“Too bad. It was useful.” Mossa was staring at the burning wreckage of the two DPVs blasted by the Reaper.
“That sniper out there might be on the move, too. I didn’t see the shot, but given the angle I’d say he was somewhere in that direction.” Pearce pointed toward the northeast.
“If I were him, I would move,” Mossa confirmed. “We could hunt him, but then his friends would hunt us.” He looked up into the sky. “Without your friend up there, they will attack soon.”
“You said something about the cavalry not arriving in time?”
“I radioed one of the local chieftains. He said he was on the way.”
“Any idea when he will arrive?”
Mossa shrugged. “Abdallah Ag Matta is a good man, but he is an Imohar, and our sense of time is not like yours. He will get here as soon as he can.”
“Let’s hope it’s soon enough.”
58
In the air over the Sahara
Southern Algeria
15 May
Phoenix-Zero, this is Juliette Niner-Niner. Come in, please.”
It was Judy’s third attempt to reach Pearce. He wasn’t responding on this channel. She was worried sick. She was an hour late for the pickup. Was Pearce lying dead in the sand somewhere because of her?
Aéropostale Station 11, Tamanghasset
Southern Algeria
The three DPVs skidded to a halt on the far side of the runway some five hundred yards opposite Pearce’s position. The loose sand south and east beyond the cracked tarmac was flat for as far as the eye could see. They had a clear line of sight if they wanted to lob grenades and hot lead into the hangar.
Pearce’s earpiece crackled again. “It appears as if you’ve lost your drone protection, Pearce. I should kill you all right now, but I have orders. I will make the offer one last time. You and bandit Mossa surrender, and I will let your other friends live.”
“You still haven’t told me who you are, asshole, or how you’re gonna pay for my broken helicopter.”
Guo laughed. “Your friend’s head exploded like a balloon.”
“You motherfu—”
“Yours will, too.”
Machine guns opened up. An RPG rocket whooshed past the DPVs, its crooked plume trailing behind it. The big bulbous HEAT round exploded in the sand thirty feet behind the vehicles.
Mossa laughed and slapped Pearce on the back. “You see! Abdallah Ag Matta has come!”
Mossa’s walkie-talkie crackled. A Tamasheq voice shouted over the tinny speaker.
Pearce shook his head. “Tell them to back off. Those DPVs will cut them to ribbons.”
“Too late.”
The DPVs gunned their engines, wheels throwing sand. They spun hard right in a synchronous turn, racing back toward the advancing Algerian Tuaregs.
“Troy!” Mann pointed at the sky. “Look!”
It was the Aviocar, about a mile distant.
“Is that our ride?” the German asked.
“I don’t know.” Then he remembered. “Shit!” He’d switched channels when his line was tapped by the shitbird with the sniper rifle. Pearce switched back to Judy’s channel.
“Judy, that you?”
“Yes! I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you all right?”
“Switch to the other channel. Hurry.”
The DPVs opened up, firing their machine guns and grenade launchers at the Tuareg fighters.
Judy came back on. “What’s the situation down there?”
Mossa ran back to the camels, shouting orders to his men.
“It’s a Class Five shit storm down here. Hold off. I’ll get back to you.”
Pearce ran back to Mossa and his men. “You can’t go out there.”
“I must. My people will die.” Mossa mounted his camel. So did the others. Mossa and Moctar held their rifles high; Balla gripped an RPG.
“You’ll die,” Pearce said.
“Inshallah!” Mossa laughed. He yanked his camel’s bridle, and the big beast rose, as did the others.
Pearce’s camel began to rise out of habit, even though its saddle was empty. Pearce knew it would quickly follow the others.
He leaped on.
Mossa shouted his own war cry and sped out of the hangar, Balla and Moctar right behind him. Mann was throwing a long leg into his saddle. Pearce barked at him. “No! I need you here.” He pointed at Cella.
The German gritted his teeth. He wanted to fight. But he understood authority, knew the woman wasn’t safe by herself. He nodded curtly and dismounted.
“Thanks,” Pearce said, urging his camel out the door and into the harsh light. Pearce’s animal caught up to the others quickly. The four men galloped abreast, racing for the battle raging ahead.
Thirty camel-mounted Algerian Tuaregs charged in a line toward the airstrip, desperate to save their Tuareg headman, Mossa, cursing the devils and firing their rifles. They’d managed to close quietly within a hundred yards before opening up, completely surprising the DPVs. Abdallah Ag Matta waved his takouba high above his head. If he was going to die, he wanted to die like his fathers of old.
He did. An armor-piercing round tore out his throat and threw him from the saddle.
Several more Algerian RPGs were loosed, smoke trails twisting in their wake. Exploding warheads rocked the speeding DPVs, but the Chinese sped onward, closing the gap. They opened fire.
The first 35mm grenades exploded, throwing murderous shrapnel. Camels screamed as hot steel shards ripped into their hides. Torrents of lead ripped open their bellies, spilling their guts, spewing blood and fat. The wounded animals tumbled forward on their crumbling legs, tossing their riders, some already dead in the saddle. The smaller, faster war camels Pearce and the others rode had recovered their nerve now that they were out in the open and charging into battle. Pearce couldn’t believe how fast they moved and how smooth their gait was. It was easy for him to fire his rifle—far easier than if he had been on a horse at full gallop. Six long days on the back of his animal had produced both a bond and a knowing skill—good enough that riding the camel felt like second nature now.
The four of them closed the gap on the unsuspecting Chinese from behind. As Pearce had predicted, the charging Algerian Tuaregs were getting mowed down by the automatic-weapons fire, especially the grenade launchers. One of the DPVs peeled off to chase a knot of Algerians in full retreat—but Pearce guessed the Tuaregs were just trying to lead the vehicle into a trap. Pearce followed behind the Chinese, putting the gunstock to his cheek and firing controlled bursts. The DPV gunner’s helmet cracked open and the man tumbled out of the speeding vehicle and into the sand.
Pearce shifted his aim and fired again. Armor-piercing rounds tore into the hood, causing the driver to twist the wheel violently—too violently—cartwheeling the DPV in the softer sand where the Tuaregs had led him. The driver was tossed in the air but fell clear of the tumbling vehicle, only to catch a hundred rounds of volleying fire in his chest as the cluster of Tuaregs wheeled their animals around and emptied their guns into him.
The blue-turbaned Tuaregs glanced up at Pearce and waved their rifles high in the air. It suddenly occurred to Pearce he was wearing a tagelmust, too, and must have looked just like them. All warriors share a bond, even enemies, but at that moment Pearce was a Tuareg. Pearce shouted his war cry and urged his camel after the other DPVs still chasing the few remaining Algerians, now in full retreat, turning in their saddles and firing their guns in vain.