Sand and Fire (9780698137844) (25 page)

She and Ongondo raced from the tent. The Tuaregs stayed put, the man shielding his boy with his arms.

Outside she found a melee. Young men ran between the tents, armed with whatever they could find to throw. Some carried rocks
and water bottles. One yanked at a tent stake, perhaps to use it as a spike.

“Stop!” Gold yelled. Then she shouted in Arabic for him to leave the stake alone. Unaccountably, he obeyed and ran on.

African Union soldiers sprinted toward what seemed the nucleus of the fight, a knot of men and boys at one end of a row of tents. Inside a circle of bystanders, fists and elbows flew.

“Hold your fire,” Ongondo barked to his men.

A good call, Gold thought. So far this looked like only a fistfight, but it could turn into a full-blown riot in an instant. If the AU troops resorted to deadly force, a bloodbath might result. This could get ugly if not defused quickly, Gold knew. Along with the troops, she waded into the scuffle, grabbed a boy by his right arm just as he cocked back to throw a punch.

The boy whirled and flung his other fist. Gold tried to block it but the blow caught the side of her head. The whack disoriented her for a second, and silver dots swam into her vision. The kid looked about fifteen, and he swung almost as strongly as a man. Gold grabbed him by the left arm, too.

Apparently the boy had thrown the punch blindly. He looked confused when he saw a blond woman had hold of him. He let Gold pull him away from the scuffle.

“Khalass,”
she said. That's enough.

He started to jerk away, but he stopped struggling when he saw the AU troops breaking up the fight. Most of the refugees offered little resistance, though one of them slammed the heel of his hand into a soldier's jaw. Bad move. The soldier responded with an elbow strike that bloodied the man's nose. Reddened mucus streamed from the refugee's nostrils.

Gold noticed no injuries worse than that. As the troops extracted men and boys from the fight, they found a teenage boy at the bottom of the pile. A Tuareg, evidently. His
cheche
lay on the ground, blue
fabric smeared with dirt and a few bloodstains. The teen had suffered a split lip; blood dribbled down his chin. One of his eyes appeared swollen. Two soldiers helped him to his feet, brushed sand from his shirt.

Thank God nobody pulled a knife, Gold thought. This could have become so much worse. Even without guns and knives, rioters could have stabbed with tent stakes, wrapped a tent rope around someone's neck, crushed a skull with a rock.

Ongondo moved among the refugees and soldiers, speaking in English, Arabic, and Tamahaq. He seemed to lecture some of the males who'd been fighting. He shook his finger at one boy, who folded his arms and lowered his eyes to the ground. The sight put Gold in mind of a school principal dressing down a student involved in a hallway fracas.

Ongondo turned to one of his soldiers and said, “Very good. I was so afraid someone would shoot unnecessarily.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Third World soldiers were not known for their fire discipline. Gold figured these served under better leadership than usual.

Gold turned her attention to the teenager rescued from the center of the fight. He shook grit from his
cheche
, wound the fabric around his head with a look of wounded pride.

“Let's take him inside,” Gold said. “I'll see if a nurse can look at his lip.”

Ongondo steered the boy into the tent where they'd interviewed the first two Tuaregs. Gold found a medic who said he came from Italy. Inside the tent, Gold pointed to the injured teen, and the medic pulled away the boy's face covering. The medic dabbed a damp washcloth at the teen's injured lip as the other two Tuaregs looked on. The white washcloth came away with red stains.

“He needs sutures,” the medic said, “but I have no anesthetic to deaden his lip. Not all of our supplies have arrived yet.”

The medic opened a tube of Brave Soldier. He took a cotton swab from a first-aid kit and squeezed some of the antiseptic ointment onto the cotton. “Tell him I will put medicine on his lip. It may sting.”

Ongondo spoke in Tamahaq. The teen cut his eyes toward the officer and nodded. The medic used his thumb and forefinger to pull the bloodied lip into an exaggerated pout, and he rubbed the swab over the gash.

“If you can take him into Illizi,” the medic said as he worked, “the clinic there should have lidocaine or something like it. They can sew his lip.”

The teen held still. When the medic released his lip, the boy covered his mouth with his hand, spat out blood.

The three Tuaregs began to talk among themselves.

“What are they saying?” Gold asked.

“The man wants to know how the boy got into a fight. The boy says other refugees accused him of helping terrorists.”

“Did he?”

Ongondo raised his index finger as he listened. He wore a look of intense concentration while he followed the chatter.

“The boy's uncle was a grain merchant,” Ongondo said. “The uncle has sold lentils and millet to—someone. To ‘foreigners,' I think they are saying. Foreigners up to no good, I suspect. The uncle has already been killed.”

“Did the Tuareg man and his son know this other boy before now?”

Ongondo translated the question, and the man answered with several words.

“They are distant cousins,” Ongondo said. “The man suspected the boy's uncle had some dangerous customers.”

Gold found her writing pad where she'd left it on the cot. From inside its spiral binding she withdrew a ballpoint pen and clicked the end of it. The effort made her think of thumbing the fire selector on
an M4; she could handle a rifle well enough, but she felt she'd always done her most important work with her mind and her pen. She jotted down the date and time, made notes on what she'd heard. Looked up from her pad and regarded the Tuaregs.

“We need to get them out of here,” she said.

B
lount woke in the early morning, before light. During the night, between periods of fitful sleep, he had worked at the bolt securing his right chain. Now he could twist the bolt all the way around, but he had not yet freed it completely. The bolt on his left remained loose, and Blount kept it inserted in the wall to fool his captors.

He guessed no one else had yet awakened. No sounds came from the next room. Ivan snored to Blount's left. To Blount's right, Fender lay curled on his side. Dim light from an oil lantern spilled through the doorway. The dirtbags tended to leave at least one lantern burning all night.

The predawn stillness reminded Blount of childhood mornings back home. When you harvested tobacco—primed tobacco, as the farmers called it—you started work early to avoid the iron-press heat of afternoon. You walked to the field as soon as you had light enough to see. In those quiet minutes before the tractor arrived, you could hear a drop of dew fall from the tip of a leaf. Sometimes you'd find a stray morning glory vine entwined around a tobacco stalk, pink and purple blooms spreading open to greet the dawn. Off in the distance, from down in the woods, you might hear the
ka-ka-ka-koo-koo-koo
of a rain crow.

A good memory for Blount's final moment of solitude.

He decided to act. Now.

The dirtbags would be groggy, their reaction times slow. With a
whole lot of luck, Blount might even kill
two
of them before they cut him down. He nudged Fender with the tip of his boot.

“Hey, bud,” he whispered. “Wake up.”

Fender groaned, rolled over. Opened his eyes, squinted at Blount.

“Time to go to work, Marine,” Blount hissed. “You understand?”

Fender stared at Blount for a moment. Then he nodded slowly, set his lips tight together.

“I'm gon' act sick and bring 'em in here. Just stay loose and ready. Follow my lead.”

“You got it, Gunny.”

Fender sat up. Blount turned to Ivan. The Russian's eyes were open.

“Nice knowing, you, bud,” Blount said. “You ready for what I told you about?”

Ivan gave a wry smile.

“Do svidaniya,”
he said.

Don't overthink this, Blount told himself. You can't really plan it; you can just rely on your training and muscle memory and what the Good Lord gave you.

Blount placed his left hand on his left chain, near the loose bolt in the wall down near the floor. Placed his right hand farther up on the same chain. Slid himself up against the wall for more slack in the chains. Kneeled on one knee, his right. Kept his left knee up with his foot flat on the floor. Adjusted his left heel so that it contacted the wall. Better leverage that way. Now he could pull the loose bolt out of the wall, spring upward, and use the freed left chain as a weapon. Only the right chain held him, and he could move within its full arc.

“Boys,” he whispered. “If either one of you gets out of this alive, tell my wife and kids I love 'em.” He wished he could have one more whiff of Bernadette's lavender-shampooed hair.

His eyes misted. His throat caught. He blinked hard, took in a full chest of air, shut down his emotions.

No longer a husband. No longer a father. No longer a son or a grandson. Gunnery Sergeant A. E. Blount, he told himself, nothing remains of you but weapon.

He coughed hard, hacked, spat. Shook his chains like a malevolent specter.

“Oh, God, I think I'm dying,” he shouted. “Somebody help me.”

Coughed again, snorted.

“He's having a convulsion,” Fender yelled. “Help!”

“I can't breathe,” Blount bellowed. Retched like someone vomiting.

Sounds of commotion came from the other side of the wall. Chains clanking.

“Help him,” one of the Americans shouted from the other room.

Rat Face came through the doorway. Oh, yes, Blount thought. He slowly slid the loose bolt and eyelet out of the wall. Coughed and wheezed. Shook his limbs as if suffering a seizure. Rat Face pointed an AK-47. When he saw Blount in apparent distress, he lowered the rifle and held it in his right hand. Blount bowed his head, opened his mouth, and retched. Rat Face stepped closer and raised his foot for a kick. He never delivered it.

Blount pushed off on his left boot, exploded upward. Unfolded himself quick as a switchblade. Circled the chain around Rat Face's throat and wrenched hard.

In that instant of speed and strength, Blount felt a sense of mastery. He would spend his last moments in action, at the height of his skills.

The steel links crushed the terrorist's windpipe. Blount pulled him close, glared into the bulging eyes. Heard the rattle of constricted breath.

“I ain't playing with you no more,” Blount hissed. Pushed with one fistful of links and yanked with the other, tightening the chain further. Popping and squishing noises came from under the chain.

Rat Face tried to bring up the AK. Feeble motion of a dying man.
He dropped the weapon; the AK clattered across the floor. Blount felt his prey go limp, and he unwrapped the chain. Rat Face collapsed at Blount's feet. The dirtbag lay on the floor with his mouth open as if he wanted to ask what lethal force had overtaken him so swiftly.

“What's happening?” an American shouted from the next room.

Blount did not answer. He dropped his knee, with all his weight behind it, onto Rat Face's chest. The ribs and breastbone made popping sounds like during hog killing in the fall when you open up a carcass.

“Yeah!” Fender shouted. He crouched with his back to the wall, waiting for orders from Blount.

Sure that Rat Face would never rise again, Blount stood and tried to reach the AK. Couldn't quite get to it.

Monkey Ears charged into the room, pistol in one hand. He stopped for half a second about two paces in front of Blount. Glanced down at Rat Face's body. With a look of horror, he brought up the pistol and fired.

The bullet slammed into the wall behind Blount. Peppered the back of his head with flying grit just as he flung the left chain like a whip.

Blount aimed for his enemy's gun hand. Instead the chain struck Monkey Ears in the face. It tore skin from the bridge of his nose, knocked him off balance. The terrorist tried to take aim. Blount lashed with the chain again.

Reflexively, Monkey Ears used both arms to shield himself from the slinging steel. He fired his pistol, but the bullet went into the ceiling. Monkey Ears stumbled, tried to point the handgun at Blount. The weapon's muzzle trembled.

At a heart rate above a hundred fifty beats per minute, Blount knew, most people lost fine motor skills. Fingers got in the way of one another. Perhaps the dirtbag's loss of motor skills gave Blount the half second he needed.

Blount weaved to his left to get off his enemy's centerline. At the same time, Blount's right hand came up and grabbed the pistol, fingers over the slide. The weapon fired, but Blount now controlled the muzzle. The slug flew wild. Blount ignored the pain as the slide cycled underneath his fingers, tearing skin. He squeezed down harder on the weapon.

“What's going on?” a voice called from the next room. “Who got shot?”

The chains weighed down Blount's wrists, slowed his movements. Dangled around his legs and interfered with his footwork. He'd have taken the pistol easily with unencumbered hands, but now he had to improvise.

Blount clutched his enemy's wrist with his left hand, kept his grip on the pistol with his right. Yanked with the left, shoved with the right. Wrested the weapon away from Monkey Ears. The break-and-take popped the terrorist's trigger finger; Blount heard the snap even though his ears rang from the pistol shots.

Monkey Ears shrieked and stumbled to the floor, his wrist still in the grip of Blount's left hand, pulling Blount off balance. Blount stumbled, lost his hold on the pistol, and dropped it. He kicked the weapon toward Fender, and Fender grabbed it. Monkey Ears shouted something in Arabic, no doubt calling for help. The terrorist wriggled within Blount's grip like a catfish caught on a trotline.

Urgent voices babbled from outside. Blount knew Kassam stationed at least two more guards somewhere. If they had to come in from outside, Blount might have three or four more seconds to work.

Fender fired. The bullet struck Monkey Ears in the middle of his torso. The terrorist fell onto his back, twitching.

“We got two of 'em,” Fender shouted to the other prisoners.

“Get ready for somebody to come through the doorway,” Blount said.

“Aye, aye, Gunny,” Fender said. He sat with his back against the
wall, pistol held in both shackled hands. He kept the muzzle trained toward the doorway, steadied by his elbows against his knees.

Blount had already lived longer than he expected. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he thought of the first general order:
Take charge of this post and all government property in view
.

Blount tried to get the AK-47 Rat Face had dropped. He lowered himself to the floor, slid to the limit of his right chain, strained to reach with his boot. The AK remained about a foot too far away.

“Ivan,” Blount said, “can you get to that weapon?”

The Russian groaned, crawled as far as his chains allowed. Reached out his arm. Needed six more inches to grab the stock.

The clatter of bootsteps came from the next room. “It's cool, man,” an American voice shouted. “I ain't got a gun. Be cool, be cool, be cool.”

Outstanding. The minds of the other guards would have to process those words, whether they understood English or not. Maybe buy another few seconds.

Blount changed his plan. Maybe he could free himself entirely.

He grasped his right chain with both hands. Stepped closer to where the bolt and eyelet remained cemented. Planted one foot against the wall, pushed off with all his strength. Twisted to his left to increase the power of his body weight in motion.

The masonry cracked but held. The links between Blount's fingers snapped tight and dug into his skin. He ignored the pain and set himself for another try.

A skilled martial artist, Blount used leverage and mechanical advantage instinctively. You didn't punch just with your forearm; you put your shoulder behind it to multiply the force. You didn't kick with only your foot; you brought up your knee and unloaded your hips to strike so much harder. Though Blount possessed the strength of a Hereford bull, he considered form more important.

This time he placed his back to the wall with the right chain over
his right shoulder. Braced one foot against the wall, grounded the other foot on the floor. Blount gritted his teeth and let out a deep growl. Burst forward like a sprinter leaving the starting block.

He bent at the waist and rotated his shoulder as the chain extended.

“They're coming your way, Gunny,” someone shouted from the next room.

The eyelet ripped from the wall. Blount crashed to the floor. The muscles of his upper body felt torn and strained as if racked. But he was free.

Blount scrambled to his feet, looked around for Rat Face's rifle. Where was it?

A terrorist came through the doorway, rifle in his hands. Fender fired and the man went down. Another guard rushed in with an AK. Pressed the trigger and started blasting.

In the close confines of the room, the automatic weapon roared like hell's gates thrown open. The rounds tore into the opposite wall. The air filled with bullets, bullet fragments, flying brass, chunks of masonry, and dust.

Blount dived to get low. He grabbed the ends of both chains, held them like two steel whips. One mind, any weapon.

For an instant Blount saw the look of confusion on the shooter's face. Perhaps in the dim light the dirtbag's brain had too much to analyze:
Who shot my buddy? What are the prisoners doing? Where did the big one go?

Blount whirled from the floor and sprang to a crouch. As he moved, he flung his right chain. The chain knocked the rifle from the dirtbag's hands. Blount flailed with the left chain and missed entirely.

“Shoot him!” Blount barked. Why wasn't Fender firing?

From the corner of his eye, Blount saw the young Marine pulling at the handgun's slide. Clearing a jam.

Blount let go of the chains, launched himself at the new enemy.
Grabbed the back of the man's head with his left hand. Cupped the enemy's chin with his right. Pulled with his left hand. Pushed with the other, almost like throwing a straight punch. Snapped the neck.

The life drained from the dirtbag's eyes, which froze into a look of incomprehension and fear. Blount let go of the dead man. The body slumped to the floor.

More pounding of boots from outside.

“Here comes another one, Gunny,” shouted a prisoner in the next room.

Another one?

Blount had confirmed only four. But it was hard to gather good intel when you were sick and chained up. He scanned for Rat Face's AK. There it was, in the corner.

His chains tangled, slowed his arms. Blount had converted his bonds to weapons, but now they fettered him again. Before he could grab the rifle, a fifth dirtbag charged in, firing.

The burst caught Ivan across the thighs. Blood from the leg wounds spattered the Russian's face and chest. He did not cry out, but he slumped against the wall and watched helplessly.

Fender finished clearing the jammed pistol. Chambered a round, pulled the trigger. The bullet struck the terrorist in the arm. The man flinched. His weapon's muzzle dropped, sent rounds blasting into the floor.

Arms burdened by tangled chains, a rifle two seconds away when he needed it now, Blount made an instant calculation: The weapon he could employ fastest was his feet.

He spun on his left heel, raised his right knee to load for a round kick. Only then did he register that his new opponent was almost as big as he was. Blazing eyes, bulging arms, black beard. One arm bleeding.

Blount snapped his hips, sent all his weight behind the kick. Aimed for the bundle of nerves that runs down the upper leg. Let his breath explode out with a
“Shssss!”
as he landed the blow. Struck with
the top portion of his combat boot, along the laces. Felt the solid impact of a well-thrown kick.