The First Casualty (18 page)

38

Peace and Plenty Ranch

Reeves County, West Texas

9:26 p.m. Local Time

Andrews seated himself in a wooden rocker in a small cubicle whose only view through the single fly-specked window was a large warehouse-­type floor. The space, perhaps 8,000 or so square feet, was broken up into sections, each containing mechanical-looking equipment Jason could not identify.

He followed his guest's gaze. “Not much to look at, I know, but it serves.”

Jason took the mate to Andrews's rocker, extending a hand to accept a steaming mug bearing the logo of the U.S. Navy. Using the other to point toward the window, he said, “Surprised Deborah lets you keep it in a mess. Only time I met her, that time in Washington, she seemed to pretty well give the orders.”

“
Gave
,
past tense. She left out of here three, four years ago. Went to visit her sister in Omaha, never came back. Said she couldn't stand the loneliness, sound of the wind and coyotes drove her nuts. Guess she missed the society on naval bases.”

“Ah . . . ” Jason stumbled, a man committing an unintentional but very real faux pas, “I didn't know . . . I mean, I'm sorry.”

“No need, Artiste. You couldn't have known.”

Time for a quick change of subject.

“From the looks of that stuff out there, I see you are still . . . what did you call it? A tinkerer, I think you said. Like to fool around with gadgets.”

Andrews nodded. “Yeah. Except now I don't have the brass looking over my shoulder, telling me what to do. Matter of fact . . .”

He stood, motioning Jason to follow.

Unable to find a convenient place for the coffee mug, Jason carried it out onto the floor. He followed Andrews past what resembled auto engine blocks. Another section contained robot-like devices. Jason was about to ask a question when Andrews stopped.

“Know what that is?”

Two tanks the size a scuba diver might wear, a hose leading to a nozzle device with trigger.

“Looks like a flamethrower.”

“Bravo!”

“But what's with a flamethrower? I mean, there must be hundreds of them lying around in military warehouses.”

Andrews stooped over to pick up the rig. “Actually, there aren't. Never have been like this one, anyway. The things were used in Vietnam and weren't made to last. I looked everywhere, the Internet, military surplus stores, the lot. The commander in chief decided flamethrowers, particularly napalm flamethrowers, were ‘inhumane.' ” He made quotation marks with his fingers. “Imagine that, worrying about inhumanity to some asshole who's trying to kill you. Jesus Christ on roller skates! Hell, the things were the number-one effective infantry weapon in the Pacific in World War II. Pretty effective in 'Nam, too. Nothing like a little napalm to get someone out of their spider hole in a hurry.” He sighed. “But then, our great leader, the peanut farmer, decided newsreel pictures of flaming VCs or whoever we fought next were bad for our image, never mind how many American lives might be saved.”

One thing about Andrews: His politics were never wishy-washy.

Jason sipped his rapidly cooling coffee. Definitely better than the airlines' brew, even if it was bitter enough to make him pucker his lips. “Wouldn't it be illegal to own a flamethrower?”

“Nope, at least not nationally. Not that the Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives guys wouldn't be sniffing around here, they knew what I was doing.”

“They check the ones I see in the war movies?”

Andrews snorted derisively. “What you see on the screen are giant cigarette lighters, propane for safety. A real flamethrower uses a mixture of benzene and gasoline with maybe a thickening agent like polystyrene to make sure the fire sticks to whatever it hits, like skin. Too dangerous to let anywhere near the likes of, say, Tom Hanks.”

“Why a flamethrower? I mean, what's so special about this one?”

“Trouble with World War II types was they weren't specific enough. You point it and everything within fifty yards or so gets incinerated. Well enough if you're torching Japs in a cave or Vietcong in a tunnel. Not so good if there are friendlies in the area. Want me to show you?”

Jason took a step backward “No, no. I'll take your word for it. What made you decide to build flamethrowers? They aren't my idea of security measures.”

Andrews shrugged. “Disguised freighters weren't the Navy's idea of fighting piracy, either.”

“I get the connection, but flamethrowers . . . ?”

“What greater atavistic terror does man have than being cremated alive? Suppose some sand cretin terrorist wannabe knows that he might be dispatched to paradise as a cinder? But you didn't come all the way to Peace and Plenty to see an old man's play toys.

“You're right. Let me tell you a story.”

Twenty minutes later, Andrews pushed back as far as the rocker would allow and stared at the ceiling, his coffee cup forgotten. “Wow! Right out of science fiction.”

“So I've been told.”

“How sure are you about this gizmo, this death ray?”

Jason shrugged. “I only know what I've been told. The French security folks believe in it, I can tell you that.”

Andrews got up and went to the table on which the coffeepot sat. He lifted it above his cup. “Damn thing's empty. You gonna want more?”

Jason shook his head, his stomach already sour from the bitterness. “No thanks.”

Andrews pursed his lips, a man making a decision. He nodded, decision made, and put the coffeemaker in a nearby sink. “How sure are you of the location of the source?”

“Once again, I'm relying on the French.”

The Cheyenne was rinsing the pot out. “You didn't come all this way just to tell me about a plane crash.”

A statement, not a question. Jason said nothing.

Andrews scowled as he concentrated on wiping the coffeemaker's innards clean. “OK, Artiste, exactly what role do you want me to play in this?”

“So far, there are three of us. You'll make four if you want to join the party. The mission profile calls for us to reconnoiter, confirm this machine is where we think it is, take it out by whatever means, and confirm that.”

Andrews returned to his rocker. “Sounds like a job for one of the Air Force's drones.

“Except that a drone can only see what is outside of buildings, can't go inside. Plus we may well be dealing with not only a mosque, but one that's a World Heritage site. If you get a week of rioting and forty-plus deaths for accidentally burning a few Korans, you can imagine the reaction if we bombed the wrong one.”

“That was Afghanistan, stirred up by the Taliban.”

“You think the Maghreb would be more reasonable?”

Andrews nodded. “Point taken.”

There was a brief silence before he said, “You have a plan for both insertion and extraction?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you're with us or not.”

Andrews gave a dry chuckle. “I 'spect you knew that before you came. Old war horse like me, put out to pasture . . .”

Jason couldn't suppress a smile. “Before you get teary-eyed feeling sorry for yourself, let me remind you: You have the best known security school in the United States of America, probably the world. You also have the most expensive. You're making, what, ten times what the Navy paid you?”

“Yeah, but there's no real excitement, nothing to get the adrenaline rushing. When I wake up in the morning, I know exactly what's going to happen that day. Biggest surprises in my life are when it rains.”

“I take it that you'll be with us.”

“When do you want me where?”

At Andrews's insistence, Jason spent the night. Breakfast, served before full light, was in one of the bunkhouse-like structures. Six men sitting around a long table reminded him of a scene out of a western. Except these cowboys wore suits tailored on Bond Street instead of flannel shirts and chaps, shoulder holsters instead of low-slung gun belts, cap toes and wingtips by Bruno Magli instead of boots.

The bodyguard business must pay well.

The sun was just beginning to swallow the night's shadows when Jason tossed his bag into the Ford's backseat and reached across his chest to extend his right hand out of the window. “I'll be in touch, next day or two, Chief.”

Andrews leaned over, elbows on the sill of the car's open window to take Jason's hand. “Can't tell me more than that? Like where we're meeting, exactly when?”

“Don't know much of that yet. Think of standing by for orders.”

In the rearview mirror, Andrews faded into the dust of Jason's departure.

39

Bamako-Sénou International Airport

Bamako, Mali

Two Days Later

Day 7

Smoke puffed from the tires of the Air France Airbus A330 as its wheels smacked onto Runway 06. The flight from Paris had been a little over five hours, not counting the time spent on the ground at Casablanca, the sole intermediate stop. Passengers stretched. Several lifted the window shades, squinting in the brilliance of the West African sun.

Despite the warning coming over the electronic speakers in French, English, and Bambara, most of the 300 passengers stood in the narrow aisles before the aircraft came to a stop beside the modern glass-and-steel terminal. They waited with the impatience of weary travelers for a pair of tractors to push twin air stairways against the forward and aft doors of the aircraft.

The four men of varying races remained where they sat with the assurance of experienced flyers that their business-class seats provided far more comfort than would the standing mob. As the lines in the double aisles began to shuffle toward the exit, each of the four stood and removed a single bag from the overhead bin.

The terminal was a single unairconditioned room, filled with shoulder-to-shoulder lines, a babble of a dozen languages and dialects, and the smell of sweat. The quartet joined the line at the far end of the building to exchange currency for West African CFA francs and paid the arrival fee to an official in camouflage army uniform and reflective sunglasses before presenting entry forms, passports with visas, and proof of yellow fever inoculation to his twin.

The latter spoke in French to one of the group of four who smiled and shook his head slowly.
“Je ne parle pas fran
ç
ais.”

The official scowled with the ill-concealed hostility third-world officialdom display toward the more affluent. He turned his gaze to the next of the four, the only black man in the group. He noted the scar that divided the face from right to left, the muscles that strained the short sleeves of the khaki shirt, the shaved head. Then he spoke in French, a question. The black arrival replied and was answered with another string of French.

“What did he say?” Jason wanted to know.

Emphani flashed a bright smile. “Other than wishing upon us the peace of Allah, it seems he is having a hard time understanding exactly what of geographic interest we might find at Timbuktu.”

“You told him we are researching the city's Askia Period on behalf of the National Geographic Society?”

“Of course. That explains why we each have passports from different countries.” He lowered his voice “Even if the names are . . . er . . . um . . .
faux.
”

Another question and answer in French.

“He wants to know if we will need to be in the country longer than the three days the visa permits.”

For reasons known only to the Maliese, the only visa available outside the country was for three days. Any extension had to be granted while in country. Jason suspected the practice generated additional income and more jobs for bureaucrats.

“Tell him I doubt very much we will need additional days this trip. If we find something of interest, we'll be back.”

Emphani rattled a line of French and received another question in response.

“If we are from
National Geographic
, where are our cameras?” Emphani translated. “He says
National Geographic
always has pictures, color pictures.”

“The cameras are with the rest of our equipment,” Jason improvised. “It should have arrived this morning.”

After another exchange in French, Emphani said, “He will come to the freight depot with us. He would like to have his picture taken.” Then, in a lower tone, “Hope you have a camera. It would give much, er, er . . . How do you say
prestige
in English?”

“Prestige.”

“It would give him much prestige to have his picture in
National Geographic
.”

“Tell him if he will expedite our equipment through customs, I will see what I can do to put his picture on the cover.”

Viktor and Andrews were watching the three-way exchange with growing impatience.

“Artiste,”' the latter said. If you can't—”

Jason silenced him with a wave of the hand while Emphani translated the offer into French. A broad smile spread across the official's face, and all traces of animosity disappeared as the man gave Jason a brotherly hug.

“He says he will give us a ride to the freight depot.” Emphani said. “There will be no customs fees or . . .” Emphani rubbed the fingers of one hand together, the international sign a bribe was expected.

In this part of the world, a waiver of any fee plus the accompanying
pot-de-vin
was rare.

Twenty minutes later, one of the green minibuses that serve as taxis in Bamako was into the fifteen-kilometer trip into town. There had been so many crates, boxes, and bags addressed to the
National Geographic
expedition, there was no room for anyone other than the driver and his four passengers.

Andrews, seated next to Viktor in the second row of seats, leaned forward. “Artiste, was that a Canon AT-1 you used to take that man's picture?”

In the front seat between the driver and Viktor, Jason nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“Not digital,” Andrews persisted, “Film, right?”

Again, a nod.

“Didn't know anyone even made film anymore.”

“They don't.”

“But how. . . ?”

“Let's just say when the May issue of
National Geo
comes out, we would be wise to avoid the Bamako airport.”

Viktor snorted a laugh. “You carry an old camera with no film?”

“Let's just say I've dealt with officials in this part of Africa before.”

All four were silent as the minibus wove through increasing traffic—automotive, human, and animal. Loose cattle wandered at will among trucks, scooters, bicycles, and cars. The road sloped gently downward as mud-brick buildings became more numerous. A woman riding a donkey was dressed in a brilliantly colored pagne with matching turban. Another on foot, a basket of fruit balanced on her head. Although largely Islamic, Mali had not adopted the hijab or other Islamic dress. Men largely wore a
boubous
, full-length tunics made from rough cloth and dyed with patterns of varying colors of mud.

By Lumumba Square, the town's skyline was dominated by the minarets of the Grand Mosque towering above three or four stories of mud brick. The main feature of the city, and the reason Jason had chosen to enter the country there, was the seasonally flood-­swollen Niger River. Dividing Bamako, its muddy waters swarmed with watercraft ranging from the multi-decked ferry to dugout canoes. At near seasonal flood stage, it was about a mile across here. Along its banks, fishermen haggled loudly with women over their catches while others mended their nets. Men stripped to the waist, ebony skin gleaming with sweat, loaded cargo into a
pinasse
, a twenty-five- to­ thirty-foot, high-prowed, canoe-like craft powered by outboard motors with a tentlike structure serving as a cabin at the stern. Nine or ten months of the year, Jason and his comrades would have had to travel slightly further to Mopti, where the river was always deep enough for commerce.

It was upstream of the traffic-clogged King Fahd Bridge and alongside one of these craft that Jason ordered the driver to stop. The four passengers quickly transferred the contents of the minibus into the slender craft, declining help from any of the native longshoremen. When they finished, they climbed aboard and the ship backed into the eddies of the current and headed north.