Ejecta

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.

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.”

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.