-Bans in his shirt pocket—but Palmer wanted to see as much color as he could. A beat up Nikon D-50 digital camera dangled from his shoulder.
“That’s it,” Guiscard said, as he pointed to a depression. “That’s the “’guelta,’ or waterhole. It was at the very heart of the village—and everything looked different back then. Trees, which have long since been cut down for firewood, protected the water from the sun,” Guiscard continued. “But the guelta required rainfall to survive, and with less precipitation each year, the waterhole dried up. So with no water for themselves, or their animals, the villagers were forced to leave. It’s an old story, and a painful one, since they had nowhere to go.”
Palmer nodded. “And the village was named ‘Star?’”
“That’s right,” Guiscard replied. “The village was called Najmah, which means star in Arabic, and could be connected with the meteorite. Assuming the big chunk of rock is what I think it is.”
“It had better be,” Palmer said. “Because much as I like you this is a long way to come for a couple of beers.”
“Yeah, but they were cold beers,” Guiscard responded cheerfully. “And the only beers you’re likely to find around here. Come on…. Let’s take a look.”
The Chadian was in excellent shape, and rather than circumnavigate the waterhole, chose to cross it instead. Once Guiscard had lowered himself into the dry hole Palmer followed. A thick layer of windblown sand parted occasionally to reveal the rocks that lay below—as well as the detritus of human habitation. As Palmer followed the other man across the crater he saw a rusty wheel, what looked like the remains of an old hand-cranked washing machine, and a partially exposed camel skeleton. Guiscard attacked the water hole’s north wall with the surety of someone who had done it before. He was waiting on the top when the American joined him.
Palmer noticed distinct indentations in the sandstone each of which marked a historical water level. They chronicled the history of not only the guelta but the creatures which were dependent upon it. He followed his friend along a narrow foot path, up a slight rise, and over to the point where the remains of a crude shelter could be seen. It consisted of gnarled tree limbs surrounded by an irregular line of tin cans. “Look at this,” Guiscard said, as he held one of the containers up for Palmer to inspect. “The villagers burned candles inside.”
The meteorite hunter looked inside and verified the presence of some melted wax and a fire blackened wick. All preserved by the dry desert air. “Was it a religious ceremony of some sort?”
Guiscard shook his head. “No, the villagers were Muslims, and believed in one god. I don’t think they were worshiping the iron. I think they were celebrating it! Assuming I’m correct that is.”
Though not entirely sure that he understood the difference, Palmer dropped to his knees, and peered through the A-shaped opening. Further back, as if determined to avoid the light of day, Palmer could see the top half of something he estimated to be twice the size of a basketball. In spite of the present drought, the object had been rained on in the past, and the surface of the rock was covered by what looked like a heavy accumulation of rust. An indication that the object could qualify as an iron.
Of course some chondrites, also referred to as “stones,” had a rusty orange fusion crust that caused them to be confused with irons. So Palmer removed a magnet from his pocket and extended his hand. The pull exerted by the object in front of him was so strong that when he let go of the magnet it jumped the intervening gap. The object was an iron! And not just any iron, but a big sucker, that could push half-a-ton. That meant that if it was properly sectioned, and sold to wealthy collectors, the meteorite could be worth half-a-million dollars. It would represent a nice pay day even after expenses and a generous finder’s fee for Guiscard. The Chadian knelt to peer over Palmer’s shoulder. “So what do you think? Was I correct?”
Palmer nodded happily. “Yes, you were! She’s a beauty.”
“I’ll take your word for that,” Guiscard replied. “It looks like a big rock to me…. What now?”
Palmer stood. “I need to take pictures of the site, the shelter, and the meteorite itself. Then, if you would be so kind as to bring the Mog around, we’ll dig this baby out.”
* * *
It took the better part of four long hot hours to pull the shelter apart, dig the meteorite out of the ground, and hoist it up onto the truck. A process Naravas observed from the shade provided by a cluster of rocks. And there were lots of rocks in Chad…. So what made the reddish boulder so special? Minerals perhaps? Foreigners were always searching for valuable minerals. Yes, Naravas decided, that made sense. Not that it mattered because one rock was as good as another rock in so far as he was concerned. No, the real prize was the truck…. And he was determined to have it.
Worried lest he miss his opportunity, Naravas withdrew, and took his twelve-year old son with him. Twenty-minutes later they were back in their ancient Toyota 4 X 4, and ready to follow the Mog once it turned onto the piste. Their patience was rewarded fifteen-minutes later as the Mercedes appeared, took a left hand turn, and headed west. After thousands of years spent in one place the Mongo Iron was on the move.
* * *
The Guiscard family compound consisted of a sprawling house protected by high walls, on a hill located ten-miles south of Mongo. It had been constructed some thirty-years before by Andre’s father Paul Guiscard who, having been a Sergeant-Major in the French Foreign Legion, chose to model his residence after Fort Flatters which was located deep in the Sahara.
The long low-slung building was somewhat stark, but the tops of some palms could be seen protruding above the south end of the defensive wall, which hinted at life within. A column of chalk white dust followed the Mog as it barreled up a long dirt road towards the white-washed complex. Palmer knew that Paul Guiscard’s decision to fortify his home stemmed from more than a sense of nostalgia. Because there had been a lot of civil unrest in Chad over the last three decades, not to mention the presence of bandits, who continued to prey on the weak. So the three-foot thick walls, the fortifications that anchored each corner of the compound, and the metal gate were for more than show.
Thanks to the unobstructed view available from the top of the four-foot thick crenellated walls the truck had been spotted a good fifteen-minutes earlier. So as Guiscard down shifted, and the Mercedes began to slow, two men came out to open the gate. They were non-Islamic southerners judging from the clothing they wore. Although it was becoming more difficult to tell the various ethnic and religious groups apart as people migrated into Chad from the south and east. Palmer took note of the fact that both of the men were armed with AK-47s. A wise precaution out in the middle of nowhere.
Guiscard waved to his employees as he guided the Mog through the gate and into the large courtyard beyond. A sharp left hand turn carried them toward the north end of the compound where a long, low shed-like structure gave shelter to a half-a-dozen vehicles of various types and vintages. “So, what do you think?” Guiscard inquired, as the vehicle came to a stop in the shade provided by a metal roof. “Should we leave the rock on the truck? Or unload it?”
“Anything worth that much money should never be referred to as a ‘rock,’” Palmer responded lightly. “But yes, why unload, just to load again? Especially when we could have a cold beer instead.”
“Makes sense to me,” Guiscard said as he killed the engine. “Let’s celebrate…. How much are you going to pay me?”
“How does fifty-grand sound?” Palmer answered.
“Fifty sounds good. Real good,” Guiscard replied enthusiastically. “That kind of money will go a long ways in Chad.”
Both men exited the truck. The American paused long enough to climb up and give the iron an affectionate pat before jumping down again. Then they crossed the sun baked inner courtyard to the south end of the compound. That was where the family’s U-shaped home was located. All of the windows looked in on the central garden which was centered around a group of carefully tended palms. The artificial oasis was made possible by water pumped from hundreds of feet below.
And, true to Guiscard’s promise, refreshments were waiting on one of the four glass topped tables that graced the outside eating area. All courtesy of Guiscard’s seldom seen mother. A real beauty for whom Guiscard’s father had been required to pay an enormous bride’s price of twenty-five camels. After that it had been necessary for the newly married couple to live with her parents for a full year prior to being allowed to go out on their own.
But if Madam Guiscard was beautiful, her good looks were routinely hidden by both a veil and multiple layers of indigo clothing, which had the effect of causing her sweat to evaporate slowly.
The wrought iron chairs made a loud scraping sound as they were pulled away from the table and the men took their seats. It was relatively cool under the palms. The water gurgled happily as it cascaded down the sides of the fountain, and laughter could be heard from the kitchen.
There was a galvanized bucket of ice cold Gala beer from Moundou sitting on the floor tiles between them. Something that would never be allowed in most Muslim homes. But Tuaregs are famous for cutting religious corners, and the beer had long been a staple at Le fort, even after Guiscard senior’s death. There were also bowls of salted peanuts, some raw veggies, and a plateful of pastries. The appetizers were made of millet flour, which had been mixed with egg and sugar, before being fried in peanut oil. They were delicious, especially when combined with some Gala, which slid down the back of Palmer’s throat like a cold river.
The next hour passed rather comfortably as the two men ate snacks, drank beer, and relived their college days. So it wasn’t long before Palmer ran over his self-imposed limit of three beers, and was gradually transformed into the “other” him. A man who was louder and more outgoing than normal. As the light began to fade dinner was served.
Palmer caught a glimpse of Madam Guiscard, as she sent two servant girls out with the main course, but she disappeared shortly thereafter. The American turned to his host. “Will your mother join us?”
Guiscard smiled. “Tuareg men and women don’t eat together, Alex…. Not in traditional families. And once my father died mother went back to the old ways.”
So the friends were left to consume the Jarret de boeuf by themselves, both taking food from the same platter, as day turned to night. The stew was delicious, but the burgundy was a tad too dry for Palmer’s taste, although it went down smoothly enough. So that by the time dinner was over, and the two men parted company, the American was drunk. A familiar state and one he had promised himself to avoid.
Having stumbled into his room he collapsed face down on the bed and quickly lapsed into unconsciousness. A place where the memories of two tours in Afghanistan couldn’t find him, where there was no fear, and friends lived forever.
And that’s where Palmer was when the insistent rattle of AK-47 fire was heard. The door to his room slammed open and Guiscard barged in. The engineer was clad in nothing more than a tee shirt, plaid boxers, and a pair of flip flops. “Alex! Get up! There are bandits inside the walls!”
1st Lieutenant Alex Palmer remembered that there had been insurgents inside the building the marines called “Fort Apache” too. They had been admitted to the compound by a traitorous interpreter who shot Staff Sergeant Gomez in the back before being gunned down himself. The American’s head hurt, his mouth was dust dry, and he had a powerful urge to pee. “Here,” Guiscard said, as he handed his house guest a well worn Mle. 1935 single action 7.65mm pistol. It had probably been in North Africa since World War II and, if there was any rifling left in the barrel, that would be a miracle. “Let’s go!”
Guiscard charged out through the door with the American right behind him. Palmer saw a muzzle flash up on the east wall, followed by the cloth ripping sound of automatic fire, and an abbreviated scream. But who was firing, and at whom, remained a mystery. Then he heard the sudden roar of a diesel engine. “They have the Mog!” Guiscard yelled. “Head them off at the gate!”
But it was too late for that. Two men opened the gate from the inside, hopped aboard the big truck as it drew even with them, and clung to the back of the Mercedes as it vanished into the night. Guiscard fired his pistol, and half a dozen rifle shots were heard, but all to no avail. The 4 X 4 was gone, as was the Mongo Iron, and Palmer’s money. “You have other vehicles,” he said, “let’s go after them!”
“No,” Guiscard replied disgustedly. “That would be suicidal…. They’re expecting that—and have some sort of ambush waiting for us. Don’t worry my friend…. It’s the truck they want. We’ll find your rock laying next to the road.”
The comment was intended to be reassuring, but wasn’t since there were lots of roads, and lots of rocks in the southern Sahara. Palmer couldn’t say that of course. Not in the immediate aftermath of Guiscard’s loss.
Guiscard’s major domo, a dark complected southerner named Benji Obasambo, materialized in front of them. He was carrying an AK-47 and spoke English with a British accent. “They brought a metal ladder,” the Chadian said disgustedly. “It’s still leaning against the wall…. And they were quiet. Very quiet. It looks like Ebolowa was asleep when they slit his throat. If so then good riddance! Once inside they went straight to the Mog.”
“And the keys were in the ignition,” Guiscard said regretfully. “I know because I was the one who left them there! Were there any other casualties?”
“They shot Mr. Kwara,” the major domo said sadly. “But he took one of the bastards with him.”
Guiscard winced. Kwara had been employed by the family for more than ten-years and had a huge family to support in Cameroon. “Put the body in the big cooler,” Guiscard instructed. “The police will want to see it—and we’ll have to contact his wife. And count heads…. Let’s make sure that everyone who should be here is.”
Obasambo nodded grimly and turned to go. “Well,” Guiscard said, as he turned to Palmer. “It looks like I’ll be going into Mongo come first light. That’s where the police station is. Would you like to come? Maybe we’ll find your rock along the way.”
Palmer didn’t believe in luck, not that kind of luck, but nodded anyway. “Sure, count me in.”
* * *
Mongo, Chad
When a uniformed policeman told Police Chief Bahir Jann that Andre Guiscard and another man were waiting to see him the policeman was anything but surprised. And why should he be? Given the fact that he was already aware of what had taken place the night before. Partly via word of mouth, because news had an almost miraculous ability to traverse large seeming empty expanses of desert, but he had a more reliable source of information as well. Namely his half-brother Basel who was the proud owner of a nearly new Unimog! Because in Chad, as in so many places throughout Africa, anyone who hoped to escape grinding poverty was well advised to work both sides of the law. But none of that was visible on the police chief’s narrow face as he nodded. “Let Monsieur Guiscard wait for fifteen minutes—then send him in.”
The policeman, who was used to Jann’s ways, smiled knowingly. “Yes, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Fifteen-minutes and then send him in.”
Meanwhile, out in the police station’s lime green waiting room, Palmer was sitting next to a man who looked as though he’d been there for years. As did many of the other people who crowded the benches. All waiting to be summoned, or in some cases, dismissed. The only source of entertainment was the gloomy looking sergeant who stood behind a fortress-like counter where he was working his way through a stack of travel documents. The old fashioned stamp made a monotonous thud-thump-thud as it made contact with the ink pad, left an impression on paper, and returned to the pad.
But finally, after exactly fifteen-minutes had elapsed, a corporal appeared. He was a northerner, and therefore of Arab descent, like all of the other policemen Palmer had seen thus far. Dozens of people turned to look, each hoping to hear his or her name, but it wasn’t to be. “Monsieur Guiscard?” the policeman inquired politely. “Chief Jann will see you now.”
Guiscard, who had been looking at a plastic covered wall map, turned at the sound of his name. “Thank you…. Would it be alright if my friend Monsieur Palmer comes along as well?”
The corporal had no instructions to the contrary. So he opened a waist-high door and motioned for the men to pass through the portal that served to separate those who were in need of something from those who could provide it. Those left in the waiting room had no choice but to remain where they were, endure the steadily increasing heat, and watch the ever present flies circle the stationary ceiling fan. The morning wore on.
* * *
Jann could be quite personable when he chose to be—which was one of the reasons why he had risen from gendarme to chief. He rose as the visitors entered his office, left the protection of his tidy desk, and came out to meet them. “Bonjour!” Jann said cheerfully. “I’m sorry about the delay—but criminals never take a day off!”
Guiscard laughed politely. “Chief Jann…. This is Alex Palmer. He was a guest at Le fort when the bandits attacked. You read my report?”
“Yes! Of course!” Jann lied smoothly, as he shook the American’s hand. “Two dead…. I was very sorry to hear of it. And they took your truck. The thieves grow bolder with each passing day. Please…. Have a seat. I will ring for coffee.”
A civilian arrived thirty-seconds later and placed a tray on the desk. Jann lifted the brass pot with his left hand, poured the piping hot coffee into a cup with his right, and took a tentative sip. Then, having assured himself that the brew was acceptable, he poured coffee for his guests. Guiscard first, given his position with the government, followed by the American.
Then, once both men had been served, it was time for all three of them to drink. The coffee was strong, dark, and flavored with cardamom. There was a moment of silence so each person could enjoy their coffee, followed by a polite “fi sehtuk” (to your health) from Guiscard.
“Thank you,” Jann answered automatically. “Now, as to the bandits, I will dispatch Sergeant Antalas to your home. He and his assistant will take statements, dust the metal ladder for fingerprints, and collect any other evidence that may be available. Meanwhile a bulletin has gone out—and police units throughout Chad will be on the lookout for your truck.”
* * *
Guiscard thanked the police officer, but Palmer could tell that his old friend was pissed, even if it wasn’t clear why. Five-minutes later, as the two of them exited the building, his suspicions were confirmed. “That rotten bastard!” Guiscard said feelingly, as he started the Land Rover.
“’Rotten bastard?’” Palmer inquired mildly. “Why do you say that?”
“Because of the ladder,” Guiscard answered, as he released the brake.
Palmer put on his sunglasses. “Yeah? What about it?”
“He knew about it,” Guiscard answered, as the engine came to life. “And it wasn’t in the report! I forgot to write it down and I was going to tell him about it!”
“Uh oh,” Palmer replied grimly. “So Jann was in on it?”
“It’s a distinct possibility,” Guiscard replied, as he guided the 4 X 4 between a pair of gaping potholes. “There have been rumors about Jann. Nothing solid mind you…. But some people have questions about the big house that he lives in and the Mercedes parked next to it.”
Both sides of the street were lined with ramshackle buildings seemingly held together by many layers of peeling paint, garish Coke signs, and the force of gravity. Squinty-eyed men sat on the hoods of half-cannibalized cars as children chased soccer balls up narrow alleys and brightly clad women went about their endless work. “So what, if anything, can we do?” Palmer inquired.
“Go after the bastards ourselves,” Guiscard said with a sideways glance. “Unless you’re willing to go home without your rock.”
“The iron is a lot more than a rock,” Palmer insisted defensively. “But no…. I’m not about to let those bastards keep the iron.”
“Good,” the Chadian replied with a characteristic grin. “Go Wildcats!”
* * *
South of Mongo, Chad
Haani Damya was a tracker. A very special tracker who had grown up in the desert, where his fathers and uncles taught him how to follow vehicles instead of the increasingly scarce animals. It was a skill Damya regularly rented out to the police, the army, and various types of criminals. And, like many people in the area, the Tuareg scout was related to Madame Guiscard and her son.
Which was why the indigo clad tribesman was sitting on a bucket seat attached to the front right fender of the Guiscard family’s venerable Volvo C303 utility vehicle. A precarious position that provided the tracker with an unobstructed view of the road whipping past below his feet, and more importantly, of the complex tracery of tire tracks recorded on the soft surface of the piste. Every tire had its own unique tread pattern, wear marks, and flaws. Therefore each snaking mark was different to Damya’s discerning eye.
And that was how the tribesman had been able to guide Guiscard and Palmer from Le fort, to a secondary road that was headed south, as it passed between rows of distantly seen hamadas or plateaus. The boxy truck shuddered like a thing possessed as it rolled onto a stretch of what the French call tole ondule, or “corrugated iron,” and Palmer thought of as “washboard.” A surface common to many back country roads in Arizona. Palmer knew the four-inch high corrugation was the result of heavy braking, aggressive acceleration, and usage by trucks with bad suspensions.
The ride was similar to what it would be like if one were strapped to an enormous jack hammer. Palmer’s body shook uncontrollably, the old C303 rattled like a bucket of loose bolts, and gear bounced up and down back in the cargo compartment. At that point Damya turned to look in at them. He was equipped with a pair of motorcycle goggles and his blue veil whipped back and forth. A harness held the Tuareg in place, but Palmer knew that if he could feel the effects of the road, then the scout was suffering even more. “Faster!” Damya mouthed, and gave Guiscard a thumbs up.
The Chadian acknowledged the request with a cheerful wave and pressed down on the accelerator. “We need to increase our speed to about fifty-miles per hour,” Guiscard explained. It was necessary to yell in order to make himself heard over the noise of the engine. “Then it will smooth out!”
That was more than a little counter intuitional from Palmer’s point of view—but all he could do was hang on and hope for the best. And it wasn’t long before the ride began to smooth out just as Guiscard had promised it would. The improvement came at a price however. By skimming the tops of the corrugations the Volvo was providing them with a better ride, but less contact resulted in less control, so it was necessary for Guiscard to keep both hands on the wheel.
Making the situation worse from Palmer’s perspective was the fact that the increase in speed made it more likely that they would race past the Mongo Iron without noticing it. Still, each passing hour would make it harder for Damya to track the Mog, so that had precedence.
The slightly elevated two-lane track ran straight as an arrow through a large basin filled with powdery white sand. There were diversions where frustrated drivers had paralleled the road in an attempt to escape the tole ondule and had created a braided roadway. Sometimes the strategy worked and sometimes it didn’t. Occasional vehicles could be seen to either side. Ancient wrecks for the most part, half-concealed by drifting sand, never to run again.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour, but was actually no more than fifteen-minutes, the C303 arrived on the south side of the basin where the road began to climb the side of the plateau beyond. An HJ75 rounded the curve ahead, flashed its lights in the traditional Saharan greeting, and rattled past. The back of the truck was loaded with children who waved as their clothes whipped in the wind.
Guiscard had to work after that, muscling the 4 X 4 through a series of switch backs, choosing to attack some rocks, while avoiding others. The trick was to put the thick bottom tread onto the sharper rocks to avoid damage to vulnerable side walls, stay out of the deepest potholes, and maintain traction throughout. All of which required a significant amount of concentration.
Having conquered the incline the Volvo arrived on top of the hamada where Damya signaled Guiscard to pull over. Once the truck came to a stop, the scout hurried to free himself from the harness, and drop to the ground. Then, having pushed the goggles up onto his forehead, he made his way over to the piste and the tracks recorded on it.
The scout was down on his haunches, eyeing the surface of the road, as Palmer got out. It was difficult to open the passenger side door due to the presence of the jury-rigged seat. But Palmer was able to squeeze through the narrow opening and went to join Guiscard. He was standing near the edge of a sharp drop-off peering through a pair of beat-up binoculars. Palmer felt the full force of the sub-Saharan sun—and wished he was back in the air-conditioned cabin. There was a breeze, but it blast-furnace hot, and brought no relief. “Here,” Guiscard said, as he gave the glasses to his friend. “Take a look.”
Palmer brought the binos up to his eyes. The view from the top of the hamada was truly spectacular. From the turn-out the geologist could see sections of the road as it switch-backed down to the desert floor below, a strip of white piste, and the jagged mountains beyond. They seemed to shimmer in the heat.
“They passed here,” Damya confirmed, as he appeared next to Guiscard. “But the wind will steal their tracks. We must hurry.”
So it was back into the Volvo and onto the road again. Damya had chosen to ride in the back seat, but wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and Guiscard was focused on driving. That left Palmer to wish for a beer that he knew he shouldn’t have, and try to stay awake, as the 4 X 4 came down off the plateau and onto the road below. But a lack of rest the night before, plus the drone of the engine proved to be too much, and the American was asleep when Guiscard touched his shoulder. “Wake up slacker,” the Chadian said cheerfully. “We found something.”
The “something” proved to be a camping spot half-a-mile west of the piste Palmer had seen from the top of the plateau. And, when he got out to look around, it became apparent that people had been there recently. Very recently judging from the occasional wisps of smoke that issued from a fire-blackened pit. “The Mog was here,” Damya emphasized. “Along with two other vehicles. The bandits made coffee and ate lunch.”
That was promising, since they were closing the gap, and Palmer was about to say as much when something caught his eye. A rock that wasn’t a rock! Moments later he was there, kneeling next to the Mongo Iron, checking to make sure the meteorite hadn’t been damaged. Having no need for what they perceived as a worthless boulder, and eager to lighten their load, it appeared that the bandits had taken advantage of the lunch break to dump the iron onto the ground where it had been left.
Up until that point Palmer hadn’t spent much time with the iron, hadn’t gotten to know it, the way he usually did. Because it was his opinion that each meteorite has its own personality, its own mysterious feel, even if the geologist in him knew that was silly. But silly or not Palmer felt that there was a brooding quality about the iron sitting in front of him. And something else as well…. It was almost as if the meteorite was alive in some strange way. Although that was stupid.
“So,” Guiscard said lightly, as his shadow fell across the meteorite. “You found it! Well done, especially since I want my fee…. But now what? It’s too heavy for the Volvo…. Assuming the three of us could lift it.”
“We’ll have to leave it here,” Palmer answered regretfully. “Then, once we recover the Mog, we’ll come back for it. In the meantime let’s get some GPS coordinates and try to make it less noticeable. The odds of another meteorite hunter happening along are a thousand to one but you never know.”
So more rocks were gathered up and heaped around the iron in order to make it less conspicuous. Then, eager to close with the bandits, the threesome were off again. But more slowly this time. Because it wasn’t long before the road became little more than a very primitive track and any sort of dust plume would give them away.
Damya was back in his specially rigged seat by that time, both because the light was starting to fade, and because the primitive road continued to branch left and right as it followed an underground river. Evidence of which could be seen in the green plants that had driven their roots down to the point where they could tap into the liquid hidden below.
Palmer was worried, because even though there were weapons in the back of the Volvo, they weren’t where he could reach them. And the further they went from the main road the more likely an ambush was. So the American felt relieved when Damya signaled for Guiscard to stop. Having freed himself from the harness the Tuareg made his way around to the driver’s side window. “The bandits will stop soon,” the scout predicted. “And stay the night. We must hide our vehicle—and proceed on foot. Then, if Allah smiles on us, we will steal the Mog!”
The plan not only made sense, but left Palmer with the impression that the Tuareg had participated in such raids before, and not necessarily on behalf of the government. So Guiscard drove the 4 X 4 off the road—and parked it behind a thicket of spindly bushes. “Can I make a suggestion?” Palmer inquired, as the two men came together at back end of the vehicle.
“Please do,” his friend replied. “In fact, given your combat experience, feel free to make lots of them!”
Palmer nodded. “Okay, I’ll take you at your word…. I think Damya’s plan makes sense—but execution is everything. Assuming we can locate their camp, and approach on foot, stealth will be extremely important. Because if it comes to a firefight we’re going to lose! Then, if we can penetrate their perimeter, it's going to be about speed. Damya says they have two vehicles in addition to the Mog. So we'll have to disable them, jump in your truck, and haul ass! You have a key?”
“Yes,” Guiscard answered, as he patted a pants pocket. “Right here.”
“Excellent,” Palmer replied. “Once we’re clear of the camp you will stop here so I can jump out and drive the Volvo. Let’s leave the driver’s side door unlocked and the key in the ignition.”
“That’s a good idea,” the Chadian agreed, as he opened the rear doors. “How about an emergency reflector? We could put it out next to the track so I’ll know where to stop.”
“Perfect,” Palmer responded, “And don’t forget the iron…. We need to pick that up on our way out. Okay, let’s gear up.”
The better part of fifteen-minutes passed while the three men armed themselves, shouldered small day packs, and made their final checks. “Let’s jump up and down, and see how noisy we are,” Palmer suggested.
The answer was very noisy as various items of equipment rattled and jingled. So another five-minutes was spent securing loose items before Damya could lead the others west along the game trail that paralleled the main track. The sky was a beautiful shade of lavender by then. The first stars could be seen, and the temperature was beginning to plunge.
The rifle clutched in Palmer’s hands plus the empty feeling in his gut and the almost supernatural acuteness of his senses were all reminiscent of night operations in Afghanistan. The only sounds to be heard as the geologist followed Guiscard up the trail were the occasional click of one stone striking another, the soft swish of a branch as his arm brushed by it, and the steady rasp of his own breathing.
But Palmer knew how quickly that could change…. Because he could remember the deafening boom of an IED (Improvised Explosive Device) going off, followed by the sudden rattle of automatic weapons as insurgents opened fire on his platoon, and the screams as his men began to die. And each death was a broken promise. A personal failure. Sins for which he could never atone.
Such were the memories running through the ex-marine’s mind as a helicopter roared overhead! The sound was so congruent with Palmer’s memories he thought he was back in Helmand Province for a moment, until the chopper passed overhead, and lights appeared directly in front of them. Headlights, judging from the glare, which were being used to illuminate an improvised LZ.
The helicopter constituted a nasty surprise, but made such a loud racket that Damya was able to run forward, secure in the knowledge that any noise he and his companions made would be covered by the chopper, which had already begun to descend. And it was a pretty good bet that any sentries would be focused on the aircraft rather than peering into the surrounding darkness looking for infiltrators.
A short sprint took the three men within five-hundred feet of the desert encampment, where a pile of tumble-down rocks offered a place to hide as the brightly illuminated EC-135 Eurocopter settled onto its skids. Palmer had a pair of binos out by then. So as the helicopter’s twin Turbomeca engines began to spool down he had an excellent view when a door opened and Police Chief Bahir Jann appeared. Ironically it was the Mog’s headlights that were focused directly on him, and judging from the way some of the bandits surged forward to greet the official, Jann was no stranger to them. “Uh oh,” Guiscard whispered from a few inches away. “What now?”
“We wait,” Palmer replied pragmatically. “And hope for the best.”
* * *
It was too late for “the best,” or so it seemed to Guiscard. There was no point in saying so however. But had the Chadian chosen to look skyward he would have seen a meteorite streak across the velvety sky. An omen perhaps had the engineer been able to understand it.