Ejecta (6 page)

The comment lacked sensitivity, given Devlin’s presence, which earned Charles a dirty look from Yano. But if the technician felt any sense of remorse there was no sign of it. And based on the fact that the pathologist allowed the comment to stand Devlin got the impression that it was probably true. “What are you referring to?” Devlin wanted to know, as she peered down into the hole. The odor that wafted up into the parasitologist’s nostrils was similar to raw lamb.

“There,” Yano said, using the eighteen-inch long “bread knife” as a pointer. “See those white things? The ones that look like ligaments? They shouldn’t be there.”

Now Devlin could see that half a dozen white tendrils had wrapped themselves around McCracken’s spine, and based on the way things appeared, had tapped into it. Looking at the structures the scientist was immediately reminded of a microscopic parasite called
Sacculina
, which having found its way into a crab, creates a distinctive bulge as it grows and sprouts a network of horrible roots. “That’s it!” Devlin exclaimed excitedly. “That’s what Mac wanted us to find! Don’t you see? He knew, damn it, he
knew!
”

Though not entirely sure what the parasitologist was getting at, Yano was intrigued, and immediately went to work teasing the root-like structures away from the professor’s spinal cord. Then, after that part of the process was complete, it was time to flip the body over. Once again it was the normally taciturn diener who was critical of the medical examiner’s work. “How in the hell did the pin heads down at the county miss
that?
” the technician wanted to know.

“That,” as the diener put it, was a prominent swelling located just below the base of McCracken’s neck. It occupied an area approximately eight-inches across—and extended five-inches down along the professor’s spine. The result was a bulging hunch-like formation centered slightly above the academic’s shoulder blades.

“Damn,” Yano said feelingly. “Charles is right…. How
did
they miss that?”

“It’s my guess that they failed to spot the root-like formation—and therefore never turned him over,” Devlin put in coldly. “Hand me that scalpel…. Let’s see what we have here.”

The diener looked at Yano and the pathologist shrugged. “We’re in unknown territory here Charles…. Give the doctor a scalpel.”

The technician obeyed, and with Yano’s assistance, Devlin went to work. The first task was to make a deep U-shaped incision that began high on the left side of McCracken’s back, and proceed down under the lowest part of the swollen area, and back up the other side. With that accomplished it was possible for the parasitologist to free the flap of skin and subcutaneous tissue from the underlying structures and pull it up towards the professor’s neck. The ensuing dissection occupied the better part of five minutes. Once the process was complete, the “thing,” as Devlin thought of it was laid bare.

The parasite, if that’s what it was, consisted of a purplish nodule, which might have been the equivalent of a brain, surrounded by what looked like a couple of pounds of raw meat. It was shot through with white tendrils similar, if not identical, to those that Yano had separated from McCracken’s spine.

“Now that’s just plain
ugly
,” Charles put in disgustedly. “What is it anyway?”

“I’m not sure,” Devlin replied cautiously. “But I’ll tell you this much…. Mac blew his brains out rather than let it live.”

“Holy shit,” Yano exclaimed softly. “You really think so?”

“Yes, I do,” Devlin replied soberly. “So, let’s cut whatever it is out of there, and send it off to be tested. And let’s be real careful about how we do it.”

“Because?” Charles inquired.

“Because if this is some sort of parasite, we don’t know how it spreads.”

“Uh, oh,” Yano said incredulously. “Look at that!”

Devlin looked, saw that the matrix of meat had begun to pulsate, and knew that Mac’s act of self-sacrifice had been in vain. The parasite was alive.

Near Mongo, Chad

After remaining on the ground for half an hour, Police Chief Bahir Jann re-entered the twin-engined helicopter, and was soon borne away into the cold Saharan night. Still hidden well beyond earshot Palmer, Guiscard, and their Tuareg tracker had no way to know what had been discussed as the policeman and bandits sat around the campfire. Nor did they care, since their mission was to steal the Mog, and collect both the Volvo and the meteorite on their way out of the area.

But first it was necessary to wait for most of the bandits to enter their tents and go to sleep. Guiscard wanted to enter the encampment quickly, within an hour of Jann’s departure, but Palmer had other ideas. The ex-marine had learned any number of things during two tours in Afghanistan—one of which was the importance of patience.

He knew the most difficult challenge for any sentry comes during the early morning hours when everyone else is asleep and the threat level is perceived to be low. That’s when it’s easy to relax, or even go so far as to catch some surreptitious shut-eye, especially if discipline is lax. So Palmer forced the others to endure three long, cold hours on the ground, before finally leading them forward.

There were only two sentries. A clear indication of how secure the bandits felt. Still, it would only take
one
sentry to give the alarm, so it was critical to silence them both. The plan called for Palmer and Guiscard to neutralize the man at the east end of the encampment, while Damya slipped past them, and went after the sentry off to the west.

The first part of the plan went off without a hitch. It seemed the eastern sentry liked to smoke, which meant it was not only possible to see the glow of his cigarette each time he took a drag, but to hear his persistent coughing fits as well. So it was relatively easy to slip up behind the bandit, snatch his headdress off, and hit him over the head with a rifle butt. Something Palmer did without hesitation, knowing that the sentry and his companions were responsible for at least two deaths, and probably more. There was a soft thud
as the Tuareg went down.

Guiscard felt for a pulse, found one, and fumbled for the gag that was looped under his belt. Hopefully that, plus some lengths of pre-cut cord, would prevent the sentry from giving an alarm until it no longer mattered.

Meanwhile, having passed the first sentry, Damya was halfway through the encampment when a bandit lurched out of a tent. The man was on his way to relieve himself, or that’s what the tracker assumed, as the brigand aimed a torch at him. “Who
are
you?” The flashlight hit the ground as Damya jerked the other man in close and pushed the Tuareg dagger up under his ribs. The long, sharp blade found its target, and there was a soft sigh as the bandit went limp.

Damya lowered the body to the ground, hurried to turn the flashlight off, and took a moment to wipe his blade clean before returning the weapon to its sheath. Then, confident that the incident had gone unobserved, the Tuareg continued on his way.

The
second
sentry, the one posted at the west end of the camp, was doing a good job. Partly because he took the task seriously, but also because he was bandit chieftain Naravas’ third son, and eager to establish himself as a full grown man. But his attention was directed
outward,
which meant that when he heard gravel crunch behind him, he assumed one of his father’s men was coming to check on him.

So the youngster was just starting to turn when a rock slammed into the side of his head and he collapsed. Damya caught the AK-47 before it could hit the ground and prevented what would have been a loud clatter. Having laid the assault rifle across its owner’s body he hurried to gag the boy and tie him up.

With that accomplished it was time for the Tuareg to begin his primary mission. Which was to disable one of the 4 X 4’s by slashing its tires. But rather that shove his dagger in through the tread, which would create a puncture which could be repaired with a tire plug or some aerosol sealant, Damya was going to rip holes in the more vulnerable sidewalls. That would make any sort of fix impossible.

So the tracker wove his way between the tents, knelt next to a Toyota Land Cruiser, and drew his dagger. Working primarily by feel, with only occasional blips of light from a hand torch to help him, Damya slashed all four of the vehicle’s knobby tires. The air made a gentle hissing noise as it leaked out and the Toyota settled onto its rims.

Then, confident that his objective had been accomplished Damya made his way over to the Mog, where Guiscard was behind the wheel and Palmer was up on the truck bed standing next to the crane. The Tuareg knew how dangerous such moments could be, and having aimed his torch up under his chin, turned the flashlight on and off.

Having seen Damya’s face the American raised the rifle so that the barrel was pointing at the sky. Five seconds later the scout was aboard with an AK-47 at the ready.

Palmer slapped the roof of the cab, Guiscard turned the key, and the roar of the big diesel shattered the desert silence. Loose gravel spewed out from under the rear tires and pummeled the nearest tent, as the engineer put his foot into it, and sent the Mercedes lurching forward.

Bandit leader Basel Naravas was one of the first people to exit his tent, realize what was taking place, and empty his Turkish made Yavuz 16 pistol after the fleeing truck. The unexpected engine noise, plus the persistent blam, blam, blam of the nine millimeter, brought the rest of the men out, and muzzle flashes stabbed the darkness as they opened fire too.

But the Mog was gone by then sending everyone running to the other vehicles only to discover that both of them had been disabled. Someone shouted, “Abdul is dead!” That served to remind Naravas that his twelve-year-old son had been on sentry duty. Seconds later he was there, kneeling next to the body, feeling for a pulse. There was none. No one who heard it would soon forget the wail of anguish that issued from the bandit’s lips.

But Naravas knew his grief would have to wait if he was to catch up with the murderers. And catch up he would. Because while the thieves had been clever,
very
clever, they had overlooked one very important fact: Both of the bandit chieftain’s vehicles were Land Cruisers of about the same age. And they were equipped with
two
spare tires each. All of which were stored on the sort of roof racks common to off-road vehicles in north Africa. That meant one of the Toyotas could be made road worthy within twenty-minutes. Lights came on, a variety of jacks appeared, and work began.

***

Guiscard felt a brief moment of exultation as the Mog cleared the encampment and lurched over a half-buried rock before surging forward. The headlights swung wildly in response to the way he was turning the wheel back and forth. Then he saw the emergency triangle that marked the spot where the Volvo had been left. Guiscard braked, brought the big flat bed to a full stop, and waited for Palmer to dash past the front of the Mercedes.

Then, once the way was clear, Guiscard let out the clutch. Unsecured gear rattled as the Mog waddled over some loose stones, but the ride began to settle down after that, as a pair of headlights appeared in the outside rearview mirror. Knowing that Palmer was right behind him, the Chadian began to scan the left side of the track for the pile of rocks that had been heaped around the Mongo Iron. There was a false alarm as he braked for what turned out to be a large boulder. But that was followed by success as the truck’s headlights washed over the half-concealed meteorite.

Gravel flew, and the Mog skidded, as Guiscard stomped on the brake. Then, having overshot the pile of rocks by twenty-feet, Guiscard was forced to back-up as the Volvo pulled in. Once the Mercedes was properly positioned Damya was sent back along the road. Having found a place to hide it would be the Tuareg’s job to lay in wait for any brigands foolish enough to pursue the Mog on foot. Darkness closed in around him.

***

Palmer was pleased with the way the operation had gone thus far as he steered the 4 X 4 around the flat bed truck and positioned the smaller vehicle so it would be ready to leave. Then, with the bolt-action hunting rifle in hand, Palmer went over to assist Guiscard. He left the rifle leaning against a huge tire but had a semi-auto pistol stuck down the back of his pants as he climbed up onto the truck bed where Guiscard was preparing to deploy the crane. “What’s this stuff?” Palmer wanted to know, as he scrambled over a pile of olive drab boxes.

“Beats me,” Guiscard replied. “I haven’t had time to check them out…. Here, grab the cargo hook, and take it down to the ground. Once you’re in position wrap the cargo straps around the rock. I threw some down there a minute ago.”

“It’s a meteorite,” Palmer insisted primly. “And I’ll thank you to remember that!”

“Yeah, right,” Guiscard grinned, as his friend disappeared over the side. “So it’s a flying rock…. Big deal.”

Thanks to a spot mounted on the back of the Mog Palmer could see the reddish meteorite quite clearly. The first task was to pull some of the debris away from the iron so he could access it. Once that was accomplished it was time to wrap cargo straps around the iron and attach the cargo hook.

Having tugged on the arrangement to make sure the straps would hold, Palmer looked up to where his friend was waiting, and opened his mouth to speak. But that was when he heard the cloth-ripping sound of automatic fire. Then came the roar of a powerful engine, as the speeding Land Cruiser blew past Damya, and skidded to a stop some fifty-feet from the Mog.

Palmer thought he counted five men as the doors opened and the Tuaregs piled out with weapons raised. There was no explaining how the brigands had been able to repair the tires in such a short period of time, or
ever
for that matter, but there was no time to ponder the mystery as Palmer drew the Beretta PX4 semi-auto Guiscard had loaned to him.

Whoever had been at the wheel of the Toyota had been stupid enough to leave the 4 X 4’s headlights on. So the bandits were backlit as they advanced toward the Mog firing three round bursts as they came. Palmer, who was crouched behind the Mongo Iron, took careful aim. The pistol jumped in his hands and brass arced away as one of the thieves fell. But the steady blam, blam, blam of the pistol was only part of a cacophony of noise as the bandits fired their assault weapons. Guiscard opened up with an AK-47 of his own, and Palmer heard an insistent ping, ping, ping, as bullets found the Mog and began to punch holes through the truck’s sheet metal.