Blue Warrior

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.

WHOOSH! Balla fired his RPV in full gallop. It smashed into the rear of the nearest DPV, blasting it into a cloud of fiery metal. Pearce cheered along with the others riding beside him. But their joy was premature. The final DPV’s launcher erupted, still chasing the other Algerians. Dozens of grenades exploded beneath the feet of the fleeing camels, breaking them open, spilling their intestines, snapping their legs in half. The last Algerian Tuaregs and their animals died screaming in the reddening sand.

And then the DPV wheeled around, guns blazing.

Pearce felt the 7.62mm slugs pounding into his camel’s chest and the great beast lunging downward. Pearce jerked as hard as he could out of the saddle to leap clear, but the fifteen-hundred-pound animal collapsed, landing on top of Pearce’s leg. Searing pain jolted though his knee and up his thigh.

Instinctively, he knew it wasn’t broken. The soft sand had saved him. So had the dead camel as more rounds pummeled into its corpse, now shielding Pearce from the DPV. Pearce glanced up just in time to watch Moctar and Balla charge.

Moctar’s belly crimsoned and his upper body fell away. The lower half stayed in the saddle, hot blood geysering onto his galloping camel.

Balla shouted and fired his weapon, but he aimed too high and missed. Bullets pounded his chest like angry fists and threw him to the ground.

Mossa charged madly at the DPV, flinging his AK aside and raising his takouba high in the air. The faceless gunner turned his gun but held his fire — waiting until Mossa had closed within inches. The gun erupted. Mossa’s upper body disintegrated in a hail of fragmenting grenades. The DPV gunned its engine and sped away toward the north.

Pearce leveraged his free foot against the saddle and pulled on his pinned thigh with his hands. His luck held. His leg was trapped beneath the dead camel’s shoulder, near the neck. Otherwise, he might have been trapped for good. A few moments later, he worked his injured leg free. It was sore like a bad sprain, but he tested it and it was still mostly functional. He suddenly realized Judy was screaming in his earpiece.

“Troy! Troy!”

“Judy?”

“Thank God! You’re alive!”

“Apparently.”

“Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m south-southeast of the airstrip, about two hundred meters, about even with the hangar.” Pearce limped over to Mossa’s camel. It knelt down next to its master’s corpse like a grieving dog.

“Yes, I see you now. I’m coming in.”

“No! It’s too dangerous. There’s a fast-attack vehicle down here.”

“I see it. It’s heading north, about three hundred meters north of you. Plenty of room.”

“Don’t argue with me, damn it. I said wave off.”