“It’s not us I’m worried about. Whiplash out.”
Boston looked up at Sugar.
“Hey,” he shouted, “remember that idea you had for a diversion that I said we weren’t desperate enough for?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, we’re desperate enough now.”
Sugar’s idea was to start a fake firefight, drawing the Ethiopian army away. She’d wanted to move south about a mile to do it, but there wasn’t time for that; they’d have to launch it much closer to their own position, here on the north side of the crossing.
Boston had another idea to make sure they got the Ethiopians’ attention.
“You’re going to set my bus on fire!?!” exclaimed Abul as Boston opened one of the spare gas cans and prepared to douse the interior. They’d already off-loaded their supplies and McGowan’s body.
“We’ll pay double for it,” said Boston.
“Already you are paying ten times what I was promised,” said Abul. “Double is less.”
“Ten times, whatever.” Boston began spilling the liquid liberally down the aisle. “Look at it — it’s all battered anyway. Bashed and whatnot. This will save you the trouble of having to fix it up. You want to be the one to light the match?”
Abul would sooner have thrown himself into the flames. He sat on the steps in the open doorway, dejected, mournful, his head buried in his arms as Boston got it ready. After making sure the interior was as flammable as possible, he rigged three Molotov cocktails next to the driver’s seat — bottles half filled with gasoline that he could ignite to turn the bus into an inferno. With everything set, he leaned over Abul and shouted up to Sugar, who was still watching the border from the roof.
“Sugar, what’s the story?”
“Troops are in formation,” she yelled from above. “The drivers are getting in the trucks.”
“All right, get off!” shouted Boston. “I’ll be back!”
“You better be.”
Boston turned the key. The engine cranked but didn’t catch.
He tried again. Nothing.
“Abul! How the hell do you start this crate?”
Abul looked up from the steps. “Pump gas pedal twice,” he told Boston. “Praise Allah, then pump while you turn the engine.”
Boston followed the directions, pumping, cranking, and praying. The engine caught.
“Get off the steps. Stay here with Sugar!” he yelled.
Abul hesitated, then did a half roll forward, staggering off the vehicle.
The fumes made Boston feel a little high as the bus rumbled out of the little crevice where they’d parked. He headed for the road, at first aiming directly for the refugee camp and the fenced border crossing beyond.
Boston took a deep breath as the crossing came into view. He could see the refugee camp to his right. Beyond it to his left were the trucks and the Ethiopian soldiers. They were starting to move.
He began beeping the horn, then turned the bus off the road. The ground was soft, and the battered vehicle wobbled but stayed upright, picking up speed as it started toward the fence.
Boston reached down and slipped a big rock he had taken with him onto the gas pedal, keeping his speed up. Then he took a smoke grenade from his vest pocket, pulled the pin, and dropped it into the makeshift sling he’d set on the mirror. A plume of smoke began trailing from the bus, whipped around by the wind so the bus almost completely disappeared.
The last thing he needed was his lighter, which he’d slipped into his upper vest pocket. But as he fished for it, the bus jerked sharply, and he nearly lost control before he could get both hands back on the wheel. He was moving faster than he’d planned — nearly eighty kilometers, according to the speedometer. The terrain, though it had looked fairly smooth from the distance, was pockmarked with holes and studded with rocks. Dirt and pebbles flew everywhere, a minitornado consuming the vehicle as it sprinted toward the fence.
He’d planned on jumping about fifty yards from the fence, as soon as he was sure he had enough momentum for the bus to get through the fence and maybe jump the ditch. But the swirling dust and the smoke from the grenade, as well as the bus’s speed, made it difficult for him to judge his distance. By the time he grabbed the lighter, he was only thirty yards from the fence. He let go of the wheel, and the bus careened to the right. He pulled back, then flicked his lighter. The jerking bus made it difficult to ignite the wadded fabric in the bottles. He cursed, pulled his hand down — then felt the crush of glass and metal spraying on his back as the bus hit the outer fence.
By now it was going over a hundred kilometers an hour. It sailed right over the tank ditch and pummeled over a second, shorter fence partly hidden in the dirt. Boston flew against the metal rail, then back against the dashboard, as the bus plunged onward. He looked at his hand and realized he’d lost the lighter.
Then he looked up and saw that the rag in one of the bottles was burning.
With a shout, he threw himself down the steps and out of the bus as it careened through the second fence. He landed in a tumble, arms crossed in front of his face, temporarily blinded by the smoke and dust.
The Molotov cocktail exploded, setting off not just the other two, but the fumes that had gathered in the rear of the vehicle. The bus turned into a flaming mass of red, an arrow shooting across the empty plain.
Boston pushed himself on all fours for five or six yards, swimming more than crawling, flailing forward through a tangle of smoke and dust. Finally he hit a clear patch and realized he was going the wrong way. He jerked himself to his feet and began running as quickly as he could back toward the others.
The Ethiopian soldiers had watched the spectacle with disbelief. As the bus finally ground to a halt and began exploding, one of the officers directed a squad to investigate. A fireball shot up; he sent a full company, then ordered the rest of the troops to take up a defensive position as he consulted headquarters.
Up on the hill, Sugar held her breath until she saw a second spray of smoke erupting near the damaged border fence. She realized that had to be Boston, letting off another smoke grenade; he was OK. Sure enough, he emerged a few moments later, sprinting in a wide arc back toward their position.
She went back over to the laptop, which was displaying the image from their last airborne UAV. The Ethiopian soldiers were responding to the bus exactly as they had hoped, moving away from the refugees.
She also saw something they hadn’t counted on — a motorcycle followed by four pickup trucks filled with men, coming toward them from Sudan.
The mercenaries had followed them from a distance the whole way, and hadn’t given up hope for revenge.
58
Landing the MC-17 at Dire Dawa was easy enough. The airport was used primarily as a military base, but Ye Ityopya Ayer Hayl — the Ethiopian Air Force — had only a token presence, with most of its very small force of combat aircraft stationed at the capital. The local squadron consisted of four MiG-23 fighter-bombers dating from the 1960s. None of the planes had been flown in the past six months, due to a shortage of pilots and spare parts. Aside from the MiGs, there were two Hueys in good condition, along with an Antov AN-12 transport.
The controller directed Captain Frederick to park near the MiGs. This was at the far end of the complex, isolated from the main buildings; it suited them just fine.
Greasy Hands was waiting with the loadmaster as the pilot brought the aircraft to a halt. The Ospreys were loaded onto a skidlike trolley, which could be operated by a single man. It took less than three minutes for the first aircraft to be pushed out of the bay onto the tarmac.
Setting up the Ospreys took a little more time. Much of the process was automated on the newest attack version of the aircraft — including the unfolding of the wings — but Greasy Hands still had to personally oversee the
