The First Casualty

64

The shots made Captain Elijah Yahya al Wangam of the National Army of Mali nearly drop his morning coffee. Not that shooting in Timbuktu was that rare. Bandits, FNLA, Tuaregs, Islamic Maghreb, all had made an effort at seizing power in the ethnically diverse and, in al Wangam’s opinion, ungovernable, northern part of the country within the last twelve months. What these people were fighting over, he could not imagine. Sand, stones, mud buildings, a few sheep and goats with an occasional camel. Hardly worth killing people over. Had the politicians in Bamako the intelligence of a pile of camel dung, they would let these people secede in peace and thank them for it.

Now they were at it again, whoever “they” were; and al Wangam and his woefully small garrison would have to restore the peace. He was reaching for the citizens’ band radio just as M’kal, his lieutenant, stuck his head into the room.

“Make sure Paarth is awake and sufficiently sober,” he ordered, referring to the third man on duty that morning, if reporting stumbling and reeking of alcohol could be considered on duty. Yes, he would have loved to fire him, but once again, this decision had to be made in faraway Bamako. “Bring the Suzuki around and make sure the .50 caliber is loaded while I try and raise the off-duty men. We may have a full-scale insurrection on hand.”

Thornbush hedges were common in Timbuktu. Not only did the prickly plant thrive in arid, semi-desert conditions, its armament of thick spikes of thorns made it one of the few living things a goat couldn’t eat, thereby presenting a natural defense of the small gardens the locals cultivate with a great deal more optimism than success.

It was from behind one of these natural barriers that Viktor watched the hurried departure of Timbuktu’s finest. Three men, two in the truck’s cab and a third clutching onto the machine gun mounted on the bed behind, screeched out of the Gendarmerie’s dirt parking lot and slid into a turn toward the sound of occasional gunfire.

The driver either did not see or did not understand the peril presented by the series of spike strips Viktor had laid out in the predawn darkness, a series of plastic strips about four feet in length, each with half a dozen steel spikes sticking six inches above the roadway, the same simple, but effective, tool that had ended so many televised high-speed chases.

What happened next would satisfy a fan of true slapstick. The rock-worn tires of the truck somehow made it past the first row, either avoiding them or showing no effect. The second set of spikes not only punctured the tires, the immediate effect was rubber spaghetti. For a second, the steel rims struck sparks against the rocky sand with a grating sound. Then the lug bolts sheared from the torque and strain and one or more of the wheels went its own way.

The truck skewed like a bronco suddenly running out of rope, launching the man standing on the bed into a less than graceful dive. Reversing ends, the vehicle began a spin, sending both doors flapping like those of an immature bird trying to fly. Instead, what became airborne was the truck itself as it dug its nose into a sand dune and flipped onto its back.

Viktor watched he cab’s two upside-down occupants dangling from their seat belts as they struggled to get free. He keyed his radio. “Police not a factor.”