Ejecta Read online

  Ejecta

  Copyright © 2013 by William C. Dietz.

  All rights reserved.

  Published as an ebook in 2015 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

  Cover design by Tiger Bright Studios.

  ISBN: 978-1-625671-28-8

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Also by William C. Dietz

  I owe a debt of gratitude to Dr. Jack Murdock, parasitologist about town, and co-creator of the Ejecta parasite. Thank you Dr. Jack—it was a pleasure to work with you! Scientific errors if any, are mine.

  Chapter One

  Near Mongo, Chad

  The sub-Saharan landscape was divided between bright, almost searing blue sky, and the khaki colored earth that lay sprawled below, as the big four-wheel drive Unimog turned off the piste and onto a nearly invisible track leading east. Not in a straight line, the way a road laid down by French colonial engineers might have, but in a series of seemingly random twists and turns. “This was no more than a game trail originally,” Andre Guiscard explained from his place behind the Mog’s enormous steering wheel. “So it follows the path of least resistance.”

  Guiscard had been born in Chad to a French father and Tuareg mother, but he'd been sent to the University of Arizona for his education, which was where he and Alex Palmer had become acquainted. The Chadian had thick black hair, his father’s hatchet-like nose, and his mother’s coloring. He was wearing a much washed Bono tee shirt and khaki shorts. A pair of reflective aviator-style sunglasses completed the outfit. The truck slowed as Guiscard down shifted and navigated through a rocky obstacle course.

  Alex Palmer held onto a grab bar, and waited for the right rear tire to roll over a boulder, before making a reply. The American had light brown hair, sunburned skin, and squint lines that radiated from the corners of his green eyes. Creases bracketed what a former girlfriend once referred to as a “serious mouth.” He wore a gray T-shirt, blue shorts, and a pair of scuffed Timberland hiking boots. “It’s amazing you came across this place,” Palmer commented. “Talk about out in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Yes, and no,” Guiscard replied matter of factly. “The government pays me to look for water…. And one way to do that is to visit abandoned villages. Because even if a well gave out at some point in the past, there’s always the possibility that we could deepen it, and make the location habitable again. Such places are not only important to our people––but to the refugees from the Sudan.” With that Guiscard let out the clutch, fed fuel to the five cylinder diesel, and guided the big 4 X 4 up past the skeletal remains of an ancient VW bus. The path rose before turning to the right and disappearing over a rise.

  ***

  Meanwhile, from a spot about a quarter of a mile away, a man wearing a bright blue shesh (headdress) and matching robes was watching the vehicle’s progress. His name was Basel Naravas and activity, any kind of activity, was of interest to him. Especially when such a handsome vehicle was involved. As the bandit peered through a pair of very expensive Nikon binoculars, the big Mercedes truck lurched up out of a ravine onto the top of a rise. It was white, with a chromed star over the radiator, and a roof rack loaded with gear. The spacious crew cab could seat four, five in a pinch, with a flat bed behind. A small crane could be seen there, flanked by lockable tool boxes, all of which filled Naravas with lust. Because not only was the Unimog worth a lot of money in and of itself, it could be used to make more money, in a land where reliable transportation often meant the difference between life and death.

  So who were the people in the truck? What were they up to? And what would be required to separate them from the Mercedes? Such were the questions on the Tuareg’s mind as he elbowed his way off of the ledge and motioned to his son. The Mog couldn’t go far, not on that track, so it wouldn’t be hard to catch up. Then, Allah willing, the machine would be his.

  ***

  The engine roared as the truck waddled up out of a gully and into what had once been a village. Of course that was previous to the Sahara’s latest incursion into the semi-arid grassland called the “Sahel.” There wasn’t much to see beyond the foundations for some circular huts, an old car body, and a fire pit that had clearly been used within the last few days. By nomads most likely—who had spent the night there.

  The diesel rattled and died. Doors slammed as Palmer and Guiscard got out of the cab. The interior was air conditioned so exiting the truck was like stepping from a refrigerator into a blast furnace. Palmer pulled a sweat stained baseball hat onto his head and squinted into bright sunlight. There was a pair of Ray-Bans in his shirt pocket—but Palmer wanted to see as much color as he could. A beat up Nikon D-50 digital camera dangled from his shoulder.

  “That’s it,” Guiscard said, as he pointed to a depression. “That’s the “’guelta,’ or waterhole. It was at the very heart of the village—and everything looked different back then. Trees, which have long since been cut down for firewood, protected the water from the sun,” Guiscard continued. “But the guelta required rainfall to survive, and with less precipitation each year, the waterhole dried up. So with no water for themselves, or their animals, the villagers were forced to leave. It’s an old story, and a painful one, since they had nowhere to go.”

  Palmer nodded. “And the village was named ‘Star?’”

  “That’s right,” Guiscard replied. “The village was called Najmah, which means star in Arabic, and could be connected with the meteorite. Assuming the big chunk of rock is what I think it is.”

  “It had better be,” Palmer said. “Because much as I like you this is a long way to come for a couple of beers.”

  “Yeah, but they were cold beers,” Guiscard responded cheerfully. “And the only beers you’re likely to find around here. Come on…. Let’s take a look.”

  The Chadian was in excellent shape, and rather than circumnavigate the waterhole, chose to cross it instead. Once Guiscard had lowered himself into the dry hole Palmer followed. A thick layer of windblown sand parted occasionally to reveal the rocks that lay below—as well as the detritus of human habitation. As Palmer followed the other man across the crater he saw a rusty wheel, what looked like the remains of an old hand-cranked washing machine, and a partially exposed camel skeleton. Guiscard attacked the water hole’s north wall with the surety of someone who had done it before. He was waiting on the top when the American joined him.

  Palmer noticed distinct indentations in the sandstone each of which marked a historical water level. They chronicled the history of not only the guelta but the creatures which were dependent upon it. He followed his friend along a narrow foot path, up a slight rise, and over to the point where the remains of a crude shelter could be seen. It consisted of gnarled tree limbs surrounded by an irregular line of tin cans. “Look at this,” Guiscard said, as he held one of the containers up for Palmer to inspect. “The villagers burned candles inside.”

  The meteorite hunter looked inside and verified the presence of some melted wax and a fire blackened wick. All preserved by the dry desert air. “Was it a religious ceremony of some sort?”

  Guiscard shook his head. “No, the villagers were Muslims, and believed in one god. I don’t think they were worshiping the iron. I think they were celebrating it! Assuming I’m correct that is.”

&
nbsp; Though not entirely sure that he understood the difference, Palmer dropped to his knees, and peered through the A-shaped opening. Further back, as if determined to avoid the light of day, Palmer could see the top half of something he estimated to be twice the size of a basketball. In spite of the present drought, the object had been rained on in the past, and the surface of the rock was covered by what looked like a heavy accumulation of rust. An indication that the object could qualify as an iron.

  Of course some chondrites, also referred to as “stones,” had a rusty orange fusion crust that caused them to be confused with irons. So Palmer removed a magnet from his pocket and extended his hand. The pull exerted by the object in front of him was so strong that when he let go of the magnet it jumped the intervening gap. The object was an iron! And not just any iron, but a big sucker, that could push half-a-ton. That meant that if it was properly sectioned, and sold to wealthy collectors, the meteorite could be worth half-a-million dollars. It would represent a nice pay day even after expenses and a generous finder’s fee for Guiscard. The Chadian knelt to peer over Palmer’s shoulder. “So what do you think? Was I correct?”

  Palmer nodded happily. “Yes, you were! She’s a beauty.”

  “I’ll take your word for that,” Guiscard replied. “It looks like a big rock to me…. What now?”

  Palmer stood. “I need to take pictures of the site, the shelter, and the meteorite itself. Then, if you would be so kind as to bring the Mog around, we’ll dig this baby out.”

  ***

  It took the better part of four long hot hours to pull the shelter apart, dig the meteorite out of the ground, and hoist it up onto the truck. A process Naravas observed from the shade provided by a cluster of rocks. And there were lots of rocks in Chad…. So what made the reddish boulder so special? Minerals perhaps? Foreigners were always searching for valuable minerals. Yes, Naravas decided, that made sense. Not that it mattered because one rock was as good as another rock in so far as he was concerned. No, the real prize was the truck…. And he was determined to have it.

  Worried lest he miss his opportunity, Naravas withdrew, and took his twelve-year old son with him. Twenty-minutes later they were back in their ancient Toyota 4 X 4, and ready to follow the Mog once it turned onto the piste. Their patience was rewarded fifteen-minutes later as the Mercedes appeared, took a left hand turn, and headed west. After thousands of years spent in one place the Mongo Iron was on the move.

  ***

  The Guiscard family compound consisted of a sprawling house protected by high walls, on a hill located ten-miles south of Mongo. It had been constructed some thirty-years before by Andre’s father Paul Guiscard who, having been a Sergeant-Major in the French Foreign Legion, chose to model his residence after Fort Flatters which was located deep in the Sahara.

  The long low-slung building was somewhat stark, but the tops of some palms could be seen protruding above the south end of the defensive wall, which hinted at life within. A column of chalk white dust followed the Mog as it barreled up a long dirt road towards the white-washed complex. Palmer knew that Paul Guiscard’s decision to fortify his home stemmed from more than a sense of nostalgia. Because there had been a lot of civil unrest in Chad over the last three decades, not to mention the presence of bandits, who continued to prey on the weak. So the three-foot thick walls, the fortifications that anchored each corner of the compound, and the metal gate were for more than show.

  Thanks to the unobstructed view available from the top of the four-foot thick crenellated walls the truck had been spotted a good fifteen-minutes earlier. So as Guiscard down shifted, and the Mercedes began to slow, two men came out to open the gate. They were non-Islamic southerners judging from the clothing they wore. Although it was becoming more difficult to tell the various ethnic and religious groups apart as people migrated into Chad from the south and east. Palmer took note of the fact that both of the men were armed with AK-47s. A wise precaution out in the middle of nowhere.

  Guiscard waved to his employees as he guided the Mog through the gate and into the large courtyard beyond. A sharp left hand turn carried them toward the north end of the compound where a long, low shed-like structure gave shelter to a half-a-dozen vehicles of various types and vintages. “So, what do you think?” Guiscard inquired, as the vehicle came to a stop in the shade provided by a metal roof. “Should we leave the rock on the truck? Or unload it?”

  “Anything worth that much money should never be referred to as a ‘rock,’” Palmer responded lightly. “But yes, why unload, just to load again? Especially when we could have a cold beer instead.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Guiscard said as he killed the engine. “Let’s celebrate…. How much are you going to pay me?”

  “How does fifty-grand sound?” Palmer answered.

  “Fifty sounds good. Real good,” Guiscard replied enthusiastically. “That kind of money will go a long ways in Chad.”

  Both men exited the truck. The American paused long enough to climb up and give the iron an affectionate pat before jumping down again. Then they crossed the sun baked inner courtyard to the south end of the compound. That was where the family’s U-shaped home was located. All of the windows looked in on the central garden which was centered around a group of carefully tended palms. The artificial oasis was made possible by water pumped from hundreds of feet below.

  And, true to Guiscard’s promise, refreshments were waiting on one of the four glass topped tables that graced the outside eating area. All courtesy of Guiscard’s seldom seen mother. A real beauty for whom Guiscard’s father had been required to pay an enormous bride’s price of twenty-five camels. After that it had been necessary for the newly married couple to live with her parents for a full year prior to being allowed to go out on their own.

  But if Madam Guiscard was beautiful, her good looks were routinely hidden by both a veil and multiple layers of indigo clothing, which had the effect of causing her sweat to evaporate slowly.

  The wrought iron chairs made a loud scraping sound as they were pulled away from the table and the men took their seats. It was relatively cool under the palms. The water gurgled happily as it cascaded down the sides of the fountain, and laughter could be heard from the kitchen.

  There was a galvanized bucket of ice cold Gala beer from Moundou sitting on the floor tiles between them. Something that would never be allowed in most Muslim homes. But Tuaregs are famous for cutting religious corners, and the beer had long been a staple at Le fort, even after Guiscard senior’s death. There were also bowls of salted peanuts, some raw veggies, and a plateful of pastries. The appetizers were made of millet flour, which had been mixed with egg and sugar, before being fried in peanut oil. They were delicious, especially when combined with some Gala, which slid down the back of Palmer’s throat like a cold river.

  The next hour passed rather comfortably as the two men ate snacks, drank beer, and relived their college days. So it wasn’t long before Palmer ran over his self-imposed limit of three beers, and was gradually transformed into the “other” him. A man who was louder and more outgoing than normal. As the light began to fade dinner was served.

  Palmer caught a glimpse of Madam Guiscard, as she sent two servant girls out with the main course, but she disappeared shortly thereafter. The American turned to his host. “Will your mother join us?”

  Guiscard smiled. “Tuareg men and women don’t eat together, Alex…. Not in traditional families. And once my father died mother went back to the old ways.”

  So the friends were left to consume the Jarret de boeuf by themselves, both taking food from the same platter, as day turned to night. The stew was delicious, but the burgundy was a tad too dry for Palmer’s taste, although it went down smoothly enough. So that by the time dinner was over, and the two men parted company, the American was drunk. A familiar state and one he had promised himself to avoid.

  Having stumbled into his room he collapsed face down on the bed and quickly lapsed into unconsciousness. A place where
the memories of two tours in Afghanistan couldn’t find him, where there was no fear, and friends lived forever.

  And that’s where Palmer was when the insistent rattle of AK-47 fire was heard. The door to his room slammed open and Guiscard barged in. The engineer was 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!”

  1st 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.