Blue Warrior

Bath hid her rage. She knew damn well how to plant false information on the web to impugn people. She’d practically invented the NSA’s handbook on the subject.

The Angel smiled. “I want to put Pearce and the others on Greyhill’s radar, too. I need Greyhill sweating every second that he doesn’t do something about this new ‘threat’ we’ve just uncovered.”

“Not a problem.” Bath was happy to oblige. People might get killed if Greyhill overreacted, but that was on him, not her. She was just the messenger. In her line of work, morality was a fiction she could ill afford.

39

Adrar des Ifoghas

Kidal Region, Northeastern Mali

9 May

The small band picked their way down through the shadows of the eastern slope while on the other side of the mountain the Mali army lay dead under the merciless afternoon sun.

After the battle that morning, Cella tended the few wounded Tuaregs while Mossa and his men dispatched the suffering survivors. They returned to the cool of the caves, ate again and drank, then Mossa led his men in the noonday prayers while Pearce and Early waited outside.

Pearce raised Ian on his recharged sat phone. Didn’t tell him about the battle, just that everything was on schedule. Got updates on Judy, who was comfortable but now restricted in her air base quarters. Cella’s daughter was already on a chartered flight to Rome.

He thought about Lisbon. Counted the years. Dorotea was a beautiful little girl. It was certainly possible. And those eyes.

First chance he got, he needed to talk to Cella.

After prayers, Mossa briefed Pearce. Mossa assured him that two devastating defeats in two days would send the Malians reeling back to Bamako. There’d be nothing to fear from them for a month, at least, and he’d be back well before then. But Mossa was no fool. He still posted guards, and rotated them frequently out of the scorching sun and back into the caves for rest, water, and food, waiting for the worst of the heat to pass before they began the next leg of their journey.

Mossa was wearing his indigo tagelmust, of course, but had swapped out his combat camouflage fatigues for a traditional blue kaftan and cloth pants, all in royal blue. Leather sandals had replaced his boots, too. Pearce wondered why the change.

Moctar and Balla volunteered to carry Pearce’s remaining Pelican case containing the M-25, Switchblade UAV, and firing tube. He couldn’t imagine them hauling his load on foot for the next six days, but then again, he didn’t know how he’d manage it by himself, either. But he couldn’t leave that technology behind. Too expensive, and too dangerous if the wrong people ever got ahold of it. He’d proven that already back in Anou. And, technically, it was still the property of the South African army, even if they hadn’t taken possession of it yet. He’d have to refund the Hybrid Quadrotor, of course, but at least he could truthfully report on its combat effectiveness.

Like Mossa, Moctar and Balla had rewrapped themselves in their tagelmusts. It was the Tuareg way. Both men were a decade younger than Pearce, but he knew that only because they had uncovered their faces the night before. Wrapped up again, they were ageless, mysterious, and fearsome.

“Moctar, a question.”

“Yes?” The young Tuareg had good English.

“Most Muslim women cover themselves, but not the Imohar women. Why is that?”

“Why would I want to cover my daughters’ heads? I want them to feel the wind in their hair and the sun on their faces, the way Allah intends.”

“Western women feel the same way. They refuse to be covered.”

Moctar laughed. “That is the difference between your people and mine. If I tell my women they shall be covered, then they shall be covered. But I give them the freedom to be uncovered because it pleases me. Your women don’t cover because it pleases them. Your women rule you. All your women wore hats before, yes?”

“Yes, quite often. Until the 1960s.”

“Women’s Liberation,” Moctar said. He pronounced it like a judgment rather than a fact. Pearce let it go.

Balla called out, pointing ahead. An RPG was slung over his shoulder, along with a pack carrying more HEAT rounds.

“And there is our transportation.” Mossa nodded at a small caravan of fourteen camels marching toward them, shimmering in the heat of the sand. Seven camels carried Tuareg gunmen, AKs slung on their laps. Seven other saddles were empty.

“Do you have a mechanical one of those?” Mossa joked, pointing at the camels.

“Actually, yes. It’s called an LS3—a Legged Squad Support System. It looks like a headless, skinless horse.”

“Truly? That would seem to be both a marvel and a nightmare,” Mossa said.

“I grew up mucking rich people’s horse barns. The LS3 has some advantages.”

“Mucking?”

“Shoveling shit.”

“The problem is the putting of the horse in a barn, not the shitting of the horse,” Moctar observed.