by Fiona Quinn
The Afar people who lived along Lac Assal survived next to one of the most salinized lakes in the world. They had been herders by tradition, but climate change had hit this region hard. With rainfall down to almost nil and the vegetation dead, the tribespeople turned to the one resource they had, salt. As the lake waters receded from lack of precipitation, they left behind massive salt deposits. Harvested and transported to market, the tribesmen earned about five US dollars per buoy-sized bag.
The problem with Anjie’s heart was not just the stress she had undergone for over a month now, but how much salt was in her environment. Rooster had been in the salt flats of India, where people’s hands and feet became so septic from salt absorption that when the families tried to follow the tradition of cremating their remains, their loved one’s feet and hands wouldn’t burn. It was that bad. If Anjie Bowen was being held in the Afar harvesting camp, the atmospheric salt could pose a unique and horrible medical problem for her, beyond the issues of water, food, and unbearable heat. Brilliant hadn’t made an appointment for a proof of life call. If the Bowens were still alive, they didn’t have the luxury of days. Maybe not even hours. He and Randy would need to do the thing that every trained operative works hard never to do, wing it.
***
They staged at the end of the last road heading in the general direction of the salt camp, waiting for the night to deepen. It was a full moon, that didn’t help matters. There was a wicked wind their landlady had called Khamsin that aggressively blew hot air in from the desert, lifting and carrying dust and sand with it, reducing visibility. That might give them a bit of protection. Both men were in their battle dress uniforms in a gray digital print that helped them blend into the barren landscape. Shemaghs—wrapped around their heads and faces—kept the debris from biting into their necks.
It was time. Rooster pushed down the clutch on his Land Rover and dragged the gear shift into first. They’d move fast until they were within a klick’s distance, then creep in, hoping the engine noise would be lost behind the howl of the winds.
Rooster had the driver’s seat pushed back as far as it would go. But at six-foot eight, it was always like doing origami to fold himself into a vehicle. Randy had his chair pushed all the way forward, making room for the supplies that crowded behind them. He was just shy of six feet, but was built like an anaconda, long, lean, and lethal. Randy sat with his knees nearly to his ears and grunted when their vehicle bounced over the rough terrain. He gripped the computer in his hands, watching the feed coming from Nutsbe in the Panther Force war room back in the States. Nutsbe’s voice periodically gave them information over the magnetic comms they’d dropped into their ear canals.
“I’m picking up heat signatures three-hundred meters from your location,” Nutsbe said.
Rooster pressed his finger into the communications button resting on his chest so his voice could be heard over the satellite feed that connected him to Nutsbe. “What are they doing?” They’d been running with no lights, using their high-dollar, night-vision goggles with thermal overlay that got them as clear a picture in the pitch black as one could buy with existing technology. Iniquus didn’t skimp when it came to top of the line equipment. It often made the difference between success and a body bag. Iniquus operatives were trained on Uncle Sam’s dollar. They were culled from the ranks of retired elite soldiers—the SEALs, the Rangers, the Marine Raiders, and so forth. Rooster had been Delta Force, but he’d signed a stack of papers agreeing never to disclose that fact.
“Well.” Nutsbe chuckled. “The set closest to you looks like there are probably three sleeping kids and parents working at making a fourth.”
Rooster swung his night vision out of the way to focus on the computer screen perched on Randy’s knee. It was insane how detailed pictures could be from images picked up in outer space. There was indeed a recumbent yellow and red length with another form on top. “That should keep his focus. Have you found our PCs?” Rooster used the shorthand for precious cargo, the people they were charged to protect at any cost.
“I’m going to put a circle on the hut that’s my best guess. My research says the housing is comprised of vegetation and skins, shaped like igloos. One opening. Very flimsy construction meant to be taken down and transported to a new site, quickly and easily. None of these images look like peoples’ hands or feet are bound. I can’t imagine how they’d attach them to the hut. I’m guessing the Bowens are held in place by their inability to navigate to safety. They probably believe that if they left, they’d die.”
“And they’d be right,” Rooster replied. “This heat and wind? They couldn’t possibly carry enough water to survive the hike out. And the Bowens probably have no idea how to ride a camel. They’re pretty shitty creatures. It’s not like they’d be helpful to a couple of greenhorns.”
The plan was to go in quiet. “If it’s as primitive as Nutsbe says, I don’t think they’re going to have weapons, maybe some spears. When they see our rifles, they’ll back down.”
“You hope.” Randy was unconvinced.
“Luck of the draw. Could be we can get in and get out without raising any suspicion.”
Randy forced a breath through his nostrils that could be taken for a laugh. “Three-million dollars on the line? Don’t fool yourself into thinking this is a cake walk.”
Rooster slowed the Rover to a crawl, travelling slow and steady. When they were a hundred meters out, they debussed. With these flat lands, it was as close as they could get without being a big neon sign saying trouble was coming their way. They pulled on their body armor and rucksacks, did a last weapons check, and moved forward into the moonscape dotted with huts.
They were fully in the perimeter of the village, walking low and slow, swinging their heads, watching for moving heat signatures. Suddenly, from behind them came the sound of someone banging metal against metal. The clanging rode the wind, reached into each hut and shook the inhabitants awake. More people rose, more clanging.
Though Rooster and Randy had the advantage of night vision, sheer numbers could quickly overwhelm them. The village warriors surrounded them, their hands gripping their weapons. Randy and Rooster maintained their speed. Rooster in the lead, Randy keeping apace but walking backward. When Rooster looked left, Randy looked right. As the tribesmen closed in, the operatives could make out spears and machetes in the warriors’ hands. Rooster and Randy brought their rifles to their shoulders, ready to squirt out suppressing shots that would give them space.
Rooster stopped beside the largest hut. “I wish to speak to the tribal chief.” He spoke first in English, then French, and then in Arabic.
The tribal warriors were just boys really—Rooster would estimate between fourteen and twenty—the age when testosterone made them stupid enough to want to prove their courage in front of their fellow villagers. The warriors formed lines on either side of the largest hut.
An elder emerged, wearing the regalia of power.
Another man stood by the door. He crossed his arms defiantly across his chest and glared. “Speak,” he said in Arabic.
Rooster responded in fluent Arabic. “I am here to negotiate with your chief. I ask that you translate with clarity and honesty as is required.” Rooster had no idea if this was required or not. But it seemed like a good preface.
The man said nothing.
“You are holding two Americans in your village. I’m here to take them home.”
The man translated, or at least he said something to the wrinkled man who stood in front of them with a swollen belly.
Rooster imagined the chief was a lot younger than he looked. Salt miners rarely lived to be sixty. “I do not come without gifts of thanksgiving for the hospitality you have provided. Water, food, Djibouti francs.”
When the man translated, there was a decided shift in the tribe’s demeanor. Wariness. Hope.
“I have good news and bad news.” Rooster heard Nutsbe over his comms. “’Copter’s twenty minutes out, but fighting the wind. Bad
news, there are five vehicles due west, thirty klicks and closing fast.”
Rooster tapped his communicator. “Roger that.”
“I’d get the PCs, get in your vehicle, and start moving. Let the heli chase you down.”
“Wilco.” Rooster looked up. “We’re out of time. Give us the Americans now and receive our gifts, or we will take the Americans now, and leave destruction.” Rooster was going to have to remember that line. That wasn’t half bad.
Nutsbe said, “Two o’clock, there’s a hut with two adult-sized people. All the other huts seem to have emptied into your area.”
“Derek and Anjie Bowen.” Rooster’s voice boomed. “American rescue is here, call out.” Rooster’s sheer size won him some shock and awe in these situations. And the deep bass of his voice could leave people shaking with fear.
“Here. Here,” a man’s voice called from the two o’clock position Nutsbe had advised.
Rooster and Randy made their way to the hut, where a man had pulled the door to the side and was craning his neck. “My wife is very weak. She can’t sit or stand.” He gestured to the prone figure in the center of the hut, lying on a hide.
Rooster stalked to their position. “I need to verifying identity. What’s your full legal name?”
“Derek Matthew Bowen.” The man squinted and lifted his hand to protect himself from the high lumen glare of Rooster’s mag light.
“Where were you born?”
“Richmond, Virginia.”
“What is the name of your elementary school?”
“St. Christopher’s.”
“And the woman?”
Bowen gestured inside the hut. “Anjelina Catherine Bowen, my wife.”
Rooster’s hands rested lightly on the rifle that hung from its sling. “Are you able to walk, sir?”
“I’ll do my best. But I don’t think I can help my wife.”
“Put on your shoes. This is going to be a close shave.”
“But…”
“I’ve got your wife.” Rooster crouch-walked into the hut, dropping down to make a quick assessment of the diminutive woman, sprawled at his
knees.
Randy stood with his back to them, speaking to a tribal warrior. Rooster touched his comms. “What’s up, Randy?”
Randy’s voice whispered over the radio. “Near as I can tell, this guy wants to follow us to the payment that was promised to the chief.”
“That’s fine as long as he keeps up.” Rooster leaned over Anjie Bowen. “This is going to be uncomfortable, I’m sorry. I’m going to carry you the way soldiers do in the movies. I’ll be as gentle as possible, but we’ll be moving fast.”
She licked her lips and whispered, “Thank you.”
Rooster pulled her to sitting then shuffled to get a shoulder down to her hips. He drew her across the broad swath of his shoulders and the top of his ruck. Pressing effortlessly to a stand, he ducked out of the hut.
Rooster noted that Bowen had been equipped with a Glock from Randy’s holster.
They set off and Bowen stumbled out of the gate. Randy shot out a steadying hand. “Sir, you’re going to have to dig deep. Pull up your will to get out of this alive. After we’re out of the village, we can help you. But we have no time for any kind of coddling.”
Rooster had one arm wrapped through Anjie’s dangling legs, pressing her thigh to his chest with his forearm, and keeping her snug in place by pulling down her wrist. From this position, he kept his thumb available for his comms so Nutsbe could hear what was going on and advise. With his other hand, he swung his rifle left then right, making the nervous villagers take a step back. “Calvary’s on the way, but we’ve also got the bad guys heading toward us,” he said for the benefit of the Bowens.
“About twenty klicks,” Nutsbe said from the safety of the Iniquus compound.
Rooster took off at a jog. Bowen was giving it his all. The Afar warrior ran beside them. He seemed to delight in being caught up in this adventure. He smiled broadly and waved to his fellow villagers as he ran by.
The Afar tribe gathered in circles, standing shoulder to shoulder, undulating their chests forward and up, back and down, dancing as the Americans hustled away. Rooster wished he knew the words to their song. It seemed to him that there was an African song for almost any occasion. He wondered if this one was, “You can run, but you can’t hide, the bad men come and skin you alive.” That sure would suck big, fat, hairy donkey balls. Rooster didn’t doubt for a second that Brilliant would exact a very painful price if he caught them stealing his treasure.
As they cleared the village, Rooster dropped his rifle on its sling, letting it dangle at his side as he grabbed hold of Bowen under the armpit, so the enfeebled man could lean on Rooster’s bulk. Now that Bowen had support, Rooster pushed the pedal down. “Longest hundred yards of your life, Mr. Bowen, but you will run them.”
Bowen was doing his damnedest, Rooster knew. What Rooster didn’t know was how long ago the man had eaten his last meal, when he’d last had a sip of water. Rooster didn’t want to drag this man to his death, but it was rock-and-hard-place time. They’d made the decision, and now they needed to see it through.
Chapter Three
Rooster
Lac Assal, Djibouti
The run would be perilous in full light; in the black of night, it was a fool’s journey. The land had been formed into a rocky terrain by cooled lava. Djibouti sat at the confluence of three tectonic plates, which meant the ground beneath them was in a constant state of flux. Long fissures and gaps made footing tenuous. While Rooster and Randy ran with night-vision in place, Bowen was wholly dependent on Rooster’s guidance. The Afar warrior placed a loose hand on Randy’s shoulder and seemed to be skipping along as if they were going to pick daisies, not running for their lives.
Anjie’s soft groans sounded like they were pushed through gritted teeth. Rooster barely registered her weight on his shoulders.
“They’re in the village,” Nutsbe said. “I can see two men descending from their vehicle. The tribe seems to be getting between them and the chief.”
A burst of gunfire cracked the air.
Bowen suddenly found a little more adrenaline to pump into his leg muscles. Rooster adjusted his pace to match that of his precious cargo.
“The Afar are scattering. I’m guessing that’s the chief and his warriors that are lined up and holding position.” Nutsbe said. “The one in the middle—I’ll just call him the chief—is pointing. The direction he’s indicating is slightly south of your trajectory. Smart move on his part. They don’t want to piss these guys off, and they don’t want to miss out on their water and food. There’s a chance it’ll work.”
Rooster had learned long ago he couldn’t afford wishful thinking. If shit could happen, it sure as hell would. He always assumed worst case. Tonight, he only had a Plan A—get to the car, get out of Dodge, and hope to hell the helicopter showed up.
As he thought those words, his hopes were filled and dashed at the same time. Damn it.
A helicopter’s blades whipped through the hot air, churning the debris and making the team wheeze and cough. Its search lights panned the area. Their Rover was lit up like a rock star on stage. The light, filtering through Rooster’s night vision apparatus, burned his eyes and left him momentarily blinded. In the flat landscape, the enemy could see them from long distances. That light beam made them easy targets.
Sure enough, from behind them came the rat-a-tat-tat as a rifle opened up. Bullets tap-danced and pinged over the rocky terrain, leaping up, and ricocheting. Rooster’s sheer size meant if these guys could hit the broad side of a barn, they’d have a good chance of taking him down. His bulk was sometimes a blessing, sometimes a curse. Rooster swung his head and saw the warrior had lost his happy grin, his eyes were held round and wide. “Go! Go! Go!” Rooster yelled past the deafening sound of the rotor blade.
When Randy sprinted forward, the warrior never moved his hand off Randy’s shoulder. They were stride f
or stride as they hauled ass to the Rover.
Rooster pressed his knuckle into his comms. “Get that fucking light off us!”
Seconds later, the heli banked right. Rooster ran to the far side of their vehicle, dropping the desperately heaving Bowen to the ground behind the protective bulk of the engine block. He opened the back door and lay Anjie in the space made by Randy and the warrior as they threw the provisions out the back hatch onto the ground. Randy made his way to Bowen and yanked a bulletproof vest into place, then gestured him through the driver’s side door over to the passenger seat. “Head down. Head down.”
Rooster draped a ballistic vest over Anjie’s prone form, then leapt behind the wheel. He slammed the gear into place and took off with a lurch. Randy jumped over the open tailgate, scrambling into the cargo area next to Anjie, and lay on his belly. Knees bent, boots in the air, Randy lifted his torso onto his elbows and fired off his own rounds toward the headlights bumping and bobbing their way toward them at reckless speeds. The enemy bullets, now coming from a closer range, were finding their target and popping holes in the Rover’s frame.
Rooster turned with quick glances to watch the helicopter swoop low. Human forms, glowing orange and yellow in his thermal goggles, seemed to dangle in mid-air from the helicopter’s runners. The bright red explosions from their automatic weapons showered down on the convoy below. The tangos pursuing the Rover killed their lights and fanned out to make their positions a harder target for the copter, fighting the winds overhead. But the convoy kept coming for them.
Bouncing his vehicle along the barren landscape, zig-zagging his path, Rooster raced along. There was a hairsbreadth between the speed that might save them and what would imperil them further. A high-caliber bullet zinged through the Rover’s interior and burst out through the windshield. Bowen screamed and threw his elbow up to protect his face as the safety glass splintered into a spider web of lines, dropping visibility down to zero. Rooster tacked left. One hand on the steering wheel, he wrenched his Glock from his side holster and beat a hole into the window.
