Blue Warrior by Mike Maden Page A

watched Johnny’s aluminum shipping coffin scissor-lifted up to the cargo bay of the Boeing 737. He had booked the first commercial flight out he could get for Johnny, athirty-hour transshipment from Maputo to London, then LAX. The family had enough to deal with without having to wait another week for the next available flight. He would have flown Johnny home on one of the big jets in the Pearce Systems fleet, but they were all deployed on other missions. Like everything else on this trip, bad timing was kicking his ass.
    “His sister asked me to thank you, by the way,” Hawkins said.
    “For what? Getting him killed?”
    “For making all of the arrangements. Paying for the flight. She was grateful. Nice woman.”
    “I wish I could’ve done more.” Pearce still felt guilty about his friend’s death. Sandra’s, too.
    “I know.”
    The two men watched the ground crew shut the cargo bay door and secure it.
    “Still no leads?” Pearce asked.
    Hawkins shook his head. “The locals are running the investigation now. Told us to stand down. I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”
    The scissor lift began descending as the ground crew disconnected the fuel line.
    “What’s next for you?” Hawkins asked. He turned to Pearce.
    But he was gone.

9
    The village of Anou
Kidal Region, Northeastern Mali
    4 May
    C aptain Naddah leaned in the doorway of Ibrahim’s shop and took a long pull on the Lucky Strike, draining the last of the sweet American tobacco smoke into his lungs. He held his breath, then exhaled slowly, through his nose, savoring the aroma.
    Naddah checked his watch. It was just after two in the morning. He had finished his turn in the rape house about an hour ago, then made his rounds in the village, checking on the sentries. He found them all awake at their posts, eager to get another go in the rape house before they pulled out at dawn. His new orders targeted a village thirty kilometers to the north.
    How long can those women keep wailing? Naddah’s men had been raping them for hours, each man taking his turn. Naddah’s favorite was the young girl with the long, angular face and pale brown eyes that spit fire at him.
    Naddah started to pull another Lucky Strike out of a crumpled packet but changed his mind. His throat was dry. Instead, he popped the can of cold Coke open and took a long swig.
    He crossed back over to the doorway and stood there, staring at the house on the left, hearing the cries. He checked his watch. Time enoughto go back to the house before dawn. He would like one more turn with the girl with the pale brown eyes and—
    Naddah’s left kidney exploded with fire. He dropped the Coke as he screamed, but nothing came out of his mouth. His throat was clamped shut by a powerful hand that pulled his entire body backward, deepening the knife thrust.
    Naddah’s legs buckled, but the powerful hand gripping his throat kept him standing long enough for the blade to be pulled out and thrust again into his lower back, severing the spinal column. His bowels gave way and he felt the shame of that. The hand let go.
    Naddah fell. His skull cracked on the hard dirt floor, eyes exploding with light.
    Naddah drew his last breath, a whimper.
    Because he knew.
    There is no paradise for a man covered in his own shit.
    Northwest Polytechnical University (NPU)
Xi’an, China
    Xi’an was a city with a long memory and an even longer history. Home of the fabled terra-cotta warriors, the ancient city at the headwaters of the Silk Road was the wealthy capital of more than a dozen Chinese empires in antiquity. Commerce between East and West flowed along the courses of the Silk Road, but equally important, so did technology. Europe acquired many Chinese inventions over the centuries thanks to the Silk Road. It was only fitting that the flow had now changed directions.
    Beijing was the nation’s capital today, but Xi’an considered itself to be the intellectual and cultural soul of the Middle Kingdom, as it had