Danny and Boston had first met at Dreamland some fifteen years ago, when Boston replaced one of the original members of Whiplash who’d been killed during an operation. Though the sergeant had an impressive record, he also had what some of his superiors politely termed “issues with authority.” He’d seen action in the first Iraq war, where he served as a pararescuer. He’d also done time as a combat air controller and was “loaned” to the Marines under a special program that put combat veterans on the front lines with other services. But Boston had also nearly come to blows with at least two officers in the past three years, one of whom pressed but then dropped formal charges against him.
“A misunderstanding,” said the captain on the record. Off the record, the captain called Boston a hothead but said he’d also saved three men in combat the day after the incident, and so the captain decided to forget the matter out of gratitude.
Serving with Danny and Colonel Bastian had changed Boston’s perspective considerably. He still thought most officers were jerks. But he also knew that there was an important minority who weren’t. That knowledge had helped Boston advance after Whiplash was disbanded. He was now a chief master sergeant, a veritable
It hadn’t been easy wresting Boston away from his assignment, a cushy job as senior Air Force enlisted man in Germany. Not because he didn’t want to go — he started packing as soon as Danny gave him the outlines of what he was up to. Boston’s commanding officer, however, put a premium on his chiefs, especially those whose extensive combat experience made them instant father figures for the “kids” in the unit. Danny had to get General Magnus involved; fortunately, Magnus had been responsible for one of the CO’s early promotions, and eased Boston’s transfer as a personal favor.
After the briefest introduction possible to the new Whiplash concept, Boston had shipped out to the Sudan to scout out locations for a base. Danny remained in the States, recruiting more members and arranging for their gear.
“You’re going to love this bus,” said Boston. “Got a port-a-john and everything.”
“As long as it runs.”
“Walks more than runs. But it’ll get us there. When’s the rest of the team showing up?”
“Couple of days.”
“Nuri’s waiting for us. Interesting fellow.”
“Why’s that?” asked Danny.
“Just interesting. Knows a bunch of stuff. Pretty good cook.”
“Yeah?”
“You should taste what he does with goat and garlic.”
“Can’t wait,” said Danny.
“You’re also going to need this.”
Boston held out a pistol. It was a large Dessert Eagle, more than twenty years old.
“Got it in town,” he said. “Everything else I saw was just peashooters, 22s and revolvers, pretty useless to stop anyone. I figured it would do until we’re settled. No spare ammo, though.”
Danny took the weapon in his hand. The pistol had a heft to it that made it a clearly serious weapon. Chambered for.44 Magnum, it held eight rounds and could stop anything lighter than an elephant in its tracks.
He slid the gun under his belt, tucking it beneath his jacket.
The bus was an old French municipal bus, converted to private service. It came with a driver, Amid Abul, an Arab who had lived in Derudeb for ten years, occasionally hiring himself out to the CIA as a driver and local “consultant.” Nuri had hired him to provide transportation to their base in the hills to the south, and to help in whatever capacity seemed practical.
Nuri had dealt with Abul before, but even he didn’t fully trust him; it would have been foolish to do so. Though as the owner of a bus, he was relatively well off, the inhabitants of the war-torn country were so poor that most would gladly give up a relative to a sworn enemy for a year’s supply of food and water. Nuri had given Abul a cover story, telling him that his friends were paleontologists. Abul, who knew Nuri was CIA, was smart enough not to ask any questions.
Danny kept up pretenses by asking whether he had ever seen any bones in the sands nearby.
“Plenty of bones, Doctor,” answered Abul. “But all of men.”
The buildings and houses they passed were mostly black shapes barely discernible in the darkness of the night. They faded as the bus wound its way beyond the city, illusions conjured by a stage manager designed to convince an audience that Port Sudan was a real place.
The landscape, harsh and mostly barren during the day, looked surreal at night, the endless darkness punctuated by black stalks and hulking mounds, silhouettes of gray hills and mountains.
After about an hour and a half, Danny began to relax. There was almost no traffic on the road, though it was the only highway to the south from the coast. It was easy to believe they were the only people left on earth.
The area was warm, but not as warm as he’d thought it would be; the night became more pleasant as they left the moist air of the coast. The mountains and foothills of the eastern part of the country received much more rain than the desert to the west. While the fields and hillsides were hardly lush at this time of year, grass, shrubs, and trees grew in the thin but well-drained soil. Here and there farms made a stab at civilizing the land.
Danny felt his eyes start to close. He shifted often, shaking himself, trying to stay as alert as possible.
Boston had no trouble staying awake. He’d been drinking coffee practically nonstop since arriving in Africa, but it wasn’t the caffeine that made his muscles buzz. The idea of being back in action after so many years thrilled him.
As far as he was concerned, he’d spent the last few years as a mascot for the Air Force brass. He’d had plenty of responsibility, but responsibility and action were two different things. His job really didn’t call for him to
It had been years since he’d really
All of this might have been a tribute to his organizational and leadership skills — or maybe just colossal good luck — but in truth Boston was not comfortable with the role that had settled on him: that of father figure. He had always looked up to the chief master sergeants he’d known; even in the few cases where he didn’t respect the men, he always admired the rank. But becoming chief made him feel not so much honored and respected as simply old. He didn’t mind the kids at all, and having people jump when you said boo was easy to get used to. But there was also a kind of distance between him and the others that made him uncomfortable. He felt as if he was always on stage, a plastic role model who could not deviate from what preconceived notion the audience had. Inside, he knew he was just good old Ben “Boston” Rockland, tough kid from the streets, snake eater ready for action…not the rocking chair.
Being with Colonel Freah — several times he’d come close to calling him captain, as he’d been in the old days — made him a snake eater again. Just being called Boston felt good.
Not that Danny hadn’t changed. There was a hint of gray in the hair that curled at his temples. He’d also mellowed, slightly at least, over the years. Danny had always run him particularly hard, trying to prove that just because they were both black, he wasn’t cutting him any slack. Now they were more like old friends.
The bus’s headlamps caught a black shadow in the road as they came out of a sharp curve. There was a truck in the road.
“Shit,” muttered Boston.
Danny, who’d been dozing, jerked awake.
“Can you get around it?” Boston asked the driver.
“I don’t know,” said Abul, downshifting. He left his right foot hovering over the gas and used his left foot to slow and work the clutch.
“Somebody behind us, too,” said Boston. “This ain’t no coincidence.”
The truck’s lights came on ahead of them. It was a military vehicle. Two men with berets stepped in front of the lights, arms raised to stop them. They had M-16 rifles.
