Ejecta Read Free

clad in nothing more than a tee shirt, plaid boxers, and a pair of flip flops. “Alex! Get up! There are bandits inside the walls!”
    1 st Lieutenant Alex Palmer remembered that there had been insurgents inside the building the marines called “Fort Apache” too. They had been admitted to the compound by a traitorous interpreter who shot Staff Sergeant Gomez in the back before being gunned down himself. The American’s head hurt, his mouth was dust dry, and he had a powerful urge to pee. “Here,” Guiscard said, as he handed his house guest a well worn Mle. 1935 single action 7.65mm pistol. It had probably been in North Africa since World War II and, if there was any rifling left in the barrel, that would be a miracle. “Let’s go!”
    Guiscard charged out through the door with the American right behind him. Palmer saw a muzzle flash up on the east wall, followed by the cloth ripping sound of automatic fire, and an abbreviated scream. But who was firing, and at whom, remained a mystery. Then he heard the sudden roar of a diesel engine. “They have the Mog!” Guiscard yelled. “Head them off at the gate!”
    But it was too late for that. Two men opened the gate from the inside, hopped aboard the big truck as it drew even with them, and clung to the back of the Mercedes as it vanished into the night. Guiscard fired his pistol, and half a dozen rifle shots were heard, but all to no avail. The 4 X 4 was gone, as was the Mongo Iron, and Palmer’s money. “You have other vehicles,” he said, “let’s go after them!”
    “No,” Guiscard replied disgustedly. “That would be suicidal…. They’re expecting that—and have some sort of ambush waiting for us. Don’t worry my friend…. It’s the truck they want. We’ll find your rock laying next to the road.”
    The comment was intended to be reassuring, but wasn’t since there were lots of roads, and lots of rocks in the southern Sahara. Palmer couldn’t say that of course. Not in the immediate aftermath of Guiscard’s loss.
    Guiscard’s major domo, a dark complected southerner named Benji Obasambo, materialized in front of them. He was carrying an AK-47 and spoke English with a British accent. “They brought a metal ladder,” the Chadian said disgustedly. “It’s still leaning against the wall…. And they were quiet.
Very
quiet. It looks like Ebolowa was asleep when they slit his throat. If so then good riddance! Once inside they went straight to the Mog.”
    “And the keys were in the ignition,” Guiscard said regretfully. “I know because
I
was the one who left them there! Were there any other casualties?”
    “They shot Mr. Kwara,” the major domo said sadly. “But he took one of the bastards with him.”
    Guiscard winced. Kwara had been employed by the family for more than ten-years and had a huge family to support in Cameroon. “Put the body in the big cooler,” Guiscard instructed. “The police will want to see it—and we’ll have to contact his wife. And count heads…. Let’s make sure that everyone who should be here is.”
    Obasambo nodded grimly and turned to go. “Well,” Guiscard said, as he turned to Palmer. “It looks like I’ll be going into Mongo come first light. That’s where the police station is. Would you like to come? Maybe we’ll find your rock along the way.”
    Palmer didn’t believe in luck, not
that
kind of luck, but nodded anyway. “Sure, count me in.”
    ***
    Mongo, Chad
    When a uniformed policeman told Police Chief Bahir Jann that Andre Guiscard and another man were waiting to see him the policeman was anything but surprised. And why should he be? Given the fact that he was already aware of what had taken place the night before. Partly via word of mouth, because news had an almost miraculous ability to traverse large seeming empty expanses of desert, but he had a more reliable source of information as well. Namely his half-brother Basel who was the proud owner of a nearly new Unimog! Because in Chad, as