Red Henri traveled with the core of his army, about two hundred strong, most of them packed into the backs of old pickup trucks. They spread out around the town, posting themselves as lookouts and rousting any of the residents who had fallen asleep after the arrival of the advance party.

All twenty-three of his personal bodyguards—he considered the number, which could only divided by itself and one, a strong omen of success—jumped from the troop truck that rode in front of his Chinese-made Hummer knockoff. They formed a phalanx around their general, who waited for his aides riding in the ambulance at the head of the convoy. As his communication czar approached—that was the man’s title—Red Henri pointed at him. The communications czar shook his head and held up his BlackBerry. Red Henri frowned; he liked getting messages on the device, though he never answered them.

Entourage assembled, the rebel leader swept toward the house. The men inside, who’d been standing at attention the entire time, strained to stand even straighter as his first soldiers came in.

The rebel army’s dress was a collection of different castoffs. Some wore uniforms purchased from Kenya, a sometime ally. Others wore civilian clothes donated by charity groups in Europe and the U.S. who thought they were helping the needy. The handful of former Sudanese soldiers wore the uniforms they had deserted in.

All of Red Henri’s bodyguards dressed in baggy khaki pants and white T-shirts, with red scarves tied around their closely shaven skulls. To a Western eye—an American one especially—they looked more like television or movie “gangstas” or wannabe gang members from a decade before. This was not a coincidence. Red Henri had been inspired by music videos when he established the uniform; he loved American rap, gangsta and otherwise.

At six-ten, Red Henri dominated a room, even a crowded one like the one Nuri was trapped in. The rebel extended his arms as he swept in, greeting everyone as if he was joining a party in progress. The owner of the house cowered at the side, then tried to kiss his hand as he came near. Amused, Red Henri waved him off, asking for something to drink.

Nuri had never seen Red Henri this close before, and while he wanted to stay as inconspicuous as possible, he couldn’t stop himself from staring as he made mental notes. Red Henri’s face was baby smooth, unmarked by either care or disease. He’d been shot many times over the decade that he had fought, but none of those wounds were visible beneath the white track suit he wore. He had the air of a politician, and the self-assurance a phalanx of bodyguards brings.

The rebel man who had spoken to Nuri earlier about dinosaurs walked over to one of Red Henri’s aides. Within moments Red Henri had heard the story and came over to greet him personally.

“You are a scientist!” he said with enthusiasm. He spoke first his tribal tongue, then switched to English.

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“You can help me.”

“I’m just a poor man—”

“You will still help us!” Red Henri slapped him on the shoulder happily. “I am glad you are with us.”

“I will do what I can, Your Excellency.”

“These spirits you are digging up. They are not angry at being disturbed?”

“They have to be handled very delicately,” said Nuri. “It is not easy—it can be very dangerous.”

“Then you are a brave man.”

Red Henri slapped him on the shoulder one more time and walked away. Relieved, Nuri began thinking of what he would eat when got back to camp.

He had settled on salted goat kabobs when the ambulance siren sounded outside, calling the general’s entourage back to order. The two members of the advance team nodded at the owner, who fell into a chair from relief as they left. The trucks rumbled to life and the hard beat of rap once more began pounding the ground.

“I wonder if I could have some tea before leaving,” Nuri asked the host. “I have a long drive.”

The man pointed to a warm kettle on the nearby counter. Nuri went to help himself when one of the rebels came back inside.

“You, there, come,” he said in Arabic, pointing at Nuri.

“What?”

“The general wants to see your bones. Come. You’ll show us your camp.”

“I don’t think—”

The aide grabbed hold of Nuri’s arm and pushed him toward the door.

“That was not a request. You ride with the general and do as he says.”

“I have a motorcycle,” said Nuri. “I’ll follow.”

“The motorcycle in front?” The man smiled. “It will make a fine addition to the cause. It was very generous of you to donate it.”

10

Approaching base camp Alpha, Sudan

AFTER THEIR ADVENTURE WITH THE SUDANESE ARMY, NEITHER Danny nor Boston had any trouble staying awake.

Danny stayed in the front seat opposite the driver, scouting forward and brooding on what other difficulties might lie ahead. He also told the Voice to warn him of any vehicles ahead, something he realized he should have done earlier.

The computer dutifully informed him that the coverage here was periodic, provided by an orbiting spy satellite rather than a Global Hawk or a geosynchronous satellite specifically assigned to the area.

“Keep an eye on things anyway,” Danny said.

“Slang recognized,” said the Voice. “Will do.”

“How are we doing?” Danny asked the driver after they’d been back on the road for another hour and a half. They still had another three hours to go.

“Oh, very good, very good,” said Abul. “Very good time.”

“You come from this area?”

“Oh, no. In the north,” said Abul. “I drive here for the money.”

“Is this a rebel area, or an army area?”

Abul shrugged. “More rebel than army,” he said.

The area belonged to whoever happened to be there at the time. It was a mistake to think of the rebels as one united group—there were several, and most didn’t like each other. But it was hard for strangers to understand that.

“The rebels ever bother you?”

“They bother only the army,” said Abul, fudging.

“We shake you up back there?”

Abul didn’t understand, but thought the question required a no, and gave one.

“We heard that it wasn’t safe to go around without weapons,” said Danny. “So we were prepared.”

“I know that you are not scientists,” said Abul abruptly. “I am not a fool.”

“What else do you know?”

“I know to keep my mouth quiet.”

“That’s good,” said Danny. “There’ll be a bonus for the trouble. And the damage to your vehicle.”

The offer to pay for the crumpled fender brightened Abul’s mood considerably. The additional money would make it possible to buy a second vehicle, and maybe even a third. In the Sudan, that would make him a very rich man.

It also meant he could operate the buses in the north, where things were much more stable.

Neither Abul nor the two Americans spoke for more than two and a half hours, until Boston spotted the burned-out armored car that marked the road up to the hills where they’d made camp. It was an old British AEC armored car, manufactured at the very end of World War II. It had passed through a number of owners, including Yugoslavia and Kenya, before finding its place in the Sudanese defense force. A Russian-made RPG—not quite as old, though itself fairly venerable—had ended its career a few months before.

“There’s the turn,” said Boston. “Look at that old soldier, Colonel. Older than our grandfathers.”

Abul slowed down. Boston put his hands against the window of the bus, watching the sweep of the headlights. He’d chosen the site because it would be easy to defend.

“We oughta give Nuri a call,” Boston told Danny. “So he doesn’t blast us on the way up.”