In the marquee, the Americans stand up and applaud. They look over at the bank of TV screens and watch Sophia and the Americans run over to Books' body.
The Australians at the table nearby boo and jeer. One calls over, "Yer bunch of wankers."
The drunk Australian follows up with a, "Yer fucking cheating cunts—this is fucking rigged!" He looks at the TV screens and sees the Americans kneeling over Books. "Yer man's fucked—we fucked him right over, didn't we boys—let's show 'em we fucking care."
The Australians cheer and give the Americans the V sign.
The compère steps back onto the stage and tries to calm the room. "Gentlemen, please. No need for any talk of cheating. This is a fair fight—all teams have played by the same rules."
"Shove it where the sun don't shine, yer fucking dingo fucker," the drunken Australian shouts. He sways and staggers toward the American table.
A distinguished-looking man steps up onto the stage. He is José Carlos Rocabado, President of Bolivia. He walks over to the compère, takes the microphone, and orders, "Security."
A horde of security staff head for the Australian table.
"Eject them," Rocabado commands.
The staff grab hold of the protesting Australians and roughly manhandle them out of the marquee.
The drunk Australian man shouts a departing insult: "Fuck you all and fuck the oil. We've got coal, shitloads of it, and we're fucking gonna keep burning it."
Anderson turns his attention back to the TV screens. He watches Lola pump Books' chest and give him mouth to mouth. Sophia applies a pressure bandage to the American's gaping neck wound.
Another TV screen shows a repeat of the Australian blowing himself up with the grenade. On another table, the South African and Russian diners cheer and clap at the sight of Books being taken out by the explosion.
Rocabado walks over to Anderson. "I apologize for the minor disturbance, Senator. The Australian delegation will trouble you no further."
"No need to apologize, Mr President. I was taught never to discriminate against people of a lesser race," Anderson says.
"Noted and appreciated," Rocabado replies. "It looks like you have lost Books. He fought well. I feel the pendulum now swings against you." The Bolivian President glances over at the South Africans and the Russians—they raise their glasses and toast each other. "Together, they will now outnumber your team, perhaps three to one."
"Mr President, and with the utmost respect, you see only the numbers, yet I see American heroes. Heroes who, in less than two hours, will slaughter a bunch of low-life scum."
"You are confident?"
"I am American. Now, if you'll excuse me." Anderson reaches for his cell phone. "I have to speak to another president . . . mine!"
***
Books is unconscious, his blood oozing through Sophia's fingers. She shouts, "ANOTHER MEDIC KIT—RIGHT NOW!" Frantic, she works on Books. She yells at him, "Don't you fucking die on me now, Books! Not now—not here—not on me—you hear!"
Jim rips open the new medic kit. He helps Sophia. Books' blood sprays over them. Dumbstruck, Cutter and Jedi stand and watch. Matt runs over with a saline drip.
"LIVE, DAMN YOU! You promised me—you fucking promised me you would take me there!" Sophia screams.
"We lose him!" Lola yells.
Sophia tears open a suture set and plunges the needle into Books' neck. "Not on my watch!" she exclaims. "THE DRIP! I NEED IT NOW! DO IT!"
Matt stabs a needle into Books' forearm. He holds the drip up high. Gravity feeds the intravenous solution into Books' veins.
Lola pounds and pumps Books' chest. His face is deathly pale. She pants with exertion and yells out, "He is dying."
***
The African-Russian convoy approaches the blue European container.
Botha shouts, "Halt!"
All the vehicles stop. The big South African leans over the gun turret and studies the dead Canadian and European bodies scattered all over the ground.
"As I said, Alexei, we let the other teams do our killing for us," Botha says.
"I will get the code." Pieter walks over to the numbers on the side of the blue container and starts entering the digits into their remotes.
Alexei counts the dead bodies. "They killed each other. This is not the Americans' doing."
"Tell me the count."
"Nineteen dead, ten Canadians and nine Europeans. There are no American dead—or cases."
"They will have the cases, and they take a European with them."
"I do not understand—why not kill the last European?"
"You do not kill something of value," Botha says.
"Value? It does not make sense."
"We will know soon enough, but they would have good reason."
Pieter enters the last code numbers into the remotes. Another blue LED lights up on their collars.
"You see, Alexei, we South Africans are men of honor."
Alexei points to the remotes that Pieter holds. "But men with no trust."
"We trust in God. He will lead us to victory." Botha shouts, "Pieter, you will wait here. Wait for the Russian Humvee. When it arrives, I also want"—Botha points to the code numbers on the outside of the European container—"these code numbers destroyed. Understand?"
Pieter nods. "Sir."
Botha continues, "Then you follow us. We will keep tracking the Americans—they are close. We wait for you at the next container."
Botha sweeps his arm in front of him. "Onwards."
The African-Russians' convoy trundles forward, builds up speed and heads off over the salt pan.
Pieter watches them go. He pockets the remotes, sits on his bike and folds his arms.
He whistles a tune to pass the time.
He waits.
