No, Court thought, if he were running the NSS, he would hit them as soon as possible, out here in the open. Kill everyone in the little convoy so as not to put the focus on the ICC woman as the target of the attack.
He thought about all these possibilities for less than a minute. Processing them in his fertile brain, a brain conditioned to danger, to battle, to intrigue, to deceit, and to threat.
The NSS might be able to get a platoon of GOS soldiers in the area mustered in time to cut off the convoy. But that did not seem likely. They were only a few hours from their destination.
No, the NSS had communications with and control of another fighting force who would be right in the area and ready to do their bidding.
Oh God, he thought. Not those assholes.
As much as he hated to admit it, Gentry could only see one likely conclusion. He nodded to himself. The muscles in his jaw flexed with resolve. He looked to Bishara.
"Give me a map."
Bishara fumbled through some papers on the floorboard. While he did so, he laughed. "Why you need a map? There's only one road. You can't get lost out here, man." Still, he pulled out the folded map, and Gentry took it from him quickly and began studying it.
It was nearly featureless, but there were some fatal funnels in the landscape, shallow crevices and narrow valleys that they would have to negotiate on the way to Dirra. Any one of these places would be a good place to be hit.
"Listen to me, kid. We're going to be attacked. Out here, on the road."
Bishara's bright brown eyes widened. "Attacked? Who gonna attack us?"
Court looked past the young Darfuri, out the passenger window, and into the near infinite landscape. The terrain rose to the south, fat acacia as big as boxcars amid dry hillocks protruding in the distance.
Court's voice was strong, but the nerves showed in its tone. "The Janjaweed."
The young black man cocked his head. Waved a hand in the cabin as if swatting a fly. "Nah, man."
Gentry turned to the driver. "Your gun. I need your gun."
Bishara answered for the older man, who spoke no English. "We don't have no gun, man."
"C'mon! I know you guys must keep something stashed in case the Janjas come. I'm not with the UN, I won't tell. We're going to get hit, and I need your AK, to watch for them."
"No gun, man. And no Janjas gonna come. We are SI."
"Doesn't matter today," said Court. He thought about his options. He could get on the radio, call up front to Bianchi and have the convoy stop. Then he could tell him of the danger he just caused, have him stay off the radio, and return to Al Fashir.
No, too many variables. What if Bianchi didn't comply? What if the NSS or the GOS army was racing from Al Fashir along this very road to catch up with them, in which case slowing to chat or turning back would only put the convoy in more danger.
No, the best thing they could do was to press on, try to get to the relative safety of the IDP camp near Dirra before the raiders appeared on a hilltop.
It was something to hope for, but it certainly didn't mean the Gray Man was going to just sit there with his fingers crossed.
He now tried to channel the mind of the commander of a gang of armed horsemen out here in the desert. What would his plan be?
Shit. He had no idea. Gentry possessed some training in small unit tactics. But not on fucking horseback. This was new territory for him. He tried to think back to the John Wayne movies he and his brother and his father enjoyed when he was younger, just to see if any tactics came to mind.
Nope, not really. The Duke wouldn't have been caught dead out here in Indian country without a lever-action Winchester, so those old westerns had no relevance to his current predicament.
Court stopped trying to figure out the best tactics that an attacking force would use. This was not Indians versus the cavalry. This was the Janjaweed versus an NGO. The horsemen wouldn't be looking for high ground, for sound military terrain. Shit, they would be attacking a defenseless convoy. They could swoop down any place and any time.
From what he knew of the Janjaweed, they usually did not attack UN convoys, or any convoys, for that matter. No, the Janjaweed militia raided villages, burned huts, raped and slaughtered. Then they looted.
Looted! Yes. They would want to keep the trucks intact so that they could steal whatever was inside.
Court could picture the impending action now. They would likely just stop the trucks, get everyone out, and begin the butchery.
Back at Harvey Point, the CIA instructors tried to teach Court everything, but nobody ever taught him how to prevent a mass execution while unarmed.
His head spun back to the cargo hatch behind him. "What's in the back?" Court asked Bishara, who was clearly alarmed by the American's insistence that they were heading into some sort of an ambush.
"Nothing, man. No guns. Why you say the Janjas-"
"What are we hauling?" Court asked again, more insistent this time.
"Just stuff for the camp. Beds, radios, lamps, desks, shit like that for staff office and living quarters. And tools to build a new water tower. Why you say the Janjas-"
"Let's take a look." Court spun around in the seat and slid the small access hatch from the cab to the massive cargo compartment. There was just enough room to squeeze through, climb over luggage and bags of millet and some sort of a metal rack to make it to the top of the pile of stowed cargo. "Pass me a flashlight," Court shouted at the young man poking his head through from the cab.
"Pass you what?" asked Bishara.
"A torch. Pass me a torch. Fucking British English," he said under his breath.
A minute later Bishara and Court were on their hands and knees on top of the gear. It was like a tight crawl space above a ceiling. Easily one hundred fifteen degrees and pitch-black without the light. They bounced around wildly with every bump in the road. The driver must have wondered what the hell was going on, but he continued driving along in the convoy like nothing was amiss.
"Why you think Janjas are coming?" The young Darfuri finally managed to pose his question.
Court dug through boxes and bags while he spoke, throwing items over his shoulders left and right while Bishara held the light for him. Gentry explained, "The NSS is looking for the white woman. They want to kill her. Bianchi's radio broadcast told them where we were. I figure the NSS doesn't have a strike force out here on the road, so they'll probably radio the Janjaweed to come get us. If they do, maybe they will just kill me and the Canadian woman, but I wouldn't bet against them killing everybody, just to cover up the fact they are working with the NSS."
Bishara nodded, understanding the ramifications of the words of this high-strung American. "What can I do?"
"You and I are going to have to work as a team here. We work together, and we can get ourselves and some of these others out of this. You understand?"
The kid nodded.
"The driver, Rasid. Do you trust him?"
Bishara shrugged. "I am from Zaghawa tribe, he is a Masalit. But he is a good man. I will tell him to do what you say." Then Bishara asked, "What we gonna do?"
"First, we're gonna pray I'm wrong."
Young Bishara shook his head. "The Darfuri pray all the time. But the Janjas still come and kill us."
Court continued digging furiously through the cargo below him. Already he had pulled a cigarette lighter and a mechanical alarm clock from the scrum of cardboard boxes. He clutched a roll of heavy plastic trash bags in his hand and held it up in Bishara's flashlight's beam. Then he dug down deeper, past stacks of sacks of flour and small drums of cooking oil. He heaved a woven basket of clothes out of his way and reached up to the SI loader, took the light himself, shined it down on a heavy wooden crate on the floor of the cargo compartment. He pried the lid off to find an array of welding equipment, an acetylene and oxygen rig, a welder's helmet, iron joints, a torch.