PROLOGUE FROM FALSE DAWN 

It was a perfect night for a raid.  A gust of wind battered Sergeant Rutger, plastering his fatigues against his chest.  Crouching over, he pushed forward and continued patrolling the perimeter of the food depot.  Another blast churned the sand and kicked up a cloud of dust.  It cloaked him like a shroud, suffocating and blinding him.  Damn.  The sandstorm had become a security nightmare. 

Licking his dry lips, he found them caked with dirt.  He spat out the gritty bits, then tramped past the spindly gate in search of rebels.  Standing orders were to shoot on sight.  The food stores were critical to the refugees and they were already down to 800 calories a day.  Any less and the grave diggers wouldn’t be able to keep up. 

Rutger had spent the day hanging around the communications hut listening to reports of the rebels leaving their camps and moving into the night.  His unit was on high alert, protecting thousands of grain bags in the middle of the barren Chad desert.  The rebel army needed food, but he’d be damned if he’d let the bastards steal the supplies he guarded.

The storm intensified.  Grainy residue battered his exposed cheeks as he paced along the clay and grass wall--a perimeter that was more of a deterrent than an effective barrier. 

His eyes darted back and forth behind his night-vision goggles.  He strained to see evidence of intruders, but the damn goggles were useless in the heavy sand.  He ripped them off and replaced them with clear-lens shooting glasses.  They weren’t much better. 

The glowing numbers of his Swiss Army watch read two a.m., hours before the punishing sun would rise.  Still, sweat trickled down his forehead into his eyes.  A droplet burned his left eye, temporarily blinding him.  He removed one hand from his FAMAS 5.56mm assault rifle and turned away from the wind.  Raising the glasses, he wiped the sweat away.  The gesture was a waste of time.  Sand irritated his eyes, the gritty particles cutting like tiny blades.  Rutger dropped the glasses back in place and blinked to clear his vision. 

Worried about his weapon functioning in the harsh conditions, he checked the firing mechanism.  It still worked, but a layer of dirt had accumulated on the barrel.  He brushed it off in several quick strokes.  His rifle had better not jam. 

Bleary-eyed, he continued the patrol.  The rebels’ khakis would be camouflaged by the sandstorm, so he scanned the area for their signature red kerchiefs instead. 

A movement to his right caught his attention.  He held his breath, spun around, and caressed the trigger of his rifle. 

“You dof bastard,” he muttered, exhaling as a jerboa hopped past him.  Damn rodent almost got its furry tan ass blown to bits.  Stupidest looking animal he’d ever seen—like a kangaroo mated with a mouse.  His heart thundered at the false alarm.  He released the trigger, and glanced down at the “S” curves of the ancient symbol tattooed on his right hand.  What a fool he’d been choosing something so poetic.  He should have picked a scorpion instead.

Rutger trudged to the depot’s entrance.  He swallowed, throat dry from breathing in the dusty particles.  What he wouldn’t do for an ice-cold Coke right now.  He thought of the local boykie, Mamadou, an eight-year-old whose family lived in the neighboring village.  The little mite was entrepreneurial, always showing up with cold drinks to trade for cash or food.  At this time of night, he’d be safely tucked inside his family’s mud hut, sleeping through the storm. 

The sergeant had spent his off-duty hours teaching the small, scrawny boy English.  Wasn’t much to do in the desert other than get blottoed on local beer, and he’d already mastered that.  He’d broken his usual rule about getting close to the locals, but had no regrets.  He’d been suckered in by the beaming smile and those dark mischievous eyes.  The kid’s spunk inspired him.  Mamadou’s goal of breaking free from his harsh life resonated with Rutger--he fought his own demons daily.  Even though ten years had passed since Rutger had seen his drunken father, the image of him standing over the dead body had been branded into his memory.  He shivered, remembering his father’s final slurred words, “You can run from your past, but it’ll always find you.”

Rutger refocused on the task at hand.  An hour to go before DeHavilland relieved him.  The crappy weather meant shorter night watches.  A man could swallow only so much sand. 

Time slowed to an agonizing grind.  He tried not to think about that damned Coke.  A week’s wages for just a sip, okay, maybe even a month’s.  In the middle of this freaking African desert, he had nothing else to spend his money on.

A sound—like boots swishing in the sand.  Damn.  The intel had been right.  He caught a glimpse of red to his left.  Another blast of sand kicked up and blinded him.  Instinctively, he pointed his rifle in the direction where he’d seen the red and squeezed the trigger.  The FAMAS didn’t fail him.  Bullets spewed out of the barrel, the recoil hammering his shoulder. 

A loud cry filled the night, followed by silence.  Rutger waited, moving his rifle back and forth, ready for the second wave.  Nothing.  Strange.  The rebels always worked in groups.  He lowered his FAMAS and stepped toward the flash of red.  Still nothing.  He glanced over his shoulder.  Where the hell was DeHavilland?  Hadn’t that lazy bastard heard the shots?  Slowly moving forward, he raised his rifle to his shoulder.  Another step, and the red fabric stopped him cold.

Rutger couldn’t breathe.  Icy terror ricocheted through his veins.  Spread-eagled on his back lay Mamadou, decked out in a red Coke T-shirt with what looked to be a twelve-pack of soda beside him in a threadbare canvas sack.

The sergeant’s heart jammed.  He stood frozen in shock.  The little boy moaned; two bullets had ripped through his tiny body.

Fingers of panic seized Rutger by the throat.  Why was Mamadou out in the middle of a sandstorm?  But he knew the answer all too well.  The young boy had probably snuck out, anxious to make a buck from the thirsty men.

Slinging the rifle over his left shoulder, he scooped up the weightless boy in his arms.  Mamadou’s eyelids fluttered, then closed.  The boy’s stillness sucker punched him.  Breathless and nauseated, he searched for an answer.  What could he do?  The nearby refugee camp--they had doctors.  He cradled Mamadou against his chest and raced through the sandstorm toward the camp.

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