Blue Warrior

“But when I walked into that bar? I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there. I don’t regret doing it, because you’re my friend and Mike was in trouble. But after he died and you nearly got killed, I woke up.”

“To what?”

“I’ve been running for a long time. Especially when I was working for you. Don’t get me wrong, it was great, but it was still running. It’s time to stop running.”

“The God stuff?”

She smiled. “Something like that.”

“Still friends, though. Right?”

Judy threw her arms around his neck. “You’ll always be my friend. I just can’t do what you do anymore.”

Pearce held on tight. “You ever need anything, you call, you hear?”

A truck horn blasted in the distance.

“’Bout dang time.” Pearce checked his watch.

“Africa time.” Whit laughed, walking up. He tossed a toolbox in the grass.

A big diesel fuel truck pulled onto the long grassy airstrip, followed by a flatbed truck carrying a big empty plastic storage tank.

“Two thousand gallons ought to keep you for a while, Rev. Thought you could use a proper storage tank, too.”

Whit shook his head. “You’re too generous, Troy.”

“You did me a favor by not knocking me on my ass when I told you I was taking your fuel.”

“How could I resist? You were quoting scripture.”

Judy laughed. “Yeah. What’s the story with that?”

“Some other time.” Pearce turned to Whit. “And I’ve prepaid for another two thousand gallons. Just call the distributor when you need it.”

“I’m embarrassed. How can I can ever thank you?”

“First thing, take care of this woman. She’s the best.”

The big towheaded missionary blushed. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Second, I need a favor.”

“Anything.”

The big diesel tanker rumbled to a stop near the hangar, its big hydraulic brakes blowing air. Whit jumped up on the running board and showed the driver where he wanted the storage tank placed. The driver nodded, released the brake, and pushed on. Whit jumped back down and returned to Pearce.

“Now, what can I do for you?”

“I need a ride back to Jo’Berg in that brand-new Cessna of yours in the morning. Need to catch a flight home.”

Whit laid a strong hand on Pearce’s shoulder. “Africa can use a good man like you. Plenty of honest work to do just around here.”

You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what I’ve done, Pearce thought.

“Thanks, but I’m done with Africa for now.”

Judy threw her arms around Troy’s neck again. “You’ll always have a place here if you need it.”

“Hey, Pearce. You can steal my gas, but not my girl.” Whit’s big toothy smile flashed just a hint of menace.

Pearce shook the big missionary’s hand. “One more favor, Whit. Make damn sure I get an invitation to the wedding, okay?”

62

Sino-Sahara Oil Corporation Building

Bamako, Mali

7 July

The Chinese had picked the location for the new Sino-Sahara Oil corporate high-rise to annoy the Americans. The newly completed forty-story building stood on the banks of the Niger River, but more important, towered over the lowly American embassy just a half mile away.

To Zhao’s dismay, the building replicated the garish modernist designs he loathed. That was because Zhao’s uncle, the chairman of CNPC, hired an unimaginative Beijing architectural firm owned by Zhao’s cousin, who provided the chairman with the appropriate kickback.

The building’s sole design virtue, in Zhao’s opinion, was that it was now the tallest building in the city by far. With any luck, the sunlight gleaming off of the soaring mirrored-glass skyscraper would blind the American ambassador or, at the very least, annoy him to distraction, reminding him daily of China’s rising dominance on the continent.

Zhao’s luxury suite on the top floor was proof of his dominance as the new head of the corporation. Mossa’s death and the resulting collapse of the Tuareg rebellion had guaranteed China’s acquisition of the new REE deposits and cemented Zhao’s reputation as the man who could always be counted on to complete the most difficult missions. Vast new economic and military resources were now flowing into Mali and the region. Zhao’s political future was assured and his family wealth enlarged, thanks to his success.

Zhao ordered his voluptuous Ukrainian secretary to alert his limousine driver to start the vehicle. His private jet would be leaving from Bamako Airport shortly. Zhao entered his private express elevator, one of the fastest in the world, built by the Japanese firm Toshiba. By virtue of its computerized lift and braking system, it rocketed him directly between his penthouse suite and his exclusive parking area in the subbasement at nearly forty miles per hour. It took only 7.27 seconds to travel the forty floors — a distance of four hundred feet.