Blue Warrior

By the time they made it all the way down the mountain, the camels had arrived and were already kneeling. The camel driver saw Mossa and raced over. The two men embraced like old friends. Balla and Moctar began securing the Pelican case to a camel.

“Have you ever ridden one of these beasties?” Early asked.

“No,” Pearce said.

“You’re in for treat.”

“That’s what you said to me that time you tried to hook me up with that WNBA power forward.”

“Excuse me? I’d like to hear that story,” Cella said, chuckling.

“She was on a USO tour in Iraq. A big girl, let me tell you,” Early said, lifting his hand a foot above his head like a measuring stick. “About yea tall, and a French braid like a hawser, down all the way to the middle of her back. You know, from behind you could—”

“Forget it,” Pearce barked.

“Pearce! Early! Come!” Mossa beckoned them with his hand.

The six kneeling camels were still four-foot-tall mounds of muscle and very light brown hair, almost white. On top of each were wooden saddles with high slanted backs and elongated three-pronged forks where a stubby saddle horn should be. Each of the saddles was elaborately decorated with goat leather and brass cutouts in bright geometric patterns in bold colors, especially red and turquoise. The animals were further adorned with trappings of long leather strips and woven fabrics. The other Tuaregs remained mounted. Their hands were coal black, as were the small part of their faces he could see behind their veils.

Moctar pointed at Pearce’s camel. “Your ship of the desert, for a sea of sand,” he said. He laughed. “I heard that in a movie once.”

Pearce had ridden plenty of horses growing up in Wyoming. He’d even broken a few broncs in his youth — or at least tried to. He knew the key to riding an animal was to exude confidence. Nervous riders made nervous mounts. Pearce marched up to his camel, grabbed the fork, and hauled himself up on the stirrup, like he’d done it a thousand times before. The camel never flinched. None of them did. They were a serene bunch. The Zen masters of the Sahara. Pearce knew that a group of horses would have been far more skittish, especially around strangers.

“You’ve ridden camels before?” Mossa asked.

“Horses.”

“I rode an elephant once, in a circus near Tupelo,” Early said. “Cost me five dollars.”

“I should like to ride an elephant someday,” Mossa said as he mounted his own animal.

The camel driver and Mossa exchanged words. Mossa nodded, turned to Pearce.

“He would like to trade you for your rifle.” Mossa pointed at Pearce’s M4 slung over his shoulder.

“What’s wrong with his AK?” Pearce asked. “This thing is a little finicky in the sand anyways.”

“Mano likes the new M320 grenade launcher on it. He feels the side-loaded breech is superior to the previous model.”

Pearce smiled. “Man knows his stuff.”

“Mano Dayak is a dealer in such things. He can fetch a great price for that weapon back in Niger.”

“What would he give me for it?”

Mossa chattered a question. The driver answered.

“Two AKs and a camel of your choice.”

“Very tempting. Tell him I’ll think about it.”

The camel driver tapped Pearce’s camel with a crop and the animal’s rear end rose up. It felt like he was in the front seat of a downhill roller coaster. Pearce clutched the saddle with every ounce of strength in his thighs to keep from pitching forward, even though he was gripping the fork. A moment later, the camel stood on its front legs and leveled out. Pearce’s butt was nearly ten feet in the air. It seemed like twenty. He liked the view up there. But it also made him feel like a target.

The other riders all mounted their camels, and the animals rose on command. Mossa’s animal was blazingly white and the tallest by far, and the most ornately decorated. He prodded his camel with a commanding “Het-het” and took the lead. Pearce’s fell in line automatically, no doubt by force of habit. The small caravan was headed for the endless yellow horizon. As strange as the last twenty-four hours had been, he couldn’t begin to imagine what the night might bring.

40

Adrar des Ifoghas

Kidal Region, Northeastern Mali

10 May

Three a.m.

The bodies lay where they fell during the day, cut down by gunfire, grenades, or land mines. Most had bloated, baking beneath the scorching sun all day. The burned-out hulk of a six-wheeled BTR stood upended where it had died, a hole blown in the bottom deck by an RPG as the vehicle crested the trench line, the crew turned to ash.

In all, Guo counted seventy corpses on his way up the mountain. The Mali troops were brave enough but poorly deployed, and even more dismally led. As far as he was concerned, they had been useful for mine clearing at best. The hard way.