Whiplash d-11 Page 9

  One of the soldiers leapt onto the back of the bus. Boston turned and fired, pumping three bullets into the door. The man fell off, dead.

  Abul jerked the bus onto the road behind the truck, barely keeping it upright as the shoulder gave way on the left. He let off the gas and cranked the wheel desperately, staying with the curve. A man ran at the bus from the side, and Abul lowered his head, hunching over the wheel and praying to Allah to deliver them.

  Behind him, Danny quickly frisked the soldier, tossing away a pistol and a grenade, along with two magazines for the M-16. Now that he was on the floor, the man looked small and almost frail. His rib bones poked through his uniform shirt.

  “Up,” Danny ordered.

  The soldier didn’t understand. Danny grabbed his shirt and threw him into a seat. Fear gave way to resignation on his face. The man prepared himself to die.

  “You’re a lieutenant?” said Danny incredulously, noticing the metal pins on the man’s brown fatigue collar.

  The soldier didn’t understand.

  “Ask him his name,” Danny told the bus driver.

  Abul was too busy driving to translate.

  “Hey, Abul, who is this guy?” Danny said.

  The soldier turned and spat blood to the floor. He worked his tongue around his teeth, trying to see if any had been broken. He’d been shot once when he was seventeen; the punch in the face felt worse.

  “Stop the bus,” said Danny after they’d gone almost a mile from the other soldiers.

  Abul did so, his foot heavy on the brake. His hands were shaking.

  “Ask him his name and his unit,” Danny told the driver.

  “What is your name?” said Abul from his seat.

  The soldier didn’t answer the question, merely staring at Danny. Never in his life would he have expected a robbery victim to act this way, especially a westerner. It was impossible; the man, he decided, must be a devil.

  “Open the back door, Boston,” said Danny.

  “What are you going to do, Colonel?”

  “Get rid of him. He’s of no use to us.”

  “You must kill him,” said Abul. He jumped up from his seat. “Shoot him. Shoot him.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Danny.

  “You will kill him or he will kill you. He will kill me,” said Abul.

  “You come this way a lot?” said Danny.

  Abul had already resolved that he would never drive this way again, but that was irrelevant. The soldiers were fierce and predatory; they would certainly want revenge for this sort of embarrassment.

  “Kill him,” said Abul.

  “I don’t know, Colonel,” said Boston. “Abul may be right. They aren’t going to interpret mercy as a good thing here.”

  Danny looked into the soldier’s face. He fully expected to die.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  The soldier had no idea what he was saying.

  “Abul?”

  Abul translated. The man simply shrugged. He wasn’t able to answer the question accurately, and would not talk to a devil for anything. It was one thing to lose his life — everyone did, some more quickly than others — and a much different thing to lose his soul, which he knew would last forever.

  “Get the door, Boston,” said Danny.

  “Mr. Rock,” said Abul, appealing to Boston. “To let him go now — foolish.”

  “So was not paying him,” said Danny. He hauled the kid to his feet and pointed the gun toward his groin.

  “You remember me. My name is Kirk,” he told him, using one of his aliases. “Kirk. You screw with me, next time I blow these off.”

  He jammed the gun hard enough to make the kid suck wind.

  Boston opened the door at the back. Danny pushed him out.

  “Go,” Danny told the driver. “Get us the hell out of here.”

  9

  Eddd, Sudan

  While Danny Freah was deciding how to best impress the Sudanese army that he was not a man to be messed with, Nuri Abaajmed Lupo was another two hundred and some miles to the south, doing his best not to be noticed by one of the army’s most ferocious opponents, a rebel by the name of General Mohamed Henri Wani — Red Henri, in the local slang, because of his red hair and his unusual French given name.

  Nuri had traveled to a village some fifty miles west of the base camp, intending to be back before Danny and Boston arrived. But talk in town that Red Henri was coming had enticed him to bug the small bar-restaurant-inn that served as the village’s main hangout. He’d no sooner gotten the bugs placed when two of Red Henri’s bodyguards showed up at the door, effectively sealing everyone inside for the duration of their leader’s visit.

  As an outsider, Nuri was immediately suspect. He was dressed in the loose white garb worn by nearly everyone else in the village. His stubble beard and swarthy skin made him look Arab, like about thirty percent of the population. But the population was so sparse that locals knew instantly who fit and who didn’t, and their glances toward Nuri gave him away to the two bodyguards.

  Nuri told them enthusiastically that he had been hired to help a scientific team looking for dinosaurs in the foothills nearby. It was the same story he’d told the café owner and everyone he’d met. The bodyguards — two boys barely fourteen — weren’t very impressed.

  “Sit there,” said the taller one, pointing to a small wooden chair near the side of the room. “Hand over your gun.”

  Nuri handed over his AK-47. Few men traveled without weapons here, and the rifle raised no extra suspicions from the bodyguards.

  The question for Nuri was whether to hand over either of his pistols. He finally decided that he would give up his Glock, and lifted his long shirt to reveal its holster.

  “Why do you have a pistol?” asked the tall bodyguard. “These monsters you dig up — they are dangerous?”

  Anywhere else in the world, the comment would have been meant as a joke. But the rebels were uneducated and largely naive about anything beyond their limited experience. They also tended not to joke with strangers.

  “Yes,” said Nuri, his voice grave. “Some men have been killed by them. The medicine is very strong.”

  “You should have the general protect you,” said the bodyguard, meaning Red Henri.

  “It would be a great honor.” Nuri bowed his head. All he could do was hope that the young man would forget the suggestion.

  Red Henri had gotten his nickname as a young man, when his hair was red. It had since thinned and turned gray, but for many of his victims the adjective remained an appropriate reference to the blood on his hands. Like many of the rebel leaders, he called himself a general, but the highest rank he had held in the Sudanese army was corporal.

  After the sun set, Nuri thought the visit would be canceled and they would be let free. But darkness had no effect on Red Henri’s itinerary. They all continued to wait, bored and barely awake.

  Finally, about twenty minutes after midnight, an ambulance siren sounded in the distance. The guards immediately snapped to attention, prompting everyone in the place to rise and stand. The proprietor, a short man with caved-in cheeks and a right ear that looked as if it had been bitten off, rubbed his hands nervously by the door.

  The siren grew louder. A blue flashing light stroked the darkness outside. The guttural roar of mufflerless trucks and a heavy bass beat vibrated the walls and floor of the house. Nuri couldn’t place the beat until the motorcade pulled up in front. It was the bass line of an American rap song, an obscure Beastie Boys tune more than two decades old.

  Red Henri traveled with the core of his army, about two hundred strong, most of them packed into the backs of old pickup trucks. They spread out around the town, posting themselves as lookouts and rousting any of the residents who had fallen asleep after the arrival of the advance party.

  All twenty-three of his personal bodyguards — he considered the number, which could only divided by itself and one, a strong omen of success — jumped from the troop truck
that rode in front of his Chinese-made Hummer knockoff. They formed a phalanx around their general, who waited for his aides riding in the ambulance at the head of the convoy. As his communication czar approached — that was the man’s title — Red Henri pointed at him. The communications czar shook his head and held up his BlackBerry. Red Henri frowned; he liked getting messages on the device, though he never answered them.

  Entourage assembled, the rebel leader swept toward the house. The men inside, who’d been standing at attention the entire time, strained to stand even straighter as his first soldiers came in.

  The rebel army’s dress was a collection of different castoffs. Some wore uniforms purchased from Kenya, a sometime ally. Others wore civilian clothes donated by charity groups in Europe and the U.S. who thought they were helping the needy. The handful of former Sudanese soldiers wore the uniforms they had deserted in.

  All of Red Henri’s bodyguards dressed in baggy khaki pants and white T-shirts, with red scarves tied around their closely shaven skulls. To a Western eye — an American one especially — they looked more like television or movie “gangstas” or wannabe gang members from a decade before. This was not a coincidence. Red Henri had been inspired by music videos when he established the uniform; he loved American rap, gangsta and otherwise.

  At six-ten, Red Henri dominated a room, even a crowded one like the one Nuri was trapped in. The rebel extended his arms as he swept in, greeting everyone as if he was joining a party in progress. The owner of the house cowered at the side, then tried to kiss his hand as he came near. Amused, Red Henri waved him off, asking for something to drink.

  Nuri had never seen Red Henri this close before, and while he wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible, he couldn’t stop himself from staring as he made mental notes. Red Henri’s face was baby smooth, unmarked by either care or disease. He’d been shot many times over the decade that he had fought, but none of those wounds were visible beneath the white track suit he wore. He had the air of a politician, and the self-assurance a phalanx of bodyguards brings.

  The rebel man who had spoken to Nuri earlier about dinosaurs walked over to one of Red Henri’s aides. Within moments Red Henri had heard the story and came over to greet him personally.

  “You are a scientist!” he said with enthusiasm. He spoke first his tribal tongue, then switched to English.

  “Yes, Your Excellency.”

  “You can help me.”

  “I’m just a poor man—”

  “You will still help us!” Red Henri slapped him on the shoulder happily. “I am glad you are with us.”

  “I will do what I can, Your Excellency.”

  “These spirits you are digging up. They are not angry at being disturbed?”

  “They have to be handled very delicately,” said Nuri. “It is not easy — it can be very dangerous.”

  “Then you are a brave man.”

  Red Henri slapped him on the shoulder one more time and walked away. Relieved, Nuri began thinking of what he would eat when got back to camp.

  He had settled on salted goat kabobs when the ambulance siren sounded outside, calling the general’s entourage back to order. The two members of the advance team nodded at the owner, who fell into a chair from relief as they left. The trucks rumbled to life and the hard beat of rap once more began pounding the ground.

  “I wonder if I could have some tea before leaving,” Nuri asked the host. “I have a long drive.”

  The man pointed to a warm kettle on the nearby counter. Nuri went to help himself when one of the rebels came back inside.

  “You, there, come,” he said in Arabic, pointing at Nuri.

  “What?”

  “The general wants to see your bones. Come. You’ll show us your camp.”

  “I don’t think—”

  The aide grabbed hold of Nuri’s arm and pushed him toward the door.

  “That was not a request. You ride with the general and do as he says.”

  “I have a motorcycle,” said Nuri. “I’ll follow.”

  “The motorcycle in front?” The man smiled. “It will make a fine addition to the cause. It was very generous of you to donate it.”

  10

  Approaching base camp Alpha, Sudan

  After their adventure with the Sudanese army, neither Danny nor Boston had any trouble staying awake.

  Danny stayed in the front seat opposite the driver, scouting forward and brooding on what other difficulties might lie ahead. He also told the Voice to warn him of any vehicles ahead, something he realized he should have done earlier.

  The computer dutifully informed him that the coverage here was periodic, provided by an orbiting spy satellite rather than a Global Hawk or a geosynchronous satellite specifically assigned to the area.

  “Keep an eye on things anyway,” Danny said.

  “Slang recognized,” said the Voice. “Will do.”

  “How are we doing?” Danny asked the driver after they’d been back on the road for another hour and a half. They still had another three hours to go.

  “Oh, very good, very good,” said Abul. “Very good time.”

  “You come from this area?”

  “Oh, no. In the north,” said Abul. “I drive here for the money.”

  “Is this a rebel area, or an army area?”

  Abul shrugged. “More rebel than army,” he said.

  The area belonged to whoever happened to be there at the time. It was a mistake to think of the rebels as one united group — there were several, and most didn’t like each other. But it was hard for strangers to understand that.

  “The rebels ever bother you?”

  “They bother only the army,” said Abul, fudging.

  “We shake you up back there?”

  Abul didn’t understand, but thought the question required a no, and gave one.

  “We heard that it wasn’t safe to go around without weapons,” said Danny. “So we were prepared.”

  “I know that you are not scientists,” said Abul abruptly. “I am not a fool.”

  “What else do you know?”

  “I know to keep my mouth quiet.”

  “That’s good,” said Danny. “There’ll be a bonus for the trouble. And the damage to your vehicle.”

  The offer to pay for the crumpled fender brightened Abul’s mood considerably. The additional money would make it possible to buy a second vehicle, and maybe even a third. In the Sudan, that would make him a very rich man.

  It also meant he could operate the buses in the north, where things were much more stable.

  Neither Abul nor the two Americans spoke for more than two and a half hours, until Boston spotted the burned-out armored car that marked the road up to the hills where they’d made camp. It was an old British AEC armored car, manufactured at the very end of World War II. It had passed through a number of owners, including Yugoslavia and Kenya, before finding its place in the Sudanese defense force. A Russian-made RPG — not quite as old, though itself fairly venerable — had ended its career a few months before.

  “There’s the turn,” said Boston. “Look at that old soldier, Colonel. Older than our grandfathers.”

  Abul slowed down. Boston put his hands against the window of the bus, watching the sweep of the headlights. He’d chosen the site because it would be easy to defend.

  “We oughta give Nuri a call,” Boston told Danny. “So he doesn’t blast us on the way up.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Boston took out his satellite phone to call Nuri. Only Danny and Nuri were hooked into the MY-PID. Danny actually could have made the call himself on the MY-PID channel, but in truth he simply didn’t consider it. He still wasn’t comfortable with the system, still wasn’t thinking about it as a tool that could help him rather than a computer that could foul him up.

  “I ain’t getting an answer,” said Boston.

  Now Danny did use the Voice. He went to the back of the bus so Abul couldn’t hear or see him. “Where is Nuri?” he asked.
>
  The Voice gave him a set of GPS coordinates.

  “Where is that in relation to me?”

  “Fifty-two-point-three miles west. He is moving. Speed indicates a land vehicle.”

  “What’s his direction?”

  “Due north.”

  “Not toward Base Camp Alpha.”

  “Negative at the present time.”

  Danny stared through the bullet holes. His solution had been the worst of both worlds — he’d pissed off the Sudanese, but hadn’t eliminated them as a threat.

  A bad move. He was out of practice. Maybe fatally so.

  Abul took the turn and drove up into the small camp, which consisted of three small personal tents — glorified pup tents, big enough for someone to sleep in and little else — arranged around an old stone cottage. The building had been used many years before by a shepherd who’d looked after a herd of goats. It had been empty for nearly fifty years; the roof had been gone for nearly that long.

  “You can pull the bus up a little further,” Danny told the driver. “Which tent is yours?”

  “I sleep in the bus.”

  “Fine. We’ll make something to eat.”

  Boston took a quick tour of the perimeter, making sure they were alone. Nuri had posted sensors all around, but Boston didn’t trust them.

  Danny took one of the battery lanterns and checked out the building. About a third of the stone partition between its two rooms had tumbled down. Nuri had set up some camp chairs in the front room, along with a small table. A hand of solitaire was laid out on the table, the deck skewed as if the player had tossed it down in disgust.

  Most of their gear was still en route and would be dropped via parachute the following night. They had a camp stove, cooking utensils, extra clothes, a tool kit. A backup radio, two GPS units, a pair of AK-47s and spare ammunition were in a small trunk at the side of the back room. Digging gear — picks and shovels, sticks, strings, the finer trowels and tools of the paleontology trade — sat near the front door. There was a dirt bike; Nuri had taken the other one to scout.

  Danny looked at the roof. A tarp could easily cover it. But there wasn’t much chance of rain at this time of year, and with luck they wouldn’t be there long enough for it to matter.