“I’ve studied since then.”
“I hope so,” she said, selecting a black pawn one row over from Storm’s and moving it out two spaces.
“So I assume Jones has given you the coordinates?” he asked, making his next move.
“I’m fully briefed, yes.”
“So what do you say we have Jones airlift us a Humvee and head on out there tonight?” he asked, taking her pawn with his.
“Too good a chance we’d miss something at night,” she said, beginning the first in a series of moves whose strategy Storm did not immediately recognize. “Whatever we’re looking for—if, in fact, there’s even anything to find—might be very small. We already know it’s something that can’t be seen from satellite, which means it might be some kind of subtle geological feature. Or it could be something that someone has camouflaged from the satellites. We know that the Medina Society is aware Uncle Sam has eyes in the sky that are always on them and they are known to take countermeasures.
“Besides,” she finished, “the desert isn’t safe at night. Local intel says that outlaw activity has been out of control lately.”
“What are you afraid of? You’ve got big, strong me at your side.”
“‘Big strong you’ isn’t impervious to bullets last time I checked. Do I need to remind you that there’s no place to hide in a desert? Besides, we’re not here to shoot up the countryside. This is a touchy time for the red, white, and blue in these parts.”
She was the first to move her knight out and was using it to decimate some of his early defenses until he finally knocked it out with a bishop. Then, two turns later, she turned around and captured it with her queen.
“I’m not here to hide,” Storm said.
“Then you need to change your thinking. If the guns-blazing approach worked with the Medina Society, we would have already wiped them out. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill, towel-head wack jobs, Derrick. They’re smart.”
“So how are you proposing we move in on this?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
He was maneuvering one of her rooks into a trap. She was going to lose it for sure. One, maybe two moves from now. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”
“Camels,” she said.
His face fell. His left arm dropped to his side. “Aww, come on, seriously?”
“We have to go quietly. We go out there in whatever kind of big, fancy toy you want, and if anyone is out there, they’ll be able to see us coming from nine miles away. We have to maintain the façade of being poor nomads. And poor nomads in this part of the world still use camels.”
He looked down at the board. It turned out, while he thought he was trapping one of her rooks, she was really ensnaring one of his. He had to sacrifice it to save his queen.
“You know how I feel about those…things. They stink.”
“So do you sometimes. Look, there’s no choice. It’s already set up. We’re going to be meeting a truck with the camels just outside visual distance of the target zone. But once we’re inside, it’s camels.”
Storm made a face and a noise that was only slightly more mature, under the circumstances, than what a second-grader might have done.
“Okay, but at least tell me we get to have real weapons,” he said, watching as one of his knights fell to her queen.
“Oh, yeah. We’re fully outfitted. I don’t have a death wish, Storm. I’m just talking about exercising some caution in how we approach. We need to look like nomads from afar. What we keep hidden in our gear is a different matter.”
“Good. Because other than Dirty Harry, I’ve got nothing on me.”
“You and that gun,” she said, shaking her head. “Oh, by the way, checkmate.”
He looked down, alarmed. “Wait, no it’s not,” Storm said, staring desperately at the black and white spaces that surrounded his king, sure there had to be somewhere safe the piece could move.
She sighed, patiently letting him reach the conclusion that she had foreseen at least five moves earlier. Finally, he frowned and tipped over his king.
“Let’s get some sleep,” she said. “I’ve set a wake-up call for three A.M. I want to be in the target zone at first light. Hopefully we can find whatever there is to find before it gets to be a hundred and twenty degrees out there.”
“Sounds good to me. Let me go check in.”
“Oh, you don’t have a reservation.”
“Why not? Jones said—”
“I canceled it,” she said quickly. “What with the sequester and all, I felt it would be in the best interests of fiscal austerity for us to share a room.”
“So you’re saying this is my patriotic duty,” Storm said.
“It is.”
“Well,” Storm said, rising and offering Strike an arm. “In that case: God bless America.”
She accepted his escort. Then they retired to her room and exercised their right to pursue happiness in a most vigorous fashion.
THE STARS WERE JUST BEGINNING to fade when an ancient, diesel-reeking livestock truck slowed to a stop by the side of a little-used road, air brakes hissing, suspension creaking.
In Arabic lettering on the side, Storm could make out H. MASSRI PROPRIETOR. In a much larger font were two words that Storm wished he had never seen put together: CAMEL RENTAL.
“Seriously?” Storm said. “Rent-a-camel?”
“Grow up,” Strike said under her breath as she waved at the driver.
“Hello, hello!” Massri said in cheerful, accented English. “You are Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan, yes?”
“Sullivan?” Storm said. “You know, I’ve never liked the name Sullivan.”
“Grow up faster,” Strike said through clenched teeth, then in a louder, more chipper voice said, “Yes, yes, that’s us!”
Massri was already scurrying along the side of the truck, toward the trailer, where he opened up the back door to reveal two light brown, single-hump camels, one about seven feet high, and the other about six. A wall of stink poured out, assaulting their noses.
“Congratulations on your wedding, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan. I am so pleased you have chosen to spend your honeymoon in this manner. It is my great honor to introduce you to Antony and Cleopatra. They are my most romantic camels.”
Massri led the shorter one out first. “This is Cleopatra. She is a very sweet girl. The best I have. You know, the word ‘camel’ comes from an Arabic word that means ‘beauty.’ Isn’t she beautiful? I have a mind to take her to the South Sinai Camel Festival, where I think she will have a most excellent chance to win a prize. You can go ahead and pet her if you like, Mrs. Sullivan.”
Massri had led the female camel down the ramp and handed her reins to Strike, who lightly pet Cleopatra’s muzzle. The camel responded by closing her eyes and stretching her neck to get her face closer to Strike’s.
“I can tell she likes you very much. Most excellent,” Massri said, then returned to the truck.
“And this is Antony,” he said, grabbing the animal’s halter and yanking. “He is also a most excellent camel. A champion camel in his own right. Very well trained. Very well bred. His father was one of the great racing camels of our time. This camel, he can run like the wind blows, Mr. Sullivan.”
Storm could see that was true—but only if it was a very still day. Antony was not running. Or walking. Or planning to leave the trailer without a fight. The animal’s rump was pinned against the back of the pen, and he kept it there even as Massri tugged his chin forward. Antony signaled his displeasure with a loud, growling belch.
“As you can see, I have already loaded the camels with everything you will need for a three-day journey in the desert,” Massri said. “They should not need water during that time. But if you should happen upon an oasis, it is okay to let the camels drink. They can drink up to forty gallons in three minutes.”
Antony still wasn’t budging. The sound emanating from him had gotten deeper and more ominous-sounding.
“He has a little bit of a temper, especially this early,” Massri said. “Not a morning camel, this one.”
“A little bit of a temper?” Storm said. “What does he do when he really gets mad?”
“Oh, then he bites,” Massri said, under his breath. Massri realized Storm had heard him and added, “But that never happens. Almost never happens. He is a good camel. He is just a little stubborn. This is not an unusual trait for a camel, you will find.”
Massri finally succeeded in yanking Antony all the way down the ramp. Antony was making a noise that sounded like an outboard motor that had a small rodent stuck in it. A slab of pink flesh had slipped out the side of his mouth.
“Why is he sticking his tongue out at me?” Storm asked.
“That is not his tongue, Mr. Sullivan. That is called a ‘dulla.’ It is a large, inflatable sac that comes from his throat. It shows he is trying to assert his dominance over you. Or perhaps to mate with your female.”
Strike whipped her head in their direction. “Excuse me?” she said.
“Oh, I would not be too concerned about that, Mrs. Sullivan. It is the wrong time of the year for him to be rutting. Besides, camels are unique among hoofed mammals in that they are the only ones to mate while sitting down. When he sits down, he is either too tired to continue or he is feeling amorous. As long as he remains on his feet, you have nothing to worry about.”
Antony had finally stopped vocalizing, and was now just looking annoyed. Storm took one step toward the beast. It responded by growling and showing his teeth.
“And you said he never bites, huh?” Storm said.
“Almost never,” Massri said, his smile having returned. “Ah, but Mr. Sullivan, never mind that. You should see him run. He is magical. Like a unicorn!”
“Without the horn,” Storm said.
“Yes, without the horn.”
“Which would make him, what, a Pegasus?” Storm said. Massri looked at him quizzically. Storm decided to drop the comparisons to mythical creatures.
“I just wish camels didn’t smell like, you know, camels,” Storm said, wrinkling his nose as the odor of the animal—some horrible and undetermined mix of urine, manure, and camel sweat—came even closer.
“Ah, well, you must remember, camels have very sensitive noses. Antony can smell water from three kilometers away. So it’s possible you are far more offensive to him, Mr. Sullivan.”
Storm looked at Antony, whose mouth was developing a thick beard of white, frothy foam that he was shaking into globs that fell onto the ground.
“I doubt that very seriously,” Storm said.
Storm added to the beast’s burden a few essential items that Strike had packed, which mostly consisted of weaponry that had been broken down for ease of storing. Each still had a concealed sidearm—Storm his Dirty Harry gun, and Strike a Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum, which billed itself as the most powerful revolver in production.
Collectively, the two guns packed a wallop. But Strike had added two longer rifles: a CheyTac M200 sniper rifle and time-worn Colt M16 that was conspicuously battle tested. In addition to some nicks and dings, the switch that allowed it to toggle from single shot to automatic had been set to automatic and then ripped off. Strike packed extra ammo to compensate for that anomaly.
Massri helped both Storm and Strike up onto their camels. Cleopatra remained docile, allowing Strike to mount her easily. Antony kept trying to turn and bite Storm’s legs, which Massri was able to prevent only by whacking the camel’s nose with a riding crop.
“Here, why don’t you keep this,” Massri said, handing Storm the crop when he was finally atop the beast. “It comes free with the rental. But I warn you, Mr. Sullivan, use it sparingly. This is the fastest camel in all the desert. A unicorn! A Pegasus! I would put this camel against even the fastest thoroughbred. He is the Secretariat of camels. You are most fortunate to ride such a champion.”
Antony let out one final belch, then fell in behind Cleopatra, who had already started walking at a slow, dutiful pace toward the vast openness of the Sahara.
THEY HAD DECIDED TO TRAVEL INTO the middle of the target zone, to the exact coordinates given to them by Jones, and then begin a search pattern of concentric circles that radiated out from the epicenter.
The sun rose behind them as they rode west. Sunrises in the desert, to which Storm was no stranger, were hauntingly beautiful. At least at first, you could even convince yourself that this place—so infertile, so desolate—wasn’t all that bad. Or at least that it got a bum rap. Storm watched their long shadows grow shorter.
Then the sun reached a certain altitude, high enough that its rays didn’t have to slice through so much of the atmosphere. That’s when Storm could start to feel it beating through the thin, earth-colored thobe that covered his body and the white keffiyeh wrapped around his head and neck.
The sand, which had cooled with the night, began to heat. It was slow at first, but it was incredible how quickly it happened. Storm wasn’t bothering to check the temperature—what was the point?—but it felt like it was rising five degrees every fifteen minutes. A morning that had started out in the fifties was soon into the eighties. Storm felt the sweat popping on his body. He looked at his water bottle. Not yet. They had to conserve what they had.
The pretense of being nomads aside, Storm was glad for the glimpses he was able to sneak at his handheld GPS. The terrain was so featureless that he understood how it was that people ended up traveling in huge circles when they were lost in the desert. It was easy to get disoriented. The GPS kept them more or less on course.
But otherwise, they were traveling across the desert as humankind had for many millennia. On camel. In the heat. Baked by the murderous sun.
They said little. Both seemed to be conscious of conserving their energy, not wasting it on idle talk. For whatever Strike said about getting their task done before the heat of the day, that was clearly not possible. They had too far to travel.
Antony, for whatever initial recalcitrance he may have shown, had settled into a good rhythm. Frothing and spitting aside, this is what he had been bred for since his species was first domesticated in the days before the pharaohs.
It took three hours to near the coordinates Jones had provided. It was already above ninety, Storm was sure, and it was like the furnace was only beginning to roil. Storm was aware Strike was looking at him with increasing frequency as they closed in. He was allowing himself more time with the GPS out. They had locked in the proper northerly coordinate. They now just had to get far enough west.
Finally, they had arrived.
“This is it,” Storm said, pulling on Antony’s reins. In a rare fit of obedience, the camel came to a stop.
They shared a silent beat where they scanned the landscape. There was nothing. Just an ocean of sand that stretched seemingly without end on all sides. Somewhere within ten square miles, what they sought was hidden. The enormity of finding it was manifesting itself.
“Well, it’s all clear to me now,” Strike said, knowing Storm would get the sarcasm.
“It’s damn inconsiderate of the terrorists not to at least plant a flag for us or something. I mean, we came all this way.”
“Inhospitable terrorists. The worst. Next thing you know, they won’t have pulled out the good china for us.”
“I blame the parenting. People just don’t know how to raise a good terrorist anymore,” Storm said. “Let’s head to the top of that dune over there, see what we can see.”
Storm urged Antony forward, and Cleopatra fell in behind. When they reached the summit of what seemed to be the tallest mound of sand amid all the other mounds of sand, they again stopped. The camels stood side by side. Cleopatra nuzzled Antony, who let out a thunderous belch.
It was the o
nly sound for miles.
“Oh, now it’s really clear to me,” Strike said, surveying a view that had changed only in elevation. “The silly thing is, I thought it would be easier once we got out here. If anything, it’s more hopeless than when I was looking on the satellites. At least back then I didn’t have sweat dripping down my cleavage.”
“Man, I never thought I’d feel jealous of sweat,” he said.
Strike said nothing, accustomed as she was to ignoring the fact that Storm seemed to think of sex every eight seconds.
Storm pulled out a pair of Steiner Marine 7x50 binoculars that Strike had been thoughtful enough to include in his backpack. He focused the viewfinder and began scanning the horizon. He made it a full 360 degrees around and started his way back.
He was perhaps halfway through when he saw a glint. It was sun striking off either glass or polished metal, neither one of which was known to be a surface naturally found in a desert. He noted the direction and removed the device from his face.
“There,” he said, handing her the binoculars. “Look at two hundred and seven degrees.”
“Two hundred and seven degrees is what it is out here,” she said, taking a look. “Are you sure you’re not just hallucinating?”
“No. That’s why I’m having you look. Do you see that reflection?”
“Storm, I don’t see anything but…Oh, never mind. Yeah. I got it now. Jones had mentioned there was something that looked like a Bedouin encampment but he said it was outside the target zone so they didn’t really pay too much attention to it. You think that’s it?”
“Whatever it is, it’s more interesting than anything else I see around here. I’m sure it’s outside the target zone, but let’s ditch the search pattern and go check it out.”
“Sounds good to me,” Strike said.
And off down the dune they went. In the Steiner glasses, the flash they saw had looked almost close enough to grab. In reality, it was nearly five miles away and took the better part of an hour to reach.
Again, they lapsed into quiet. The only sound was Antony’s occasional bellowing. Camels have evolved with all kinds of clever features to help them beat the heat and preserve their hydration—blood cells that are circular instead of oval, noses that trap the moisture in their exhales and cycle it back to their body, dung that is so devoid of water it can be lit on fire. Humans have no such adaptations. And as the temperature surged above a hundred, Storm and Strike began suffering accordingly. The heat felt ubiquitous, like it had now filled every ounce of available space, spinning every atom into an inflamed tizzy. Whatever oxygen there was in the air seemed to have evaporated along with whatever water there was on the entire planet.
Wild Storm Page 18
