The major showed them to their quarters-cell-like rooms in a mud-walled structure with a corrugated metal roof. Tiny windows allowed very little air to circulate, so even though the sun had set, the quarters continued to be stifling.
Two men were assigned to a room, except for Crocker and Sandra, who each got their own.
Crocker said, “You can give mine to someone else. I’d rather sleep outside.”
“Not a good idea,” the major answered, scratching the bristle of light brown hair on his square sunburned head. “For the past seven nights the tribesmen have been shelling us. Terrible aim, but maybe they get lucky.”
The major seemed to view the recent fighting as no big deal.
“Are these Tuareg tribesmen you’re talking about?” Crocker asked, knowing that they populated the area.
“Tuareg. Yes.”
“What do they want?”
“Control of the open-pit uranium mines, what else? That way they can sell the ore to Iran and China.”
“And the mines are close by?”
“About seventy kilometers northwest of us, past the town and deeper into Libyan territory.”
“That far?” Crocker asked.
“The terrain makes it hard to get to them if you don’t take the road. In my opinion, the camp’s too close. The dust is going to make all be radioactive by the time we leave. Already my penis glows in the dark.”
That night, after dining on roast goat and couscous, and watching the movie Iron Man dubbed in Polish, they retired to their quarters. Soon after Crocker lay down he heard the first mortar land and shake the ground. Shards of shrapnel rained onto the metal roof. Then the NATO troops returned fire with machine guns and artillery of their own.
Enemy shells continued to land intermittently through the night and into the morning breakfast of yogurt, goat cheese, figs, and tea. As Crocker and his team ate, Polish soldiers shouted instructions to one another as they prepared their weapons and put on body armor.
Akiclass="underline" “Imagine being assigned to this place.”
Ritchie: “I’ve been in worse.”
Akiclass="underline" “When?”
Ritchie: “November 2004, Fallujah, Iraq. The whole damn city turned against us. We were getting attacked from all sides.”
Sandra looked miserable. She said the percussion of the mortar shells hurt her head.
After breakfast a sweaty, heavily armed Ostrowski led them to a Polish AMZ Dzik armored truck parked in the courtyard. He leaned toward Crocker and said, “Today we’re going to have some fun with these asshole tribesmen.”
The major introduced them to a Polish corporal who said he knew the way to the chemical plant. But a half hour later, as they sped north on the highway through the dusty, sun-baked town of Toummo, Sandra told him she thought he’d missed the turnoff.
The driver turned the vehicle around and veered left on a dirt road that led them past a little school, primitive houses, a pen filled with camels and goats, and up a gradual incline where the road seemed to end.
“Keep going,” Sandra instructed.
When they reached an eighty-foot mound of rock, dirt, and sand, Sandra told the driver to steer around it. On the other side they met a ten-foot wall of rock and sand.
Sandra said, “Stop here. This is where we get out.”
Akiclass="underline" “You sure?”
There was nothing but sand everywhere they looked. She walked ahead, all business, her tight black shorts accentuating her long legs and feminine curves.
Ritchie leaned toward Crocker and whispered, “What do you think?”
Crocker shrugged, “She seems to know where she’s going.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
They watched her climb the ten-foot wall of dirt, then turn back and wave at them to join her.
Upon reaching the top, Crocker looked down and saw a large compound that had been dug into the earth. The whole plant was surrounded by walls of sandbags. It contained at least a dozen buildings, distillation and cooling tanks, and a concrete road that ran the length of the site. The road and roofs of the buildings had been painted with desert camouflage so they would be hard to see from above. Reminded him of a scene from the movie Andromeda Strain: perfectly preserved buildings, but no people.
“Clever, isn’t it?” Sandra asked, her blond hair whipping in the wind.
“Very clever,” Crocker answered.
According to the thermometer on his watch, the temperature had soared to over 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Hot gusts of wind kicked up angry twirls of dust.
Ritchie spotted a snake resting in the shade of the fence and picked it up with the barrel of his MP5.
“Don’t mess around,” Davis, who hated snakes, warned. Years earlier Ritchie had thrown a dead rattlesnake into Davis’s sleeping bag and freaked him out.
“It’s a sand viper,” Mancini said, examining the marking around its head. “Highly venomous.”
Ritchie waved it in front of Davis’s face, then tossed it over his shoulder.
When they rattled the chain on the gate, a stooped man with one eye emerged from a shed with an old M1 Garand rifle slung over his shoulder. He explained to Akil that he was a member of the NTC militia.
“Tell him we have permission from the prime minister to inspect the site.”
Akil spoke Arabic to the man, who nodded respectfully.
“He says a team from Germany arrived here months ago and locked away all the chemicals.”
“I know,” Sandra responded. “I was with them. Tell him we want to look around, make sure nothing has been touched.”
As the guard removed a key from under his tunic, the sky started to darken. Crocker looked at his watch. It was only 1 p.m. local time. “Looks like a storm’s approaching. Grab the goggles from the truck. Make sure everyone has a scarf.”
Akil ran off and came back as a big red cloud of sand and dust started to build around them.
Crocker said, “Keep your nose, mouth, and eyes covered. Everyone stick together.”
The one-eyed guard led them down the main road past modern buildings and equipment that had been partially covered with sand. At the end of the drive stood a sand-colored water tower. Past that was a storage shed filled with red, green, and orange barrels.
“You know what’s in them?” Crocker asked.
“Machine oil and other harmless chemicals,” Sandra answered. She was wearing stylish yellow goggles.
The guard turned and beckoned them with a finger. Just then a gust of sand hit the shed, almost lifting off its roof. It pounded the water tower. More gusts followed.
Akil shouted, “He’s leading us to an underground chamber.”
“Where?”
“Follow me!”
They walked in a cluster, pushing through the wind, to a concrete ramp with a set of steps beside it. At the bottom was a metal door that was bolted shut and locked. Pasted on it were warnings in Arabic, French, and English.
Sandra: “This is the same one we inspected two months ago.”
“Who has the keys?” Crocker asked.
“NATO command,” Sandra shouted over the wind. “We’re waiting for the toxic materials to be removed and disposed of.”
“Who’s responsible for that?”
“The NTC.”
“Alright,” Crocker said turning to Akil. “Show the guard the map Dr. Jabril drew of the metal fabrication plant. Tell him we want to take a look at that, too.”
The man studied the map as fine dust swirling around them made it hard to breathe. Sandra appeared to be suffering. Ritchie wrapped his kaffiyeh around her head.
Crocker said, “Hand her a bottle of water. Make sure she wets the scarf and ties it over her nose and mouth.” Then he turned to Akil and shouted over the roar, “What did the guard say?”
“He says part of the facility is destroyed. What’s left of it is on the other side of the hill.”
“How far?”
“Five minutes at the most.”
“Let’s wait down here.”