minus-one-hundred-degree
wind chill, to reach the LZ in a field above the monastery, a mission that had by and large, but not entirely, cured DeLuca
of his fear of flying. The mission had ended with DeLuca being thrown through the bulletproof windshield of a Humvee during
a high-speed chase down a winding mountain road and hurting his neck, but other than that, traveling with Preacher Johnson
had been a pleasure.
“How about you?” he asked. “You flying Delta?”
“Attached to,” Johnson said. “Working with most of the same people as before. We lost one man. Not here. But otherwise we’re
mostly intact.”
“I’m sorry,” DeLuca said.
The countryside rolled by, empty country marked by an occasional cocoa or rubber plantation, bare clay fields, scrub brush
with tall trees rising singly and well spaced, villages of wattle and daub with thatched roofs or cinder-block houses with
tin roofs and glassless window openings, shade-tree mechanics working on cars flipped on their sides in lieu of hydraulic
hoists, boys tending goat herds or sheep flocks, women walking down the side of the road with large tin pans or straw baskets
loaded with food or dry goods or laundry balanced on their heads.
“You’re looking for John Dari?” Johnson asked. “Let me know how I can help, but it’s been damn hard. These guys have people
so scared they’re not giving up much. Though I’m not so sure about Dari. Most of his people are Da. I put him more toward
the center than some people think.”
“Samuel Adu?”
“Real piece of work,” Johnson said. “As a man of the cloth, of course, I must pray for his redemption, but as a purely practical
matter, I’ve given orders that if anybody working for me sees him, he’s free to send Adu on to meet his maker and let him
deal with matters of the mortal soul, though I’m not sure Adu ever had one.”
“You hear about Dsang?” DeLuca asked.
Johnson nodded.
“Confirmed?”
Johnson nodded again.
“We’re mostly far north, in the Vacant Zone, they call it. Sahel, accent on the ‘Hell.’ You think Iraq was all dust and camel
shit, try the VZ. Delta’s been there for months training what they’re calling the ‘Sub-Saharan Peacekeeping Battalion.’ Men
from Niger, Mali, Chad, Mauritania, pretty soon Algeria, Tunisia, Morocco, and Senegal. Two hundred men and a bunch of Toyotas
to patrol a chunk of desert four times the size of Alaska, looking for IPAB hadjis and LPLF lowlifes who outnumber, outgun,
outsmart, and outrun us on a daily basis. SIGINT is useless because nobody has coms and infrared only works at night because
of the heat during the day. We call it the BS Battalion, but be that as it fucking may, somebody in a very oddly shaped building
which shall remain nameless thinks they’re going to hold the northern frontier for us when the shit hits the fan. Hold their
dicks is more like it.”
“What brings you south?” DeLuca asked.
“Little of this, little of that,” Preacher Johnson said. “Mostly just sitting on a wall, eating shit and drinking piss. Isaiah
thirty-six, verse twelve, my son. We cached some material to prep an LZ for CC on a farm outside the next village, actually,
which is where I’ll be getting off to have a look-see. Some indications that it’s been disturbed, but I’ll believe it when
I see it. I think maybe the gnus have been digging around some with their hooves.”
DeLuca waited.
“Go ahead,” he said at last. “You know you want to.”
“So no gnus is good gnus,” Johnson said.
DeLuca nodded.
“Gnus travels fast,” Johnson added.
“One’s enough,” DeLuca said.
“Where y’all stayin’?” Johnson asked.
“Hotel Liger,” DeLuca said. “Baku Da’al.”
“Aha,” Johnson said. “Otherwise known as the Worst Western. Ask for a nonsmoking room. Those would be the ones that aren’t
currently on fire.”
“I’ll try to remember,” DeLuca
wind chill, to reach the LZ in a field above the monastery, a mission that had by and large, but not entirely, cured DeLuca
of his fear of flying. The mission had ended with DeLuca being thrown through the bulletproof windshield of a Humvee during
a high-speed chase down a winding mountain road and hurting his neck, but other than that, traveling with Preacher Johnson
had been a pleasure.
“How about you?” he asked. “You flying Delta?”
“Attached to,” Johnson said. “Working with most of the same people as before. We lost one man. Not here. But otherwise we’re
mostly intact.”
“I’m sorry,” DeLuca said.
The countryside rolled by, empty country marked by an occasional cocoa or rubber plantation, bare clay fields, scrub brush
with tall trees rising singly and well spaced, villages of wattle and daub with thatched roofs or cinder-block houses with
tin roofs and glassless window openings, shade-tree mechanics working on cars flipped on their sides in lieu of hydraulic
hoists, boys tending goat herds or sheep flocks, women walking down the side of the road with large tin pans or straw baskets
loaded with food or dry goods or laundry balanced on their heads.
“You’re looking for John Dari?” Johnson asked. “Let me know how I can help, but it’s been damn hard. These guys have people
so scared they’re not giving up much. Though I’m not so sure about Dari. Most of his people are Da. I put him more toward
the center than some people think.”
“Samuel Adu?”
“Real piece of work,” Johnson said. “As a man of the cloth, of course, I must pray for his redemption, but as a purely practical
matter, I’ve given orders that if anybody working for me sees him, he’s free to send Adu on to meet his maker and let him
deal with matters of the mortal soul, though I’m not sure Adu ever had one.”
“You hear about Dsang?” DeLuca asked.
Johnson nodded.
“Confirmed?”
Johnson nodded again.
“We’re mostly far north, in the Vacant Zone, they call it. Sahel, accent on the ‘Hell.’ You think Iraq was all dust and camel
shit, try the VZ. Delta’s been there for months training what they’re calling the ‘Sub-Saharan Peacekeeping Battalion.’ Men
from Niger, Mali, Chad, Mauritania, pretty soon Algeria, Tunisia, Morocco, and Senegal. Two hundred men and a bunch of Toyotas
to patrol a chunk of desert four times the size of Alaska, looking for IPAB hadjis and LPLF lowlifes who outnumber, outgun,
outsmart, and outrun us on a daily basis. SIGINT is useless because nobody has coms and infrared only works at night because
of the heat during the day. We call it the BS Battalion, but be that as it fucking may, somebody in a very oddly shaped building
which shall remain nameless thinks they’re going to hold the northern frontier for us when the shit hits the fan. Hold their
dicks is more like it.”
“What brings you south?” DeLuca asked.
“Little of this, little of that,” Preacher Johnson said. “Mostly just sitting on a wall, eating shit and drinking piss. Isaiah
thirty-six, verse twelve, my son. We cached some material to prep an LZ for CC on a farm outside the next village, actually,
which is where I’ll be getting off to have a look-see. Some indications that it’s been disturbed, but I’ll believe it when
I see it. I think maybe the gnus have been digging around some with their hooves.”
DeLuca waited.
“Go ahead,” he said at last. “You know you want to.”
“So no gnus is good gnus,” Johnson said.
DeLuca nodded.
“Gnus travels fast,” Johnson added.
“One’s enough,” DeLuca said.
“Where y’all stayin’?” Johnson asked.
“Hotel Liger,” DeLuca said. “Baku Da’al.”
“Aha,” Johnson said. “Otherwise known as the Worst Western. Ask for a nonsmoking room. Those would be the ones that aren’t
currently on fire.”
“I’ll try to remember,” DeLuca
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