Blue Warrior

Pearce set the firing tube into its molded slot inside the case. “Last I heard, you were grouse hunting in Argentina, living the life of a retired country gentleman.”

“Grouse hunting gets boring after a while. They don’t shoot back.”

“I’d consider that an advantage myself.” Pearce shut the lid of the Pelican case and snapped the throw latches.

“I’m not exactly crazy about it either, but for the money Cella’s father is paying me, I can put up with it a while longer.”

“How much is getting killed worth these days?”

“It was a one-off. Ten thousand a week, tax-free. But it was only supposed to be for three weeks, not three months.”

“Why’d you step back into it? I mean, really?”

Another gunshot rang in the distance.

“You know how it is,” Early said. He glanced over the village. “I know there’s something wrong with me, but I love this shit.”

Pearce frowned. “Killing poor stupid bastards in uniforms?”

“No. That’s the worst part of it. But you know as well as I do there are bad guys out there. Someone has to stop them.”

“We did. About fifty of them. And every one of those dead mutts out there thought we were the bad guys.”

“So who’s gone native?”

“Not me, Mikey. I hate the bad guys, too. I’m just saying, let the Tuaregs and the Kurds and all the others fight their own damn battles and get your ass back to that beautiful wife of yours and those two gorgeous kids.”

“That’s the plan, brother,” Early said with a groan as he stood. “And it may even happen, thanks to you.”

Pearce and Early made their way back to the well, looking for Mossa. Early called ahead on his shoulder mic. Mossa was in Ibrahim’s little storefront, studying the ancient French military map still hanging on the wall.

“I’m going to check on Cella. Holler if you need me,” Early said to Pearce. He left for another house. That left Pearce alone with Mossa.

“What is your plan now?” Pearce asked.

“How well do you know the history of the Sahara, Mr. Pearce?” Mossa still stared at the map.

“It’s a big pile of sand. I hear armies get lost in it pretty often.”

“Yes, they do, since at least the ancient Romans who crossed over here two millennia ago. The bones of many invaders are covered in the shifting sands. But it wasn’t always desert. There are cave paintings in the Tassili N’Ajjer that date to 6000 B.C. Do you know what they depict?”

Pearce shrugged. “No idea.”

“Grass, rivers, antelope, buffalo, cattle, elephants, giraffes. Even hippos. But so much has changed, has it not?”

“The world is always changing.”

Mossa ran his fingers over the expanse of paper desert. “And men must change with it. Even my people. But the Sahara is still our home, the land Allah himself has given us.” He turned to face Pearce, his own face still hidden by the indigo tagelmust.

“So you want to defend this place?” Pearce asked.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a shit hole, if you’ll pardon the expression.”

“But it’s our shit hole.”

“It’s not defensible, especially if the government decides to bring in any kind of long-range ordnance or aircraft. They’ll pound this place to dust.”

Mossa nodded. “I agree. But letting go of things is becoming harder in my advancing years. If we leave, then the Ganda Koy win.”

“And if you stay, you die.”

Mossa stepped to the doorway and watched his men prepping their vehicles. “The way you fight is not our way. But it was… impressive.”

“War is changing, too.”

“You stayed to fight for your friend?”

“Yes.”

“And Cella?” Mossa turned to face Pearce again.

“No.” But Pearce thought about it. “And yes.”

“You knew her before?”

“She was a doctor. Saved the life of a friend. But that was a long time ago, in a different war.”

“I understand.”

“Dorotea is your granddaughter. Cella must have been with one of your sons.”

“She was the woman of my oldest son, Rassoul. He was also a doctor. He entered Paradise three years ago.” Mossa’s eyes bored into Pearce’s. “If we stay, you will stay?”

“If Mike stays, yes. He is my friend.”

“Mr. Early is a good man. A good fighter.”

“Better than you know, on both counts. Don’t waste him.”

Mossa laughed. “I have no intention of wasting him. Or you. No, you are correct. This place is indefensible. Let the sand have it.” Mossa crossed back over to the map and jabbed a finger into it. “We’ll retreat to here, in the mountains.”

“Do you have other men who can join us?”

“Not yet. The Malians have struck here, here, and here.” Mossa touched the map at each battle site. “And there is trouble throughout the region. The chiefs and elders asked permission to defend themselves as they see best, which is the best strategy now. We are like grains of sand in the wind. The best we can hope to do is keep stinging the eyes of the lions. We are still not yet strong enough to offer a pitched battle to a standing army.”

“Will the Mali army follow us into the mountains?”

“They will follow wherever I go. It seems that I am the prize. But we can hold them off quite well there.”

“Then we’re off to the mountains.”