The Second Bat Guano War Part 40

The sun had crept over the mountaintops when we saw them.

"Hey, cool!" someone cried out, rolling down a window. "Tanks!"

The others fumbled with their cameras. Everyone turned in their seats, trying to get a clear shot.

I was driving. I glanced out the window. Resisted the urge to say, "You're welcome." The tanks were headed southwest, toward the border with Chile. Same as we were. They stretched in a line on the horizon, s.p.a.ced at intervals, kilometers of hard green metal squeaking and clanking and grinding their way toward the mine.

Grinding their way toward us.

"We're too late," Victor said.

The Dutchman draped his arms over the front seat, woolen hat bouncing against the roof. "You mean the war has already started?"

"Without us?" cried his girlfriend.

I hunched over the steering wheel. "Nowhere else to go but forward."

The tanks got bigger. A whistling noise overhead. An explosion splattered the windshield with salt. I swerved to avoid the crater.

"Not funny," a j.a.panese guy said. In the rear-view mirror I saw him wave his hand in front of his face, point to his companion's crotch. The smell of s.h.i.t filled the enclosed s.p.a.ce. The others rolled down their windows.

I pressed the pedal to the floor. The humming of the tires on the even salt flat filled the jeep with a loud high-pitched whine. The tanks changed course, converging on our position.

"What's the top speed on one of those things?" I asked.

"No idea!" the Dutchman shouted.

Aurora peered at the bouncing speedometer. "We're doing one fifty," she said. "No way they're going to catch us."

One fifty... I translated in my head. Ninety miles an hour or so. Fast enough.

"You make false a.s.sumption!" squeaked the male appendage of the French bull-woman.

"What is that?"

"That they want us alive!"

We were silent after that. I gripped the steering wheel tight. Tank sh.e.l.ls blasted salt into the air all around us. For the second time in two days, bullets the size of my wrist were trying to kill me. I thought about Victor's ploy, random unpredictable speeds. f.u.c.k that. I held the pedal to the floor.

The line of tanks curved, gun turrets pointed at us, metal treads patiently crunching their salty path toward the border. Salt splashed the windshield again. I swerved violently, throwing my pa.s.sengers to one side.

"How we doing?" I shouted.

Victor tapped me on the knee. "Stop looking so worried," he said.

"How's that?" I said.

"They're Bolivian socialists," he said. "They're incompetent. They couldn't hit the side of a barn."

"They hit a f.u.c.king barn yesterday, dude!"

Victor shrugged, sat back in his seat.

His nonchalance proved well-founded. We drew away from our pursuers. The tanks were soon specks again on the horizon, and the explosions ended.

"How much farther?" I shouted over the noise of the freezing wind blowing in the window.

"Not far," Victor said. "Another hundred clicks or so."

I struggled to keep the steering wheel straight. "What time is it now?"

He pushed back his sleeve. "Eleven o'clock."

"s.h.i.t."

We weren't going to make it.

The sun was high in the sky when we spotted the mine in the distance. My watch read twelve noon exactly. We were late-but there was no smoke, no sign of bomb damage. My spirits lifted.

"Get your cell phone out," I called to Victor. "And...action!"

He nodded grimly and began recording, then swore.

"What is it?" I asked.

"They're jamming the signal. I won't be able to upload the video from here."

"Then we'll just have to hand-deliver it, won't we?"

We stopped the jeep for a herd p.i.s.s. The Frenchies loaned me their bird-watching binoculars.

The sign at the gate read: Anglo-Dutch Mining, Ltd., Authorized Personnel Only. Beyond the gate, the mine itself covered several hectares. It was all just as Pitt had once described it. Pumping station, to suck the lithium brine from the aquifers beneath the Salar. Drying pools, the only economical way of concentrating the lithium salt. Refining equipment, to filter the impurities. Storage tanks, to hold the unstable finished product.

Aurora stood on tiptoe, rested her chin on my shoulder. "We made it."

"I don't understand," I said.

"Understand what?" She laughed. "How we made it this far?"

"No," I said. "How come the mine is still intact."

"What do you mean?"

I held my wrist to my chin so she could read my watch. "We're late. It's still here."

"But that's great news," she said. "Let's poke around, like Victor said. Maybe we can find some proof of American involvement. Now give to me, please."

I unlooped the binoculars from my neck. At that moment, an explosion of light blinded me. I closed my eyes. It was like ten thousand suns going nova right in front of my face.

"Don't look," I shouted. "Turn around! Cover your eyes!"

The sound of the explosion reached us a moment later, the moan of metal tendons and hydraulic muscles torn free of concrete bones, the flesh of the operation returned to the dust from which it came.

The fierce light continued to splay itself against my eyelids. Even with my back to the mine, my hands over my eyes, I could still see it. Then I understood.

Mix lithium with water. Pure boom, Pitt had laughed. The savior of the world is an explosive device.

There had been no bomb, no b.o.o.by trap. Someone had sabotaged the pumping station. Pump water into storage tanks- Boom.

After many minutes, the hissing sound dissipated. I opened my eyes. For a moment I thought I was blind. It was still afternoon. How come I could see nothing?

I blinked. Slowly my eyes adjusted. "Everyone OK?" I asked. "No one lose an eyeball?"

A blurry figure swayed in my vision. Victor. His arm held out. Finger extended. I squinted. What was he pointing at?

The black blob grew outlines. An SUV. Four men in camouflage pointed guns at us. Goggles hid their eyes. The dying glow of the lithium explosion flickered off their brown faces. To one side: two more jeeps, eight more men. Behind us, another pair of SUVs. Five glossy black vehicles in total, showroom new. Guns all aimed at us.

At me.

"End of the line, folks," I called out. "Thank you for riding with us. Remember to check under your seat for any personal belongings." I put my hands in the air. "Not that you'll need them, where we're going."

TWENTY-FOUR.

The SUV in front of me rocked on its suspension. A man slid from the pa.s.senger seat onto the ground. Wisps of black hair straggled from his ears. A blue fitted Cubs cap perched on his scalp.

I said, "Hak Po?"

He winked at me. The SUV rocked again, this time a heavy dip and shudder, like a small boat in high seas. Ambo emerged. He adjusted his Stetson, scuffed his boots in the salt. When he saw me, his head jerked back and he grinned.

Kill.

My molars ground the word and spat it out a hiss. He had driven me from Lima. Killed his own wife. Framed me for her murder. Killed Pitt. Tried to kill me. Ordered the deaths of dozens of innocent people. Now was his moment of triumph. To gloat. But not if I could help it. By habit I went for my switchblade, forgetting the cops had taken it. s.h.i.t. Now what was I going to do? Just let him walk all over me again? An explosion at my right ear deafened me.

I flinched. The SUV's windshield cracked, but no bullet hole appeared. To my right and behind me, Aurora jumped on Victor's back. He must have taken the gun from her. He held the pistol tight in both hands, tried to point it at Ambo.

All around us, safeties clicked off. "Hold your fire!" Ambo roared.

The Frenchwoman bellowed, pounded her fists against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I grabbed hold of Victor's wrists, tried to bring the gun down, but he squeezed off another shot. d.a.m.n you, I thought. Give me the f.u.c.king gun. I want to kill him. Not you. Me. Let me do this one good thing before I die.

Gloved hands pried Aurora off Victor's shoulder, dumped her on the ground. She let out an outraged squeak in midair. Cute. A soldier in camouflage loomed behind us. He snaked his arm around Victor's neck. Lifted him off the ground by the throat. Battered the gun with his other hand, but failed to disarm him.

"Drop the weapon," the man grunted in Spanish.

I fought with Victor, trying to pull the gun free, but he fired again.

"They've won," I said, grappling with him, my lips close to his ear. "We lost."

"We. Have. Not." He fired twice more. The bullets ricocheted off the roof of the vehicle.

I put all my strength into my thumbs, tried to break his grip. There was only one bullet left, and I wanted it. But I could not budge his fingers. Between clenched teeth, I said, "Live to fight another day, dude."

"No," he said. "Too late. To stop it." He clutched at the commando's forearm. "All. Going. To die." He put the gun barrel in his mouth, said, "Checkmate," and pulled the trigger.

Brains, blood and bits of skull exploded backward, showering the tourists in a cloud of freshly dead vulcanologist. The commando looked like a watermelon had exploded in his face. He let go of the body, dabbed a gloved fingertip at the blue-gray goo splattered across his goggles.

My hands were covered in gore. I wiped them on my trousers. I am such an a.s.shole. I can't do anything right. Why didn't I just let him shoot Ambo? Victor would have killed him. Might have, anyway. And now what? Six bullets and the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was still standing. Now what the h.e.l.l do I do?

I was considering the available options when two commandos tackled me from opposite directions, crushing me between them, knocking the breath from my chest. They slammed me to the ground, cheek first into the hard-packed salt. My broken nose throbbed from the impact. A knee ground into my left kidney. The commandos bound my wrists behind my back with flexible plastic.

"That the best you can do?" I said. "Come on, make it hurt, marica!"

One of them rabbit-punched me in the neck. I blacked out for a moment. A voice like an echo down a long tunnel said, "That can be arranged."

Pointy green snakeskin boots scuffled to a stop inches from my nose. A drop of blood fell onto the salt. Ambo's voice, far above, said, "Stand him up."

Two soldiers yanked me to my feet. Ambo clutched his left shoulder with his right hand. Blood seeped through his down vest. It looked like something he'd bought in the seventies, and never bothered to replace.

"Cut him loose," he ordered.

A knife brushed the inside of my wrists and I was free. I rubbed my neck with my good hand.

"Well, Horse," he said, "I guess I owe you one."

"For what?" I asked, incredulous.

He nodded toward the dead body. "For trying to stop him."

"You mean Victor?" I said. "I wasn't trying to stop him."

"No?" He raised his eyebrows. "Then what were you doing?"

"I wanted to kill you myself."

Ambo made a fist, backhanded me across the face. My broken nose snapped a second time. I groaned. Tasted blood. My legs went rubbery. He caught me as I fell. Put his good arm around me and pressed me against him.

He said, "I don't know whether to shoot you or give you a medal."

"I'm not particular," I said, and spat in his face. Blood and phlegm trickled down his cheekbone. "Fielder's choice."

He pushed me away. Wiped at the gob of spit. His monster fist clutched great folds of my jacket, pulled it tight against my body, lifted me on the tips of my toes. He put his nose close to mine.