“There is an old Soviet BTR-60 armored personnel carrier at the head of a convoy of five trucks,” Mossa said. He drew a road in the dust with a long finger. “As you can see, there is only one road coming into the village. They will advance as far as the wall but no further, then dismount, the BTR leading the way. The commander will be in the BTR. We have an RPG that can take out the BTR, then—”
“Permission to speak?” Pearce asked.
Mossa glanced at Early, asking an unspoken question.
“I heard you once say that a piece of salt doesn’t call itself salty. Troy here is the best warfighter I know.”
“Speak, then, Mr. Pearce.”
“You need fuel if you want to get out of here. That BTR carries at least seventy, eighty gallons of diesel. You need to capture it, not blow it up.”
“What do you propose?”
“Depends. What else do you have in your inventory?”
Mossa gave him the rundown. It wasn’t much, but it had possibilities.
Pearce had a few toys, too. They made a plan.
“You think like an Imohar,” Mossa said. “You may not live long, but at least you will die well.” Cella translated. The other Tuaregs chuckled in agreement.
The eight-wheeled BTR slowed to a crawl one hundred meters out from the entrance to the village. The front and side hatches were shut against gunfire, but the top ones were left open because the heat was unbearable even at this early hour in the morning. It rolled along for another thirty meters, but still there was no firing from the village. The commander signaled a halt to the convoy and the BTR braked. The five trucks a hundred meters behind him did the same.
The side hatches popped open and eight Red Beret soldiers in camouflage spilled out and ran in a low crouch toward the wall. They hit the wall and hunkered down on either side of the road, out of breath and sweating, and surprised that they hadn’t been fired upon. The squad leader glanced back, taking comfort in the big 14.5mm KPV heavy machine gun on top of the BTR keeping watch over them. It would pour out liquid lead at the first sign of trouble.
The squad leader, a sergeant, gave the hand signal to his men and then rushed through the gate, guns up, building to building, up the narrow road toward the town square—old-school “cover and maneuver.” The old buildings were mostly one and two stories tall. No sounds, no movement in the windows, so they pushed on toward the well in the center of the village.
And that’s when he saw the girl. She was Tuareg and beautiful. She stood at the well with a clay water pot. She sensed something and glanced up. Saw the squad leader, dropped her pot, and ran for a darkened doorway.
The squad leader signaled his team and advanced for the house. His men followed. Four men circled around back, but the squad leader and three others stayed out front, backs pressed against the wall.
“Tuareg! Come out!” he shouted in French.
“Non!” the girl shrieked.
His corporal pulled a grenade.
“No. Wait,” the squad leader said in Songhai, and pushed the grenade back down.
“Come out! We won’t hurt you. We’re only looking for bandits, not little girls.”
A moment passed, and the girl appeared in the doorway, trembling. Her pale brown eyes were wet with fear, but it didn’t diminish the beauty of her long, angular face.
“Who else is in there?”
She shook her head. “No one. Only my sisters.”
“How many?” he asked.
“Two. Both younger.”
“No one else?”
She shook her head. “All dead, or gone. We’re the last. We had nowhere else to go.”
The squad leader couldn’t believe his good fortune. He turned to his corporal with a feral grin and said in Songhai, “See?”
The corporal grinned back. “Such a beauty.”
“We have time, if we’re quick about it.”
The sergeant lowered his weapon. He towered over the trembling girl. “Show us,” he said, nodding at the house. He pulled out a chocolate-flavored PowerBar from a pocket and held it up to her. She snatched it out of his hand. He laughed. “If you are telling the truth, there will be more.”
“I am telling the truth,” she said, leading the way in.
True to her word, two other teenage girls were in the room, both sitting on the bed, clutching each other in fear. The sergeant, the corporal, and another soldier stepped into the cool of the house.
“Look around. There is only one other room,” the girl said, pointing at the doorway. “My bedroom. I’m the oldest now.”
“Show me,” he said, barely able to contain himself.
She nodded and stepped into her bedroom. She turned around. “See? I—”
The sergeant clapped a heavy hand on her mouth and wrapped his other arm around her back, forcing her onto the bed. He heard a commotion in the other room. His men, no doubt, having their way with the younger ones.
The sergeant’s broad nose nearly touched the girl’s face. Her eyes flared with fear.
“I’m gentle, I promise. I don’t like to hurt girls. Don’t scream, don’t bite. I’ll be quick, and then we’ll be on our way. Okay?”
She nodded yes beneath his hand, and he felt her body relax a little.
“Good. Quick and gentle. I promise,” he said again with a brotherly smile. He stood back up and unbuckled his belt, dropping his trousers. She saw the hardness of his manhood beneath his boxers. He pulled them down, then fell back on top of her, grabbing her shoulders.
“Here, let me help you,” she said, reaching one hand to the back of his neck as if to kiss him.
“Yes, good,” he grunted as she guided him toward her face.
The knife blade in her other hand plunged straight into his ear. His scream lasted until the tip of the thin steel blade plowed through his ear canal and into his brain stem. His body flew up and away from her in a violent spasm, then crashed to the floor.
Mossa stood in the doorway, his eyes smiling beneath the veil. He wiped his own bloody dagger on his trouser leg.
“You did well, little sister.”
“My sisters?”
“Untouched. We killed the others before they could harm them.” He sheathed his blade.
The girl leaped out of bed and kicked the sergeant’s corpse in the head, then spat on it.
“Bring me a hundred more of them, Mossa, I beg you!”
30
The village of Anou
Kidal Region, Northwest Mali
7 May
Early and Pearce scrambled up to the third floor of the only three-story building in the village. It was fifty meters back from the wall, but it had the best view. Pearce and Early shouldered their rifles and muscled the big Pelican cases up the narrow stairs.
Inside the house was a horror show, not unlike the many poor houses Pearce had cleared out in Iraqi and Afghan villages after the hajis had been inside. Blood, bullet holes, busted furniture. And the requisite pile of human feces in the corner. Predators marking their territory. They climbed a rickety wooden ladder through the hole in the roof and took up their position.
Pearce lay flat as possible on the roof to keep out of sight of the army troops who would be scanning the rooflines for trouble. He couldn’t see the street below him from his position, but the roar of the BTR’s big diesel in the road near his building told him it was almost showtime. A two-foot-long firing tube lay by his side, extracted from an opened Pelican case.