Sand and Fire (9780698137844) (33 page)

“Very kind of you, sir.”

Blount placed the cigar in his mouth, turned it over a couple of times. Closed his eyes, apparently savoring a luxury he'd thought
he'd never experience again. Parson recalled that Blount had grown up on a tobacco farm. Perhaps the taste and smell took the big man home.

“Is that the Cuban Montecristo or the Dominican?” Parson asked.

“Cuban,” Loudon said. “Perfectly legal. Bought it in Italy.”

“I sure appreciate it,” Blount said, teeth clamped around the Montecristo. He flicked the lighter. The flame guttered in the breeze still rolling in from the desert. Blount cupped the fire with his hand, lit the cigar, let a long stream of smoke escape from his lips. The smoke joined the dust still dancing in the air. The rich, sweet scent made Parson think of burning molasses.

Blount stared out across the ramp. He seemed to look past the lamps, past the runway, past the civilian terminal to something deep in the darkness. Parson and Loudon gave him several minutes of quiet. During that time he simply smoked the cigar and said nothing. Each time he took a puff, the lighted end of the Montecristo brightened and crackled. The ash tip had enlarged. Blount tapped the cigar. The section of ash fell away and shattered on the ground.

Finally, Blount said, “Here's what I got for you.”

He held the cigar between the index finger and middle finger of his right hand. With his left hand, he reached into a cargo pocket on his trousers. Parson had seen some sort of wooden handle protruding from the pocket but had thought nothing of it. That handle turned out to be the grip of a flintlock pistol—an honest-to-goodness, muzzle-loading, God-knows-how-old antique sidearm.

“Check this out, sirs,” Blount said, hefting the pistol. “Kassam left this where he'd held us. I took it with me when we left.”

“Wow,” Parson said. “That's one hell of a trophy.”

Blount handed the weapon to Loudon. The Marine officer held it muzzle up, turned it side to side. Swung open the frizzen, examined the pan. Parson marveled that the parts still worked. To his mind, the old firearm practically glowed with history. Made him think of
declarations handwritten on parchment, ships propelled by sail, treaties sealed with candle wax. New and old worlds clashing amid swordplay and musket fire.

“Good common sense, Guns,” Loudon said. “You took that bastard's little symbol.”

“Yes, sir, but it ain't his. If it's really as old as he says it is, I figure it belongs to the Marine Corps or the Navy.”

Even in the dim light, the intricacy of the pistol's checkering and engraving stood out. Parson noticed the lines of grain in the wood, growth rings perhaps from an American tree felled two centuries ago.

“This thing is beautiful,” Loudon said. “I wonder if it still fires.”

“I don't know if I'd shoot it,” Blount said, “but I think it belongs in the museum at Quantico.”

“I'll see that it gets there. No, why don't you do it? You should have the honor of presenting it. That is, unless you want to keep it.”

“Thanks, sir, but it ain't no more mine than it was Kassam's.”

Loudon passed the flintlock to Parson. Parson admired it for a moment, found the pistol heavier than he'd expected.

“That's a great find, Gunny,” Parson said. Handed the weapon back to Blount. Blount pocketed it, took another drag from his cigar. Blew out the smoke, which drifted and scattered.

“Thing that bothers me,” Blount said, “is I got the pistol from Kassam, but I didn't get Kassam. And I keep thinking about what happened to Farmer and Ivan. This ain't no time to celebrate.”

“You did more than your part,” Loudon said. “We'll take care of the rest.”

Blount said nothing. He just gazed out into the black desert. Glanced down at his cigar. Lifted it to his lips and took another puff. The fire at the cigar's tip lit up enough to cast a glow across his face. Parson noticed that Blount's eyes did not drift unfocused in the aimless stare of the traumatized. Instead he seemed to gauge something, calculate range, estimate wind. Parson knew that feeling: the
same one he had when observing an elk through the mil-dot reticle of a scope, preparing to place a shot.

Finally, Blount said, “I just wish we had a target.” As he spoke, the ops center's door opened. Gold and Ongondo emerged.

“This is my friend Major Ongondo,” Gold said. “I think he can help us with that.”

F
or a second, Blount couldn't remember where he was. He woke up on a narrow bed—a real bed, not a cot or a sleeping bag—with sheets, and a green military blanket over him. Amber light beamed through the walls of the desert tent, though the cold raised goose bumps on his arms. Air-conditioning?

Then he recalled everything. Closed his eyes, stretched, inhaled a great chestful of chilled air. Every cell of his brain expressed gratitude—to his fellow Marines, to the other service members who'd helped recover him, to the men he'd brought back, and to the ones who did not survive.

On the bed to Blount's right, Fender snored. The corporal lay on his back with his left arm off the bed, knuckles against the wooden floor. Once again, Blount noticed the boy's tattoo, just a girl's name:
Anne
. Go home and marry her and treat her right, Blount thought.

Grayson slept in the bed to the left, completely covered by a green blanket that rose and fell with his breathing. No sign of Escarra; the Legionnaire had probably slept in the field hospital, unless they'd already shipped him back to France.

Hunger gnawed at Blount. Fatigue had kept him from eating much last night—just a bowl of cereal at midnight chow before showering and falling into bed. He checked his watch. The analog hands showed nearly noon local time. That was two hours ahead of Greenwich Mean Time, which Blount read in the digital window of his Citizen chronograph. Blount recalled how the terrorists had taken this watch from him—temporarily.

He sat up. Blount wore boxers and a Marine Corps–issued T-shirt. Where were his clothes?

There, at the foot of his bed. Good gracious, somebody had washed his uniform and left it folded by his boots and a set of clean socks. Shirt and trousers, but no hat. He'd worn his helmet off the
Tarawa
. Well, the Corps would have to forgive him for going outside without a cover until he found a new one.

As quietly as he could, Blount dressed and tied his boots. He found a key in a pocket of the trousers. What was that? Oh, yeah; Parson had given him a padlock and key so he could store the flintlock pistol and other gear in a wall locker. Nice of Lieutenant Colonel Loudon to let him keep the pistol until he could deliver it personally to the National Museum of the Marine Corps. Good excuse for a family trip, but that would come later.

Blount unlocked the locker, swung open the door slowly to try to stay quiet. The pistol remained where he'd left it. Beside it lay his grandfather's KA-BAR in the leather sheath. Blount threaded the sheath onto his belt, closed and locked the locker.

When Blount stepped outside the tent flap, the brightness hit him all at once. He shaded his eyes with his hand, squinted. When his pupils adjusted to the light, he saw four CH-53s on the ramp, Super Stallions from the
Tarawa
. What was going on?

An aerostat, which looked a lot like a World War II barrage balloon, floated above the base. The aerostat carried cameras, Blount knew, to watch for bad guys sneaking up on the perimeter. Didn't take an intel expert to sense the buildup of a new operation in the works.

He made his way toward the chow tent, though he felt a little lost at first. Parson and Loudon had taken him to eat last night, but things looked different in the daylight. Blount followed the smell of food, his boots crunching through the pea gravel. At a table just outside the tent, he signed a roster on a clipboard. Pumped a squirt of
sanitizer into his palm, rubbed it across his fingers. Strong alcohol smell, and the cuts and scrapes on his hands burned.

He stepped inside the chow tent and found it full of Marines and airmen eating lunch.

Someone shouted, “Hey, it's Gunny Blount.”

All the service members in the tent put down their plastic forks and knives, rose to their feet, and applauded.

Blount's eyes brimmed. He smiled, waved, felt unsure what to do next. He didn't want the Marines to see him in any raw display of emotion, but he could not escape. The men surged around him. Lieutenant Colonel Loudon embraced him.

“Thank you, sir,” Blount said. “Sorry, if anybody saw me outside. I couldn't find my cover.”

The Marines laughed. “Don't worry about that, Gunny,” Loudon said. “I think you deserve a little bit of a break.”

“I appreciate that, sir.”

Two Frenchmen in flight suits greeted Blount. One of them shook his hand and said, “You must be Havoc Two Bravo.”

“Yes, sir,” Blount said, “but now that I'm back, it's Gunnery Sergeant Blount. Your voice sounds familiar. Were you Dagger One-Seven?”

“
Oui
. Alain Chartier. This is my backseater, Sniper.”

“I like that call sign,” Blount said.

“All right, guys,” Loudon said. “Step aside and let the man eat.”

“Semper fi,” someone called.

Another round of cheers and applause.

Blount found a tray and moved along the serving line. Platters and skillets steamed, attended by TCNs—third-country nationals—in white uniforms. Blount picked up an apple and a banana, made a roast beef sandwich, took a plate of baked chicken and rice and a slice of apple pie. Slid open a cooler box and grabbed a can of iced tea. Found a seat beside Loudon.

“So, what's going on?” Blount asked. “Why'd they fly everybody in here?” Blount tore open a mustard packet, squeezed it onto his roast beef sandwich. Took a bite. Felt his salivary glands activate. Real food for the first time in days.

“Can't talk about it here,” Loudon said. “We're briefing officers and NCOs later in the afternoon.”

Blount chewed, swallowed, took a gulp of the tea. Not as good as Bernadette's, a little too much lemon, but it would do. He forced himself to slow down, not to wolf his food like an animal, despite his hunger. He wouldn't let an officer—or anyone else, for that matter—see him lose his military bearing.

“What time, sir?”

“Don't worry about it, Gunny. You've done more than your share. We're gonna let you go home on a nice long pass.”

“Appreciate it, sir. I'll take you up on that. But as long as I'm here, I might as well stay up on things. The Corps is still paying me.”

“All right. Three o'clock. Secure briefing room. You know where that is?”

“No, sir.”

“Right off the ops center. You'll see the MPs outside.”

“I'll find it.”

Loudon excused himself to go prepare for the briefing. Blount finished his sandwich and started in on the chicken and rice. From time to time a Marine would come by and offer congratulations or greetings, but for the most part they left him alone. They seemed to know he needed space to decompress, time to heal. And time to eat: He finished all the food he'd picked up, then went back for another slice of apple pie.

After lunch, he found a tent where the Air Force comms people had set up computers for morale purposes. An Air Force staff sergeant created a password for him, and Blount sat down to e-mail his wife. He wrote:

DEAREST BERNADETTE,

JUST A NOTE TO SAY I LOVE YOU. I DON'T KNOW WHEN THEY'LL SEND ME HOME, BUT I THINK IT WILL BE SOON. FEELS GOOD TO BE FREE. I'M OK, NOT HURT. DOCS WANT TO DO MORE TESTS, AND SHRINKS AND INTEL PEOPLE WANT TO DEBRIEF ME. SO SORRY TO PUT YOU THROUGH ALL THIS. ARE YOU OK? TELL THE GIRLS AND GRANDPA I SAID HELLO.

A.E.

Blount wanted to tell her more, but he decided that would have to wait. He always took care not to discuss anything that could harm OPSEC—operations security—and he knew the e-mail from here was monitored. He also didn't want some stranger seeing his most personal feelings toward his wife. Bernadette would appreciate just getting an e-mail that said anything; it would reconfirm that he was all right, prove she didn't just dream his phone call last night.

At three o'clock, Blount went to the briefing room near the operations center. Lieutenants, captains, and NCOs sat in rows of folding chairs. A computer and a projector rested on a table at the front of the room, and beyond the table stood a pull-down projector screen. Blount's company commander, Captain Privett, offered a handshake.

“Damn it, Guns,” Privett said, “I can't tell you how good it is to see you.”

“Same to you, sir.”

“But what are you doing here, man? Get some rest.”

“I just got about eleven hours of sleep. I'm good. Wanted to see what was going on.”

“Well, you probably know more than me.”

A sergeant major called the room to attention, and the battalion commander entered. Blount recognized him: Lieutenant Colonel Dixon. Loudon came in behind Dixon. Parson and Gold followed, along with that Kenyan officer, Major Ongondo.

“At ease, people,” Dixon said. “Can we get someone to lower the lights?”

A Marine at the back of the room flipped a switch to turn off the front row of lights, darkening the projector screen. Loudon tapped at the computer. A still photo from an aerial video came on the screen. The image showed a grouping of tents and primitive buildings. The surrounding terrain was marked by gullies and dunes. Wording at the lower right-hand corner of the image read
SECRET
.

“Devil dogs,” Dixon said, “Lieutenant Colonel Loudon has worked with air assets to put this mission together, so I'll let him take it from here.”

“Thank you,” Loudon said. “This briefing is classified secret. Welcome to Operation Iron Maul.”

“Oo-rah,” someone said.

Blount liked the mission's name. Reminded him of using a maul to split wood back before everybody bought a hydraulic splitter. You'd pound in a steel wedge by swinging an iron hammer as hard as you could. Best workout in the world.

“Based on a combination of human intelligence and aerial surveillance, the terrorist leader Sadiq Kassam is assessed to have encamped at this location just north of the Libyan village of Al-'Uwaynat,” Loudon continued. “He has obtained chemical weapons left over from the Gadhafi regime, and he may also have received weapons from Syria.”

So that's where he was going when he wasn't cutting off Farmer's head, Blount thought.

“We have with us Colonel Michael Parson from the Air Force, Ms. Sophia Gold from the UN, and Major Ongondo from African Union forces,” Loudon said. “They're going to tell you how we know all this.”

Parson rose to his feet and pointed to the screen.

“This image came from a video feed from an RQ-4 Global Hawk,” Parson said. “In a second I'll ask Lieutenant Colonel Loudon
to play the video. If you watch carefully, you'll see this camp doesn't seem to have any women or children in it. Go ahead and play it, Bill.”

Loudon tapped his keyboard and the video began moving. Sure enough, Blount saw a bunch of bearded men. Most carried weapons. The video ended and Parson continued.

“This RQ-4 is marvelous technology,” Parson said. “I'm an old Air Force guy, and I love me some planes and drones and satellites.”

The Marines chuckled, and Parson went on.

“But all those machines are just expensive toys unless we know where to send them,” Parson said. “That's when human intelligence comes in—‘humint,' as we call it. Making connections, getting people to trust you, understanding life on the ground. I'd like to introduce you to an old friend of mine who specializes in that sort of thing.”

Parson explained that Sophia Gold had spent most of her adult life as a linguist in the Army, and that she once talked a senior Taliban commander into ratting out a bad guy.

“That takes talent,” Loudon said. More laughter from the Marines. Gold took the floor. She wore khaki tactical trousers with a black nylon belt, and she'd looped a checkered Afghan scarf around her neck.

“A few days ago,” she said, “at a UN camp in Algeria, we encountered a group of three Tuareg refugees: two boys and a man. One of the boys said his uncle had delivered grain and vegetables to ‘soldiers of God' at an encampment near Al-'Uwaynat. At first they were afraid to talk, and with good reason. But once we got them here to Mitiga, they felt safe enough to open up.”

Gold went on to credit Major Ongondo and a Tuareg teenager for the whole thing. They will have performed a great service, she explained, if this stops another chemical attack. She asked Ongondo if he wanted to say a few words.

The major stood, faced the seated Marines, and said, “Ms. Gold
gives me far too much praise. I will say only that I thank you for helping stop these men from using terrible weapons against civilians. Our brothers in Nigeria have a proverb: ‘Ashes fly back into the face of him who throws them.'”

“Damn straight,” Parson said. Gold, Parson, and Ongondo took their seats, turning the briefing back over to the Marine officers.

“Analysts now believe Kassam keeps at least part of his weapons cache at the location you saw on the screen,” Loudon said. “All personnel at this target are considered hostile. The Air Force plans to hit it tomorrow with what they call ‘agent defeat' weapons.”

Loudon changed the slide to show a B-2 stealth bomber. He explained that the B-2 would hit Kassam's lair with CBU-107 Passive Attack Weapons. PAWs destroyed targets through kinetic energy rather than explosions, which made them ideal for wiping out a chemical weapons cache. Less chance of spreading a toxic cloud.

“The bomb opens up and releases a bunch of penetrator rods,” Loudon said. “Think of it like hitting a target with a whole lot of big bullets. I know you guys can relate to that.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Now the mission's name made even more sense to Blount. Strike the enemy with solid metal.

“Our job is simple,” Loudon said. “At a safe distance from the target, we will set up a blocking force. Any bad guys manage to get out of the objective area, we take 'em down. We'll also lase the target for the B-2. As you might imagine, we will do all this in MOPP Four.” He added that once the bomber exited the battle space, the French would provide air support with their Mirages.