Blue Warrior

Pearce hesitated. Since he was a kid growing up in the wilds of Wyoming he’d been a loner. The only son of a drunken, angry father, he took solace fishing and hunting in the mountains by himself, or lost himself in books by the fire at night. Even when he served with the CIA he’d mostly been alone behind enemy lines or in very small groups of fighters. Both his nature and his training drove him to stay in the background, unseen, unnoticed — until he struck. He hated being the center of attention of anything, whether it was a toast at a wedding or a sales pitch to a group of potential clients. He was uncomfortable even now, though it only involved explaining to a curious group of Tuareg warriors the technical aspects of a new weapons system. But Pearce knew the cultures of the East. He dared not embarrass or shame Mossa by refusing his invitation to share his exploits.

So Pearce relented, explaining the basics of the modified M-25 system. But he didn’t break open the Pelican case and pull out the gear to show them.

“And you are American military?” Mossa asked. He was translating for one of his men.

“No.”

“CIA?” Mossa asked. A wave of murmuring swept through the group. None of them apparently spoke any English, but the dreaded three-letter word was universally recognized.

“No.” Technically, true. Pearce had been out of the service for a decade.

“Then how do you come by such weapons?” another man asked through Mossa.

“I own a company that develops these weapons. We train others for money, and sometimes we sell the drones, too.”

Drones! The Tuaregs muttered the hated word to themselves over and over. Another American word understood and feared the world over. Some of them were clearly agitated. Pearce knew that the American government had sent drones to help the Libyan rebels. Tuareg soldiers in the Libyan army must have died because of that decision.

“You’ve come to fight for us?” a man called out in Tamasheq. Mossa translated.

“No. I came to help my friend.” He patted Early on the back. “Now he is safe. Now I must leave,” Pearce said.

Pearce saw the disappointment in their eyes. A few even glared at him. Did they think he was a coward?

“Come. We need to make plans for your departure,” Mossa said. He clapped an arm around Pearce’s shoulder, a sign of his favor to the dissemblers, and led the way.

“Mossa!” A man high up on the rocks pointed just moments before Pearce heard the whump-whump-whump of rotor blades hammering the air.

An attack helicopter roared in the distance, a thousand feet off the deck, barreling straight for their position. Pearce had to shield his eyes to see it. The chopper was framed by the blinding circle of the sun, but its huge, ugly frame was familiar. He’d seen them before, up close and personal, but he also knew their history. In the 1980s, the Soviets hunted Afghan mujahideen with the big armored Hinds to great effect until the CIA smuggled Stinger missiles into the country. The mujahideen feared and hated the big ugly air machines. Ironically, the modern Afghan air force flew them, too. It pissed Pearce off that Afghans were allowed to buy military equipment from their former enemies instead of from the allies who saved their asses. And they bought them with U.S. taxpayer dollars, too.

Down on the plain, four of Mossa’s trucks sped four abreast, bouncing and slewing in the sand, racing back for the mountain.

“Where’s the fifth truck?” Early asked, then cursed himself. In the far distance he saw a black, oily smudge.

“The Devil’s Chariot,” Mossa said, binoculars to his eyes. “Mali air force.”

That’s what the mujahideen had called them, too, Pearce remembered. At least when the Hinds were hunting them.

Mossa kept his eyes glued to his binoculars. Spoke an order to Balla. His lieutenant turned and disappeared behind the towering rocks behind them.

The trucks were three, maybe four miles from the mountain, the big chopper half that distance behind them. Didn’t have to be an air force general to figure out the math wasn’t good for the slower-running Toyotas. Sparks flashed from the nose of the Hind, and a second later, the air cracked with echoes of machine-gun fire from the Russian four-barrel Gatling gun.

Geysers of sand spit up around the trucks.

“They’re fucked,” Early whispered.

“Not yet, Mr. Early,” Mossa said, eyes still glued to his binoculars.

The four trucks suddenly split up, the two on the far ends turning at forty-five-degree angles, the middle two at twenty-seven degrees. Now the pilot had to focus, pick a target.

Balla thundered up with a shoulder-fired SA-24 missile launcher, pulling it onto his shoulder, putting his eye to the scope. He asked Mossa a question with a single word. Pearce could guess the meaning.

“Five kilometers and closing,” Mossa said in English, for the Americans’ sake.