In the marquee, the compère steps up on stage, glances behind and watches the TV screens for a few seconds, then addresses his audience, "Ladies and gentlemen, quiet, please—if I may take a moment of your valuable time."
The diners hush.
"Thank you, thank you. So here we are, with less than one hour to go and down to the last remaining teams. Ladies and gentlemen, surely a round of applause to show our appreciation is in order." He tucks his microphone under his arm and leads the room in respectful applause.
The clapping subsides.
"Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and now, without further ado, I would like to call onto the stage a very special man, without whose generosity of spirit and unqualified support this momentous international undertaking would not have been possible. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you—President—José—Rocabado!"
More applause. A few cheers.
Rocabado steps onto the stage, acknowledges the crowd and waits for his audience to settle. He clears his throat and begins, "Distinguished guests, on behalf of Bolivia and the South American team, it gives me the utmost of pleasures to offer our sincere congratulations to the United States of America, the Republic of South Africa, and the Russian Federation. To have come this far is truly a remarkable achievement."
Some cheers. Some boos.
"Today, we have witnessed many hard-fought battles of true courage and determination. These noble qualities represent the values of our great nations. Qualities that make us proud of the men and women who have given up their lives for their countries. Although they do not know it, their ultimate sacrifice will save the lives of many and provide untold wealth for the few. It has been a genuine honor for my country to host this inaugural event—such spectacular entertainment."
Another round of polite applause.
"Who shall win?" Rocabado looks over at the American table. "The Americans? No longer favorites and vastly outnumbered, they never give in—look at them as they ready themselves for the final battle." He waves at the TV monitors that show a live feed of the American team at the white container.
The American diners cheer and clap.
"Or the South Africans and their new Russian allies? A lethal and deadly combination that hunts like a pack of wild animals—a terrifying combination."
It is the turn of the dignitaries at the South African and Russian table to cheer and clap. They make a point of being louder than the Americans. In a show of unity, they all stand and embrace.
The Bolivian President once again waits for the room to calm. He continues, "Yes, indeed, a fascinating finale awaits us." He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a thinly-folded document and waves it in the air. "Here it is, ladies and gentlemen, this is what we are here for, the biggest prize the world has ever seen."
The crowd roars their approval.
"So if I could please ask you to stand and raise your glasses in a toast to a new victory, a new way, and to nine hundred billion barrels!"
The diners stand, raise their glasses, and chant. "Nine hundred billion—Nine hundred billion— Nine hundred billion."
***
Pieter charges his KTM back toward the red container.
Alexei sees the bike in the distance and calls out. "He returns."
Alerted, the African-Russians track the dirt bike as it nears.
"Ng'ombe, Ng'ombe, Pieter kom—he comes back, he is here!" Ajani yells.
Botha, in deep prayer, opens his eyes and hauls himself out of the gun turret and climbs down onto the salt pan.
Pieter slows the bike and brings it to a halt next to Botha, then reaches out and takes the bottle of water that Ajani offers him. He gulps down the warm liquid, then splashes the water onto his bright-red face and washes away the sweat. He pants hard.
Botha waits for Pieter to recover, then asks, "What news?"
"Five like us, and a black."
"A black? You are sure?"
"Yes. Also, two of them are women. One is American and the other European."
"Where are they?"
"I followed them to a white container—the Australians'."
"And?" Botha asks.
"And the Americans have killed the Australians but at a price—they now have only one Humvee and a bike—they are vulnerable. That is all."
Botha turns to Alexei. "We have nothing to fear. We outnumber them. For every one of the Americans, there are four of us. For every one of their vehicles, we have two more and for every bullet they shoot, we return ten. They are weak—we are strong."
"These are odds I like," Alexei agrees.
Botha yells out to his team, "Ready yourselves! Everyone to your vehicles—we leave."
Botha, Alexei, and Mikhail climb up into the gun turrets of their respective Humvees. The rest of the African-Russians pick up their weapons, then check and prepare them. Like players in a sports dressing room before a big game, they are tense and silent. They glance around at each other and give an occasional nod or pat of reassurance.
Botha waits. He looks down at his troops. He sees they are ready, but he still waits.
Silence.
The men and women look up to him.
The tension builds.
At last, Botha shouts, "Brothers of war, we fear no one! We are ready to conquer the harborers of the impure. Follow me now, and I will lead you to riches, and victory!"
Botha's pink Humvee storms forward. The rest of the pack follows.
The war machine charges over the salt pan.
The ground shakes.
