Chapter Three
Near Mongo, Chad
After remaining on the ground for half an hour, Police Chief Bahir Jann re-entered the twin-engined helicopter, and was soon borne away into the cold Saharan night. Still hidden well beyond earshot Palmer, Guiscard, and their Tuareg tracker had no way to know what had been discussed as the policeman and bandits sat around the campfire. Nor did they care, since their mission was to steal the Mog, and collect both the Volvo and the meteorite on their way out of the area.
But first it was necessary to wait for most of the bandits to enter their tents and go to sleep. Guiscard wanted to enter the encampment quickly, within an hour of Jann’s departure, but Palmer had other ideas. The ex-marine had learned any number of things during two tours in Afghanistan—one of which was the importance of patience.
He knew the most difficult challenge for any sentry comes during the early morning hours when everyone else is asleep and the threat level is perceived to be low. That’s when it’s easy to relax, or even go so far as to catch some surreptitious shut-eye, especially if discipline is lax. So Palmer forced the others to endure three long, cold hours on the ground, before finally leading them forward.
There were only two sentries. A clear indication of how secure the bandits felt. Still, it would only take one sentry to give the alarm, so it was critical to silence them both. The plan called for Palmer and Guiscard to neutralize the man at the east end of the encampment, while Damya slipped past them, and went after the sentry off to the west.
The first part of the plan went off without a hitch. It seemed the eastern sentry liked to smoke, which meant it was not only possible to see the glow of his cigarette each time he took a drag, but to hear his persistent coughing fits as well. So it was relatively easy to slip up behind the bandit, snatch his headdress off, and hit him over the head with a rifle butt. Something Palmer did without hesitation, knowing that the sentry and his companions were responsible for at least two deaths, and probably more. There was a soft thud as the Tuareg went down.
Guiscard felt for a pulse, found one, and fumbled for the gag that was looped under his belt. Hopefully that, plus some lengths of pre-cut cord, would prevent the sentry from giving an alarm until it no longer mattered.
Meanwhile, having passed the first sentry, Damya was halfway through the encampment when a bandit lurched out of a tent. The man was on his way to relieve himself, or that’s what the tracker assumed, as the brigand aimed a torch at him. “Who are you?” The flashlight hit the ground as Damya jerked the other man in close and pushed the Tuareg dagger up under his ribs. The long, sharp blade found its target, and there was a soft sigh as the bandit went limp.
Damya lowered the body to the ground, hurried to turn the flashlight off, and took a moment to wipe his blade clean before returning the weapon to its sheath. Then, confident that the incident had gone unobserved, the Tuareg continued on his way.
The second sentry, the one posted at the west end of the camp, was doing a good job. Partly because he took the task seriously, but also because he was bandit chieftain Naravas’ third son, and eager to establish himself as a full grown man. But his attention was directed outward, which meant that when he heard gravel crunch behind him, he assumed one of his father’s men was coming to check on him.
So the youngster was just starting to turn when a rock slammed into the side of his head and he collapsed. Damya caught the AK-47 before it could hit the ground and prevented what would have been a loud clatter. Having laid the assault rifle across its owner’s body he hurried to gag the boy and tie him up.
With that accomplished it was time for the Tuareg to begin his primary mission. Which was to disable one of the 4 X 4’s by slashing its tires. But rather that shove his dagger in through the tread, which would create a puncture which could be repaired with a tire plug or some aerosol sealant, Damya was going to rip holes in the more vulnerable sidewalls. That would make any sort of fix impossible.
So the tracker wove his way between the tents, knelt next to a Toyota Land Cruiser, and drew his dagger. Working primarily by feel, with only occasional blips of light from a hand torch to help him, Damya slashed all four of the vehicle’s knobby tires. The air made a gentle hissing noise as it leaked out and the Toyota settled onto its rims.
Then, confident that his objective had been accomplished Damya made his way over to the Mog, where Guiscard was behind the wheel and Palmer was up on the truck bed standing next to the crane. The Tuareg knew how dangerous such moments could be, and having aimed his torch up under his chin, turned the flashlight on and off.
Having seen Damya’s face the American raised the rifle so that the barrel was pointing at the sky. Five seconds later the scout was aboard with an AK-47 at the ready.
Palmer slapped the roof of the cab, Guiscard turned the key, and the roar of the big diesel shattered the desert silence. Loose gravel spewed out from under the rear tires and pummeled the nearest tent, as the engineer put his foot into it, and sent the Mercedes lurching forward.
Bandit leader Basel Naravas was one of the first people to exit his tent, realize what was taking place, and empty his Turkish made Yavuz 16 pistol after the fleeing truck. The unexpected engine noise, plus the persistent blam, blam, blam of the nine millimeter, brought the rest of the men out, and muzzle flashes stabbed the darkness as they opened fire too.
But the Mog was gone by then sending everyone running to the other vehicles only to discover that both of them had been disabled. Someone shouted, “Abdul is dead!” That served to remind Naravas that his twelve-year-old son had been on sentry duty. Seconds later he was there, kneeling next to the body, feeling for a pulse. There was none. No one who heard it would soon forget the wail of anguish that issued from the bandit’s lips.
But Naravas knew his grief would have to wait if he was to catch up with the murderers. And catch up he would. Because while the thieves had been clever, very clever, they had overlooked one very important fact: Both of the bandit chieftain’s vehicles were Land Cruisers of about the same age. And they were equipped with two spare tires each. All of which were stored on the sort of roof racks common to off-road vehicles in north Africa. That meant one of the Toyotas could be made road worthy within twenty-minutes. Lights came on, a variety of jacks appeared, and work began.
* * *
Guiscard felt a brief moment of exultation as the Mog cleared the encampment and lurched over a half-buried rock before surging forward. The headlights swung wildly in response to the way he was turning the wheel back and forth. Then he saw the emergency triangle that marked the spot where the Volvo had been left. Guiscard braked, brought the big flat bed to a full stop, and waited for Palmer to dash past the front of the Mercedes.
Then, once the way was clear, Guiscard let out the clutch. Unsecured gear rattled as the Mog waddled over some loose stones, but the ride began to settle down after that, as a pair of headlights appeared in the outside rearview mirror. Knowing that Palmer was right behind him, the Chadian began to scan the left side of the track for the pile of rocks that had been heaped around the Mongo Iron. There was a false alarm as he braked for what turned out to be a large boulder. But that was followed by success as the truck’s headlights washed over the half-concealed meteorite.
Gravel flew, and the Mog skidded, as Guiscard stomped on the brake. Then, having overshot the pile of rocks by twenty-feet, Guiscard was forced to back-up as the Volvo pulled in. Once the Mercedes was properly positioned Damya was sent back along the road. Having found a place to hide it would be the Tuareg’s job to lay in wait for any brigands foolish enough to pursue the Mog on foot. Darkness closed in around him.
* * *
Palmer was pleased with the way the operation had gone thus far as he steered the 4 X 4 around the flat bed truck and positioned the smaller vehicle so it would be ready to leave. Then, with the bolt-action hunting rifle in hand, Palmer went over to assist Guiscard. He left the rifle leaning against a huge tire but had a semi-auto pistol stuck down the back of his pants as he climbed up onto the truck bed where Guiscard was preparing to deploy the crane. “What’s this stuff?” Palmer wanted to know, as he scrambled over a pile of olive drab boxes.
“Beats me,” Guiscard replied. “I haven’t had time to check them out…. Here, grab the cargo hook, and take it down to the ground. Once you’re in position wrap the cargo straps around the rock. I threw some down there a minute ago.”
“It’s a meteorite,” Palmer insisted primly. “And I’ll thank you to remember that!”
“Yeah, right,” Guiscard grinned, as his friend disappeared over the side. “So it’s a flying rock…. Big deal.”
Thanks to a spot mounted on the back of the Mog Palmer could see the reddish meteorite quite clearly. The first task was to pull some of the debris away from the iron so he could access it. Once that was accomplished it was time to wrap cargo straps around the iron and attach the cargo hook.
Having tugged on the arrangement to make sure the straps would hold, Palmer looked up to where his friend was waiting, and opened his mouth to speak. But that was when he heard the cloth-ripping sound of automatic fire. Then came the roar of a powerful engine, as the speeding Land Cruiser blew past Damya, and skidded to a stop some fifty-feet from the Mog.
Palmer thought he counted five men as the doors opened and the Tuaregs piled out with weapons raised. There was no explaining how the brigands had been able to repair the tires in such a short period of time, or ever for that matter, but there was no time to ponder the mystery as Palmer drew the Beretta PX4 semi-auto Guiscard had loaned to him.
Whoever had been at the wheel of the Toyota had been stupid enough to leave the 4 X 4’s headlights on. So the bandits were backlit as they advanced toward the Mog firing three round bursts as they came. Palmer, who was crouched behind the Mongo Iron, took careful aim. The pistol jumped in his hands and brass arced away as one of the thieves fell. But the steady blam, blam, blam of the pistol was only part of a cacophony of noise as the bandits fired their assault weapons. Guiscard opened up with an AK-47 of his own, and Palmer heard an insistent ping, ping, ping, as bullets found the Mog and began to punch holes through the truck’s sheet metal.
* * *
Meanwhile bandit chieftain Basel Naravas saw a man fall, swore as he realized the way he and the rest of his men were backlit, and fired at the man with the pistol. The big rock that was sitting in front of the foreigner took two hits, and geysers of dirt and gravel jumped into the air, as the pistoleer rolled into the dark shadow cast by the Mog.
Now it was apparent that rather than being competitors, as Naravas had assumed them to be, it seemed the would-be Mog thieves were the truck’s original owners. That surprised the Tuareg, since he had very little respect for outsiders, but there was no opportunity to consider the matter further as someone attacked from behind.
* * *
Even though he heard it coming, Damya could scarcely believe his eyes, when the Toyota Land Cruiser roared past him! How was such a thing possible? The tracker didn’t know, but fired anyway, hoping for a lucky hit. But most of his bullets flew wide as the 4 X 4 bounced down the road. That left the Tuareg with no choice but to run after it.
Damya was in good shape for a man his age, and with no need to be subtle about it, was free to run pell-mell up the track as a firefight broke out ahead. Which meant there was no one to see or stop the scout as he came charging out of the darkness firing from the hip. Two men were thrown forward as his bullets hit them from behind and a third began to turn.
But Naravas was only halfway around when Palmer triggered two shots, both of which struck the bandit, and knocked him onto his back. Then, with the Beretta still clutched in both hands, Palmer made his way forward to check each body. There were five of them—all dead. Guiscard had joined him by that time and stood with his assault rifle at the ready. “Let’s load the iron and get the hell out of here,” Palmer said. “Before even more of the bastards arrive!”
The suggestion made sense. So Guiscard hurried to lift the Mongo Iron up onto the truck bed as Damya slit the tires on the Land Cruiser all over again. It had been stupid to forget the spares—and the Tuareg was angry with himself. Once the meteorite was secured Palmer grabbed his rifle and ran for the Volvo while the others piled into the Mog.
Two-minutes later both vehicles were gone as the rest of Naravas’ men arrived on foot. There was consternation as the bandits went from body-to-body followed by a common sense of disbelief. They were supposed to be predators not prey.
Having lost Naravas, leadership of the band devolved to a man named Amar, who knew how to use the dead chieftain’s satellite phone. The only type of communications device that one could rely upon in the vast Sahara. The ensuing conversation was both short and unpleasant. So Amar was glad when it was over. Still it was good to have instructions. Amar was in over his head and knew it. Orders were shouted—and work began.
* * *
The helicopter arrived shortly after first light. It circled the area twice, so Police Chief Jann could examine the spot where his half-brother had been killed, before putting down next to the encampment. A row of graves had been dug. Jann regretted the fact that Naravas and his son would be buried without the customary religious services, but the bodies would ripen quickly in the desert heat, and there was no way to transport them elsewhere.
Not to mention the fact that Jann had other issues to worry about. Not the Mog, which had never been of more than passing interest to the police chief, but what was on it. Namely a load of weapons that had been promised to a Sudanese war lord. A man who would be very angry if the shipment went astray. So angry he might send his thugs north to punish Jann and his family as well. Which was why it was so important to find Guiscard, the American, and their Tuareg tracker before the threesome could sell the arms, dump them into a ravine, or Allah forbid, turn them into the government. The very entity from which they had been stolen in the first place.
So moments after the chopper touched down Jann was on the ground giving orders. “Get the tires out of the back! We could only bring four so that will have to do. Put them on the most roadworthy vehicle and depart immediately. We will find the motherless scum and hold them for you. So come quickly!”
Amar, who had every reason to both fear and respect the police chief, nodded obediently. “Yes, effendi, it shall be as you say.”
* * *
When the police helicopter located the two vehicle convoy it was on the piste, heading for the city of N’Djamena, where Guiscard planned to hand over the weapons to the authorities, while Palmer made arrangements to ship the Mongo Iron to the United States. But that plan was out the window as the EC-135 passed over the vehicles, executed a wide turn, and came straight at them.
Palmer, who was driving the Volvo, was thankful for his Ray-Bans as the Volvo’s windscreen exploded. The 7.62 X 39mm rounds missed him by inches as the aircraft passed over the Mog and subjected that vehicle to the same treatment.
“There’s a bridge ahead!” Guiscard announced, via the walkie-talkie laying on the seat next to Palmer. “Go under it. They can’t follow us there.”
The American stared out through the big hole in the windscreen, felt the blast of hot desert air, and spotted the bridge in the distance. Guiscard had grown up in the area. So if he said it was possible to take refuge under the structure then Palmer believed him. Beads of safety glass cascaded off his arms as Palmer made a grab for the radio. “Roger that,” he said, as the chopper took a run at them from behind.
* * *
Even though Jann had corrupted some of his men, including the helicopter’s pilot, many were boringly honest. That meant he couldn’t call on the police for help, as he positioned himself in the open door, and waited for the chopper to pull up next to the Volvo. Jann didn’t want to shoot at the Mog any more than he had to lest he do damage to the weapons in the back. But the smaller vehicle was fair game. The immediate objective being to slow, or even stop the fugitives, so his half-brother’s men could catch up. As the chopper pulled up alongside the Volvo Jann took aim at a spot ten-feet in front of the speeding vehicle and opened fire.
* * *
Palmer heard the helicopter, and saw it out of the corner of his eye, as a row of bullet holes marched the length of the roof over his head. Unfortunately six of the rounds hit the WWII style jerry cans stored in the roof rack, punched holes in them, and produced a spark. The meteorite hunter heard a solid whump as the leaking fuel caught fire and the wind-whipped flames began to wrap themselves around the tail end of the boxy 4 X 4. Black smoke flowed back over the Mog and made it difficult for Guiscard to see.
It was tempting to hit the brakes and bail out. Especially given the possibility that the flames might find their way into the Volvo’s main tank and detonate the gas stored there. But if he did that Palmer knew he would be easy meat for the helicopter. The bridge was a lot closer by then. Palmer put his foot down and felt the 4 X 4 surge ahead as Guiscard shouted incomprehensible suggestions over the radio.
Thirty-seconds later it was time to break hard, wrench the wheel to the right, and follow the dirt path that paralleled the bridge. Then, as the terrain began to slope down toward the canyon beyond, there was an opportunity to turn in under the span. The 4 X 4 fish tailed as Palmer braked, and threw a wave of loose gravel off to one side, before finally coming to a stop.
Then it was time to open the door and run like hell as tendrils of fire followed rivulets of gas down the Volvo’s sheer flanks. Palmer was about fifty-feet away, and still running, when the he heard a loud BOOM, and was thrown face-down as the force of the explosion struck him from behind. He rolled over to look back and saw a big ball of smoke rise up under the bridge. A breeze caught the black stuff and pushed it south. Guiscard was there by that that time and offered a hand. “That was close my friend…. Very close!”
“It sure as hell was,” Palmer said grimly, as he came to his feet. “Where’s the chopper?”
“It’s still out there,” Guiscard replied, pointing to the sharp division between bright Saharan sunlight and the dark shadow thrown by the bridge. “But it can’t reach us here.”
“No,” Palmer agreed as the Volvo burped another gout of flame. “But something tells me it doesn’t have to…. I think Jann is stalling, trying to hold us here until ground forces arrive and attack on foot.”
That possibility hadn’t occurred to Guiscard as was clear from his wide-eyed expression. “My God, you’re right! He’s after the weapons on the Mog.”
“Which probably belong to him,” Palmer added sourly. “Come on…. Let’s take a look at that load. I’d like to see what Jann is so desperate to protect.”
The flat bed was parked a safe distance from the still smoldering Volvo. Damya came forward to greet the American. “Congratulations my friend.” the Tuareg said cheerfully. “You drive well while on fire.”
“Thanks,” Palmer replied dryly. “That’s the nicest compliment I’ve had all day…. Keep an eye on your friends would you? Andre and I are going to take a look at those weapons.”
As the tracker departed for the south side of the bridge, the other men climbed up onto the Mog, where they went to work on the tie-downs that held the long flat boxes in place. Further up, situated right behind the crew cab, the Mongo Iron could be seen. And felt, by Palmer anyway, who fancied that he could sense the meteorite’s brooding presence. “There,” Guiscard said, as the last tie-down was released. “Let’s see what we have.”
That was easier said than done, since most of the olive drab containers were quite heavy, and it was necessary to shift some of the boxes around in order to examine the rest. But after ten-minutes of hard work Palmer had a pretty good idea of what was at hand. “I can see why Jann came after us,” the American said soberly. “Assuming the labels on the outside of those boxes are accurate—we’re standing on a small arsenal. We've got four M224 mortars, two heavy machine guns, thirty M16s, a nice selection of grenades, and a whole shit load of ammo…. But that’s not all. See those crates? The ones on the bottom? We’re talking two Man Portable Stinger missiles. I don’t know what something like that is worth on the black market—but it’s bound to be a lot. Maybe as much as a quarter-million each.”
“Tell me something,” Guiscard said. “Is ‘Man Portable’ the same thing as ‘shoulder launched?’ Because if it is—I think we have a use for those missiles.”
“Yes, it does mean the same thing,” Palmer replied, as his mind started to race. “And it’s worth a try. But launching a missile takes some practice…. And there’s the question of readiness. I’m no expert but I know these things rely on high-tech batteries. And who knows how long they’ve been sitting around? So there’s a real chance that if we try to fire one of those bad boys we’ll wind up looking stupid. Not to mention dead.”
Guiscard answered with a Gallic shrug. “Have you got a better idea?”
Palmer grinned. “Nope. So let’s get them down onto the ground. Maybe, just maybe, we’ll have a surprise for Police Chief Jann.”
* * *
The helicopter was like a desert hawk, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of movement, as the last wisps of smoke blew away. Jann was happy to see it go because the last thing he wanted was to have some good Samaritans stop and give aid to the men hiding under the bridge. And without any smoke to grab their attention there was no reason for travelers to pause as they crossed the bridge. Meanwhile, having successfully gotten one of the Land Cruisers up and running, reinforcements were only minutes away.
Such were the police officer’s thoughts as a pencil-sized hole appeared in the canopy. “What was that?” Jann inquired, as the chopper slid sideways towards the bridge.
“That was a bullet,” the pilot replied calmly. “He’s down there! Over to the right!”
Now Jann could see him. An indigo blue stick figure pointing a rifle up at him. The Tuareg was right next to the bridge using the side of it for cover. Jann expected the sniper to duck under the span as the helicopter began to close in on him but there was a muzzle flash followed by a loud ping as a second bullet hit the chopper. Then, as the pilot began to turn the passenger-side door towards the bridge, Jann had the opportunity he’d been waiting for. The AK-47 chattered, brass casings arced away, and the sniper was forced to duck out of sight.
* * *
As the men in the helicopter continued to focus their attention on Damya, Palmer and Guiscard emerged from the other side of the bridge with two fully prepped Stinger missiles loaded and ready to fire. But even though the American had served in the military, he had never been trained to fire a shoulder-launched missile, and was by no means certain that he could. And, even if he did everything right, there was a strong possibility that the weapon would be faulty. So as he brought the tube around to align it with the EC-135, Palmer was anything but confident.
But once the weapon’s trigger had been pulled, Palmer felt the reassuring recoil as the heat-seeking missile shot out of its tube, and went racing toward its target. Unfortunately the angle of alignment was such that the Saharan sun was only a few degrees away from the police helicopter. That caused the Stinger to race past the aircraft in a vain attempt to destroy the more intense heat source.
Palmer said, “God damn it to hell!” as he dumped the first launcher, and bent to retrieve the second. There were no reloads, so the geologist knew there wouldn’t be any additional chances, as the chopper swiveled towards him.
* * *
“They fired one of the missiles!” Jann said shrilly. “Close with them! Or they will fire again.”
The police chief was correct, the pilot knew that, and hurried to obey. Because if he could come down practically on top of the two men they wouldn’t have enough room to launch. But it would be close, very close, and his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest as the aircraft surged forward.
* * *
“Quick,” Guiscard shouted desperately. “Fire!”
Having positioned the launcher on his shoulder, Palmer pulled the trigger, and staggered as the second missile raced away. Two heart-beats later there was a sudden explosion, followed by a massive red-orange fireball, and what sounded like a crack of thunder rolled across the land. “You did it!” Guiscard shouted joyously. “You freaking did it!”
The engineer was right, and there was nothing Palmer could do but stand there and stare, as pieces of still flaming debris fluttered down out of the sky. “Damn,” Guiscard added. “That was awesome!”
“Glad you liked it,” Palmer said dryly, as pieces of scorched aluminum clattered onto the bridge deck. “Quick, grab that launcher, and let’s haul ass. I have a feeling that Jann had reinforcements on the way. But, even if he didn’t, we blew the local police chief out of the sky. We might be able to prove that he was crooked, but a lot of the key witnesses are dead, so I wouldn't count on it.”
* * *
Guiscard hurried to obey. Suddenly the plan to turn the remaining weapons over to the authorities wasn’t so appealing anymore. In fact, other than a fictional story about having found the Mog bogged down in a sand dune, the Chadian wasn’t going to tell anyone anything.
It took less than five-minutes to throw the launchers into the truck, maneuver the Mog up onto the debris strewn highway, and hit the gas. All without seeing a single vehicle. Something for which Guiscard was extremely grateful.
* * *
When Amar and his men arrived at the bridge fifteen-minutes later, two civilian vehicles were stopped there, and the wreckage of the EC-135 was plain to see. Which meant that Jann, like his half-brother Naravas, was dead. So the bandits continued on their way. Because Amar had no desire to be part of a police investigation or to do anything other than return to his wife and children. At least he was alive. Thanks be to Allah.