On Target

“Do you really work for the Russians?”

“I did once, but that didn’t work out.”

“Because of me?”

“Yep.”

“But . . . you are American. Are you CIA?”

“Negative.”

“Then what?”

“I’m currently unemployed.”

“Right.” She didn’t believe him. “So all this isn’t business? It’s just pleasure?”

“More fun than a barrel of Janjaweed,” said Court as he swigged from the canteen he took from one of the men he killed.

“I’m serious, Six. I have every intention of writing a report on what happened back there.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I don’t care.”

“You aren’t afraid of the ICC?”

He laughed cruelly. “Terrified, but I’ll get over it.”

“You are a dangerous man who must be stopped.”

He did not slow his mount, but he pulled the reins to the left so that he could make eye contact with the woman. “But I’m not so dangerous that you won’t accept my help. And I’m not so dangerous that you aren’t afraid to be alone with me in the desert while I’m carrying two firearms, and I’m not so dangerous that you aren’t afraid to tell me that you are going to do all you can to have me thrown in prison. What does that tell you, Walsh? It should tell you that you see me as more savior than demon.”

She thought about it a moment. “The justice I want to administer to you is not the same as what you administered to those people back there. I respect the rule of law.”

“Well, you didn’t respect it enough to get all those bastards to stop bashing heads and sit down at a little makeshift courtroom in the dirt to be judged properly. Respect the rule of law all you want, but out here, the rule of law is not going to save your ass like this rusty AK and a fistful of dirty bullets will.”

“I’m not a fool, I—”

“That’s exactly what you are! All of you international law people are fools. Naive, foolish sheep who think the way to get the government of Sudan to put down their weapons and stop a genocide is to draft indictments in the Netherlands and send do-gooding lawyers down here to wander the desert and write fucking reports. You can feel good all you want, but you won’t change a goddamned thing.”

She had locked onto something he said. “And what you’re here to do, it will change things?”

Court wanted to keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t. “You’re damn right, it will.”

“So you smuggle in weapons with the Russians and shoot the wounded. Is that all part of your plan to make the world a better place?”

“No, it’s not. All this is just a distraction.”

“Then what is your mission?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are just another obstacle in my way.”

“Maybe we can work together.”

“Surely I don’t look that stupid, do I?” Court said. “Until we get to Dirra, we are on the same side. After that, you go your way, I’ll go mine, and we’ll just leave it at that.” There was a finality in his comment that Walsh recognized, and she left him alone.

They covered three hours more of hard ground with no words between them.

Just after five in the afternoon, Gentry looked back over his shoulder to check on the woman. She was sunburned and exhausted but still upright on her mount. He pulled his horse to a stop, slid off the side, and untied a bladder from the saddle. He gave the gray Arabian warm water, which the animal drank eagerly. After thirty seconds he repeated the process with Ellen’s horse. As he did this, Ellen looked around, as if she’d been sleeping upright and was only now recognizing her surroundings.

After a moment Court looked up to her, noticed an odd look on her face.

“What the hell is that?” she asked, her voice more curiosity than worry.

Gentry followed her gaze into the distance, back the way they had come.

“A haboob,” Gentry replied gravely. “A dust storm.”

Ellen stared in awe at the sight. It was as if a huge mountain had risen out of the flat ground they had just crossed. And the mountain grew and moved towards them.

“That looks bad.”

“It’s not good.” Court replied.

“Is it going to catch us?”

Court hurriedly retied the three-fourths-empty bladder on the back of his horse’s saddle. Then he lifted a foot back into the stirrup and climbed back up. “Get off your horse. Get on with me. Hurry!”

“No,” she said. But then asked, “Why?”

“We’ll get separated if we’re on two horses, and we cannot afford to get separated out here. Climb on with me, now!”

Ellen hesitated but soon slid off her chestnut mare, grabbed the water bladder off its back, and went to Court. He pulled her up behind him, and she held her arms tight around his waist. He handed back one of the brown turbans he had taken from a dead Janjaweed horseman. “Cover your face,” he said. “Even your eyes.”

“What about you? How will you see?”

Court threw a similar wrap over his own face. “I won’t see. I’ll try to keep us going in the right direction. But the most important thing is we stay on the horse. There is nowhere out here to hunker down and wait this out. We just have to barrel right on through it.”

Ideally Gentry would have dismounted and waited out the storm, but commonsense action was a luxury he could ill afford. He’d seen haboobs in Iraq that lasted three days, knew every minute they were out here in the badlands was another minute the NSS had to send more men out to hunt them. The last thing he wanted was to have his horse blindly stumble down a gulley or wander smack into a camp of Janjaweed fighters, but attempting to continue on, to run these risks, seemed preferable to just hanging out in the open with little water and no protection.

A cooler breeze hit them a minute later, and the sand and dust were on them shortly after that. Suddenly it went from daylight to night; the sun’s rays were blotted out above them in an instant, and then they were surrounded, enveloped. A sense of claustrophobia overtook Ellen, but all she could do was tuck her face tighter into the turban and then press her face into the sweaty T-shirt of the man in front of her. The man who had kept her alive but who considered himself the arbiter of the life of others.

Court held his watch up to his eyes, under the head wrap like a little tent. He could barely see, and hot grit dusted his corneas in seconds. The GPS function on the watch still seemed to be screwed up, but at least the compass worked. He headed east-northeast. Dirra was in this direction, but he had no idea how fast they were going in the haboob, so his main worry was passing right by the town in the dust or even in night. Surely there would be lights from the village, even if electrical power was virtually nonexistent, but there were low hills and sagging dry streambeds and wall-like rock formations that could easily obscure any distant light source, even if the dust storm did die down.

Court could feel dehydration affecting his performance. He felt dizzy, tired, even a little drunk. He needed to take in some more liquid quickly. Though he could not see an inch in front of his face, he pulled the canteen off the horse’s saddle, opened it, and held it to his mouth. The grit and dirt and sand in the air and on his mouth immediately mixed with the hot, rank water, creating a mouthful of soupy mud. He gulped it down nonetheless, understanding how important hydration was for him right now, even if he didn’t enjoy sucking down this hot sludge.