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.
Akil: “Imagine being assigned to this place.”
Ritchie: “I’ve been in worse.”
Akil: “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.”
Akil: “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.