One hundred miles away, beyond the laser fence, where the edge of the salt pan meets the base of a mountain range, a temporary airport runway has been constructed. Parked all around the airstrip are Learjets, Boeings, Airbuses, and helicopters. The aircraft are a mixture of military and civilian and originate from across the globe.
Another plane lands, then taxis toward waiting ground staff, who guide it to its allotted parking space. A black limousine drives out to meet the jet.
The mini airport is a hive of activity.
At one end of the runway, there is a huge marquee with several smaller tents dotted around it. Three large generator trucks, with satellite dishes perched on top of their roofs, supply power to the white village. Thick, orange rubber electric cables run from the vehicles and snake over the white ground and on into the various shelters.
Technicians and waiting staff scurry all around. The technicians carry laptops and try to look important. The waiting staff carry bottles of champagne and silver trays loaded with the finest of foods. They duck in and out of the open-sided marquee and professionally attend to the one hundred dignitaries dining inside at the ten large, round tables. It is the ultimate fine dining and silver service offering.
At one of the tables, US Senator Ray Anderson sits next to his fellow Americans. His silver-topped cane leans against his chair. The buttons on his white waistcoat strain to contain his substantial middle-aged spread. As a Texan, he wears the obligatory rattlesnake cowboy boots and Stetson. He watches a bank of TV screens showing a live feed of the game. A waitress places a huge tray of smoked Scottish salmon and Beluga caviar on the table in front of him. She blocks his view.
"Excuse me, ma'am," Anderson says.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Senator." The waitress moves to one side.
Anderson once again studies the live satellite feed on the TV screen. It is a downward shot, and he can just make out Lola making love to Matt.
The American next to Anderson leans over and nods toward the screen, nudging him in the ribs. "Quite a show, eh, Senator?"
"Quite." Anderson does not smile.
A waiter glides around the table and fills up the American's champagne flutes. They are too engrossed watching Lola's performance to offer him their thanks.
At the European table, an English woman stands up and walks over to the American's table. Her Jimmy Choos click on the false hardwood floor. As she reaches the table, she adjusts her immaculately cut, pencil skirt and smooths her tight white silk blouse. She rests her hand on the senator's shoulder and leans forward, her Chanel No. 5 drifting over Anderson. "History repeats itself, Senator. In the face of war, America and Europe, once more align themselves against a common enemy. When can we talk?"
Anderson observes the Russian officials at their table on the far side of the marquee. The Chinese and South Africans dignitaries have left their own tables and huddle around the Russians. They talk in hushed tones, and every so often glance over at the American table.
Anderson reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigar. One of the secret service agents who surround the table steps forward over and offers him a light. The senator accepts and acknowledges the gesture with a curt nod. He inhales a lungful of tobacco smoke, tilts his head back, and then blows out a perfect smoke ring. He watches it drift upwards into the roof of the marquee. He turns to the English woman and smiles. "Soon enough, Prime Minster—soon enough."
***
The African-Russian convoy pulls up next to the body of Marcos Garcia. Grateful for a break, they drink and splash water over themselves in a futile attempt to counter the blazing heat.
Botha looks down from the gun turret at the dead South American. "The Americans stopped here. They wasted time. They tried to save him—a useless gesture. But it shows they care and are therefore weak."
Pieter skips off his dirt bike and looks over the ground. "They follow our tracks back to our container—they go to find our code."
Botha grunts. "It is what I would do."
"So now they chase us," Alexei says.
"No, they will not look for conflict. They seek only the dead or the abandoned containers."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because they play a different game. The lion hunts the Impala at night and the cheetah hunts during the day. Each has success."
"And what are we?"
Botha says, "We are the king of the beasts, Alexei, for he is born to hunt, and to kill." Then he shouts, "WE GO!"
The African-Russians start their vehicles. A quad bike fails to start; its engine fires, then dies. The rider tries again, but the machine stutters and stops.
"Leave it!" Botha yells.
"I nearly have it, the ignition—it has failed." The rider grunts with exertion as attempts to kick-start the quad.
Botha picks up a machine gun and aims at the quad. The bike's rider dives out of the way as the South African blasts the M16. Bullets smash into the quad's fuel tank, and it explodes. A ball of flames and smoke belches upwards. The African-Russians scatter to avoid the mini inferno.
Botha screams, "Have you not listened to me! Did I not command of you discipline? The next time, you will trade it for a bullet. I TELL YOU AGAIN—WE GO!"
***
The Australian convoy races over the salt pan. They re-trace their tracks back to their white container.
The Australian woman spots something to her right, and yells out, "See!" She points to the plume of smoke on the horizon. "Out there—smoke!" She slows the Humvee to a stop.
An Australian in the truck's gun turret picks up his binoculars and studies the black plumes.
"What you got?" the Australian woman yells up.
"Another team. No, wait—fuck it, there's three Humvees out there."
"Three!"
"Yeah, pink, black, and gray and bikes too—what now?"
"Now . . . I think we could be in a shitload of trouble!"
