Ejecta

by William C. Dietz

  Guiscard’s major domo, a dark complected southerner named Benji Obasambo, materialized in front of them. He was carrying an AK-47 and spoke English with a British accent. “They brought a metal ladder,” the Chadian said disgustedly. “It’s still leaning against the wall…. And they were quiet. Very quiet. It looks like Ebolowa was asleep when they slit his throat. If so then good riddance! Once inside they went straight to the Mog.”

  “And the keys were in the ignition,” Guiscard said regretfully. “I know because I was the one who left them there! Were there any other casualties?”

  “They shot Mr. Kwara,” the major domo said sadly. “But he took one of the bastards with him.”

  Guiscard winced. Kwara had been employed by the family for more than ten-years and had a huge family to support in Cameroon. “Put the body in the big cooler,” Guiscard instructed. “The police will want to see it—and we’ll have to contact his wife. And count heads…. Let’s make sure that everyone who should be here is.”

  Obasambo nodded grimly and turned to go. “Well,” Guiscard said, as he turned to Palmer. “It looks like I’ll be going into Mongo come first light. That’s where the police station is. Would you like to come? Maybe we’ll find your rock along the way.”

  Palmer didn’t believe in luck, not that kind of luck, but nodded anyway. “Sure, count me in.”

  ***

  Mongo, Chad

  When a uniformed policeman told Police Chief Bahir Jann that Andre Guiscard and another man were waiting to see him the policeman was anything but surprised. And why should he be? Given the fact that he was already aware of what had taken place the night before. Partly via word of mouth, because news had an almost miraculous ability to traverse large seeming empty expanses of desert, but he had a more reliable source of information as well. Namely his half-brother Basel who was the proud owner of a nearly new Unimog! Because in Chad, as in so many places throughout Africa, anyone who hoped to escape grinding poverty was well advised to work both sides of the law. But none of that was visible on the police chief’s narrow face as he nodded. “Let Monsieur Guiscard wait for fifteen minutes—then send him in.”

  The policeman, who was used to Jann’s ways, smiled knowingly. “Yes, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Fifteen-minutes and then send him in.”

  Meanwhile, out in the police station’s lime green waiting room, Palmer was sitting next to a man who looked as though he’d been there for years. As did many of the other people who crowded the benches. All waiting to be summoned, or in some cases, dismissed. The only source of entertainment was the gloomy looking sergeant who stood behind a fortress-like counter where he was working his way through a stack of travel documents. The old fashioned stamp made a monotonous thud-thump-thud as it made contact with the ink pad, left an impression on paper, and returned to the pad.

  But finally, after exactly fifteen-minutes had elapsed, a corporal appeared. He was a northerner, and therefore of Arab descent, like all of the other policemen Palmer had seen thus far. Dozens of people turned to look, each hoping to hear his or her name, but it wasn’t to be. “Monsieur Guiscard?” the policeman inquired politely. “Chief Jann will see you now.”

  Guiscard, who had been looking at a plastic covered wall map, turned at the sound of his name. “Thank you…. Would it be alright if my friend Monsieur Palmer comes along as well?”

  The corporal had no instructions to the contrary. So he opened a waist-high door and motioned for the men to pass through the portal that served to separate those who were in need of something from those who could provide it. Those left in the waiting room had no choice but to remain where they were, endure the steadily increasing heat, and watch the ever present flies circle the stationary ceiling fan. The morning wore on.

  ***

  Jann could be quite personable when he chose to be—which was one of the reasons why he had risen from gendarme to chief. He rose as the visitors entered his office, left the protection of his tidy desk, and came out to meet them. “Bonjour!” Jann said cheerfully. “I’m sorry about the delay—but criminals never take a day off!”

  Guiscard laughed politely. “Chief Jann…. This is Alex Palmer. He was a guest at Le fort when the bandits attacked. You read my report?”

  “Yes! Of course!” Jann lied smoothly, as he shook the American’s hand. “Two dead…. I was very sorry to hear of it. And they took your truck. The thieves grow bolder with each passing day. Please…. Have a seat. I will ring for coffee.”

  A civilian arrived thirty-seconds later and placed a tray on the desk. Jann lifted the brass pot with his left hand, poured the piping hot coffee into a cup with his right, and took a tentative sip. Then, having assured himself that the brew was acceptable, he poured coffee for his guests. Guiscard first, given his position with the government, followed by the American.

  Then, once both men had been served, it was time for all three of them to drink. The coffee was strong, dark, and flavored with cardamom. There was a moment of silence so each person could enjoy their coffee, followed by a polite “fi sehtuk” (to your health) from Guiscard.

  “Thank you,” Jann answered automatically. “Now, as to the bandits, I will dispatch Sergeant Antalas to your home. He and his assistant will take statements, dust the metal ladder for fingerprints, and collect any other evidence that may be available. Meanwhile a bulletin has gone out—and police units throughout Chad will be on the lookout for your truck.”

  ***

  Guiscard thanked the police officer, but Palmer could tell that his old friend was pissed, even if it wasn’t clear why. Five-minutes later, as the two of them exited the building, his suspicions were confirmed. “That rotten bastard!” Guiscard said feelingly, as he started the Land Rover.

  “’Rotten bastard?’” Palmer inquired mildly. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because of the ladder,” Guiscard answered, as he released the brake.

  Palmer put on his sunglasses. “Yeah? What about it?”

  “He knew about it,” Guiscard answered, as the engine came to life. “And it wasn’t in the report! I forgot to write it down and I was going to tell him about it!”

  “Uh oh,” Palmer replied grimly. “So Jann was in on it?”

  “It’s a distinct possibility,” Guiscard replied, as he guided the 4 X 4 between a pair of gaping potholes. “There have been rumors about Jann. Nothing solid mind you…. But some people have questions about the big house that he lives in and the Mercedes parked next to it.”

  Both sides of the street were lined with ramshackle buildings seemingly held together by many layers of peeling paint, garish Coke signs, and the force of gravity. Squinty-eyed men sat on the hoods of half-cannibalized cars as children chased soccer balls up narrow alleys and brightly clad women went about their endless work. “So what, if anything, can we do?” Palmer inquired.

  “Go after the bastards ourselves,” Guiscard said with a sideways glance. “Unless you’re willing to go home without your rock.”

  “The iron is a lot more than a rock,” Palmer insisted defensively. “But no…. I’m not about to let those bastards keep the iron.”

  “Good,” the Chadian replied with a characteristic grin. “Go Wildcats!”

  ***

  South of Mongo, Chad

  Haani Damya was a tracker. A very special tracker who had grown up in the desert, where his fathers and uncles taught him how to follow vehicles instead of the increasingly scarce animals. It was a skill Damya regularly rented out to the police, the army, and various types of criminals. And, like many people in the area, the Tuareg scout was related to Madame Guiscard and her son.

  Which was why the indigo clad tribesman was sitting on a bucket seat attached to the front right fender of the Guiscard family’s venerable Volvo C303 utility vehicle. A precarious position that provided the tracker with an unobstructed view of the road whipping past below his feet, and more importantly, of the complex tracery of tire tracks recorded on the soft surface of the piste. Every tire ha
d its own unique tread pattern, wear marks, and flaws. Therefore each snaking mark was different to Damya’s discerning eye.

  And that was how the tribesman had been able to guide Guiscard and Palmer from Le fort, to a secondary road that was headed south, as it passed between rows of distantly seen hamadas or plateaus. The boxy truck shuddered like a thing possessed as it rolled onto a stretch of what the French call tole ondule, or “corrugated iron,” and Palmer thought of as “washboard.” A surface common to many back country roads in Arizona. Palmer knew the four-inch high corrugation was the result of heavy braking, aggressive acceleration, and usage by trucks with bad suspensions.

  The ride was similar to what it would be like if one were strapped to an enormous jack hammer. Palmer’s body shook uncontrollably, the old C303 rattled like a bucket of loose bolts, and gear bounced up and down back in the cargo compartment. At that point Damya turned to look in at them. He was equipped with a pair of motorcycle goggles and his blue veil whipped back and forth. A harness held the Tuareg in place, but Palmer knew that if he could feel the effects of the road, then the scout was suffering even more. “Faster!” Damya mouthed, and gave Guiscard a thumbs up.

  The Chadian acknowledged the request with a cheerful wave and pressed down on the accelerator. “We need to increase our speed to about fifty-miles per hour,” Guiscard explained. It was necessary to yell in order to make himself heard over the noise of the engine. “Then it will smooth out!”

  That was more than a little counter intuitional from Palmer’s point of view—but all he could do was hang on and hope for the best. And it wasn’t long before the ride began to smooth out just as Guiscard had promised it would. The improvement came at a price however. By skimming the tops of the corrugations the Volvo was providing them with a better ride, but less contact resulted in less control, so it was necessary for Guiscard to keep both hands on the wheel.

  Making the situation worse from Palmer’s perspective was the fact that the increase in speed made it more likely that they would race past the Mongo Iron without noticing it. Still, each passing hour would make it harder for Damya to track the Mog, so that had precedence.

  The slightly elevated two-lane track ran straight as an arrow through a large basin filled with powdery white sand. There were diversions where frustrated drivers had paralleled the road in an attempt to escape the tole ondule and had created a braided roadway. Sometimes the strategy worked and sometimes it didn’t. Occasional vehicles could be seen to either side. Ancient wrecks for the most part, half-concealed by drifting sand, never to run again.

  Finally, after what seemed like an hour, but was actually no more than fifteen-minutes, the C303 arrived on the south side of the basin where the road began to climb the side of the plateau beyond. An HJ75 rounded the curve ahead, flashed its lights in the traditional Saharan greeting, and rattled past. The back of the truck was loaded with children who waved as their clothes whipped in the wind.

  Guiscard had to work after that, muscling the 4 X 4 through a series of switch backs, choosing to attack some rocks, while avoiding others. The trick was to put the thick bottom tread onto the sharper rocks to avoid damage to vulnerable side walls, stay out of the deepest potholes, and maintain traction throughout. All of which required a significant amount of concentration.

  Having conquered the incline the Volvo arrived on top of the hamada where Damya signaled Guiscard to pull over. Once the truck came to a stop, the scout hurried to free himself from the harness, and drop to the ground. Then, having pushed the goggles up onto his forehead, he made his way over to the piste and the tracks recorded on it.

  The scout was down on his haunches, eyeing the surface of the road, as Palmer got out. It was difficult to open the passenger side door due to the presence of the jury-rigged seat. But Palmer was able to squeeze through the narrow opening and went to join Guiscard. He was standing near the edge of a sharp drop-off peering through a pair of beat-up binoculars. Palmer felt the full force of the sub-Saharan sun—and wished he was back in the air-conditioned cabin. There was a breeze, but it blast-furnace hot, and brought no relief. “Here,” Guiscard said, as he gave the glasses to his friend. “Take a look.”

  Palmer brought the binos up to his eyes. The view from the top of the hamada was truly spectacular. From the turn-out the geologist could see sections of the road as it switch-backed down to the desert floor below, a strip of white piste, and the jagged mountains beyond. They seemed to shimmer in the heat.

  “They passed here,” Damya confirmed, as he appeared next to Guiscard. “But the wind will steal their tracks. We must hurry.”

  So it was back into the Volvo and onto the road again. Damya had chosen to ride in the back seat, but wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and Guiscard was focused on driving. That left Palmer to wish for a beer that he knew he shouldn’t have, and try to stay awake, as the 4 X 4 came down off the plateau and onto the road below. But a lack of rest the night before, plus the drone of the engine proved to be too much, and the American was asleep when Guiscard touched his shoulder. “Wake up slacker,” the Chadian said cheerfully. “We found something.”

  The “something” proved to be a camping spot half-a-mile west of the piste Palmer had seen from the top of the plateau. And, when he got out to look around, it became apparent that people had been there recently. Very recently judging from the occasional wisps of smoke that issued from a fire-blackened pit. “The Mog was here,” Damya emphasized. “Along with two other vehicles. The bandits made coffee and ate lunch.”

  That was promising, since they were closing the gap, and Palmer was about to say as much when something caught his eye. A rock that wasn’t a rock! Moments later he was there, kneeling next to the Mongo Iron, checking to make sure the meteorite hadn’t been damaged. Having no need for what they perceived as a worthless boulder, and eager to lighten their load, it appeared that the bandits had taken advantage of the lunch break to dump the iron onto the ground where it had been left.

  Up until that point Palmer hadn’t spent much time with the iron, hadn’t gotten to know it, the way he usually did. Because it was his opinion that each meteorite has its own personality, its own mysterious feel, even if the geologist in him knew that was silly. But silly or not Palmer felt that there was a brooding quality about the iron sitting in front of him. And something else as well…. It was almost as if the meteorite was alive in some strange way. Although that was stupid.

  “So,” Guiscard said lightly, as his shadow fell across the meteorite. “You found it! Well done, especially since I want my fee…. But now what? It’s too heavy for the Volvo…. Assuming the three of us could lift it.”

  “We’ll have to leave it here,” Palmer answered regretfully. “Then, once we recover the Mog, we’ll come back for it. In the meantime let’s get some GPS coordinates and try to make it less noticeable. The odds of another meteorite hunter happening along are a thousand to one but you never know.”

  So more rocks were gathered up and heaped around the iron in order to make it less conspicuous. Then, eager to close with the bandits, the threesome were off again. But more slowly this time. Because it wasn’t long before the road became little more than a very primitive track and any sort of dust plume would give them away.

  Damya was back in his specially rigged seat by that time, both because the light was starting to fade, and because the primitive road continued to branch left and right as it followed an underground river. Evidence of which could be seen in the green plants that had driven their roots down to the point where they could tap into the liquid hidden below.

  Palmer was worried, because even though there were weapons in the back of the Volvo, they weren’t where he could reach them. And the further they went from the main road the more likely an ambush was. So the American felt relieved when Damya signaled for Guiscard to stop. Having freed himself from the harness the Tuareg made his way around to the driver’s side window. “The bandits will stop soon,” the scout predicted. “And sta
y the night. We must hide our vehicle—and proceed on foot. Then, if Allah smiles on us, we will steal the Mog!”

  The plan not only made sense, but left Palmer with the impression that the Tuareg had participated in such raids before, and not necessarily on behalf of the government. So Guiscard drove the 4 X 4 off the road—and parked it behind a thicket of spindly bushes. “Can I make a suggestion?” Palmer inquired, as the two men came together at back end of the vehicle.

  “Please do,” his friend replied. “In fact, given your combat experience, feel free to make lots of them!”

  Palmer nodded. “Okay, I’ll take you at your word…. I think Damya’s plan makes sense—but execution is everything. Assuming we can locate their camp, and approach on foot, stealth will be extremely important. Because if it comes to a firefight we’re going to lose! Then, if we can penetrate their perimeter, it's going to be about speed. Damya says they have two vehicles in addition to the Mog. So we'll have to disable them, jump in your truck, and haul ass! You have a key?”

  “Yes,” Guiscard answered, as he patted a pants pocket. “Right here.”

  “Excellent,” Palmer replied. “Once we’re clear of the camp you will stop here so I can jump out and drive the Volvo. Let’s leave the driver’s side door unlocked and the key in the ignition.”

  “That’s a good idea,” the Chadian agreed, as he opened the rear doors. “How about an emergency reflector? We could put it out next to the track so I’ll know where to stop.”

  “Perfect,” Palmer responded, “And don’t forget the iron…. We need to pick that up on our way out. Okay, let’s gear up.”

  The better part of fifteen-minutes passed while the three men armed themselves, shouldered small day packs, and made their final checks. “Let’s jump up and down, and see how noisy we are,” Palmer suggested.

  The answer was very noisy as various items of equipment rattled and jingled. So another five-minutes was spent securing loose items before Damya could lead the others west along the game trail that paralleled the main track. The sky was a beautiful shade of lavender by then. The first stars could be seen, and the temperature was beginning to plunge.