State of Emergency

CHAPTER 34


January 5

Stage 5





The oppressive tension and never-ending hours of the Dakar tended to stack up, making mundane tasks like filling up with fuel require intense concentration. Quinn’s triple duty of watching Zamora and trying to locate the bomb during the most dangerous race in the world was beginning to take its toll. Mile ran into grueling mile. By the fifth day he wondered if the Chechens would ever make their move.

Staying behind while keeping Zamora in sight proved to be more difficult than simply outracing the Venezuelan. Quinn was an expert rider and still took two tumbles over the first three days while trying to ride aggressively with one eye on the trail and one eye on Zamora—who seemed to ride with the reckless abandon of a teenage boy who thought he could live forever.

The falls had cost Quinn a sprained shoulder and torn a bit of cowling off the bike, but he pushed on anyway. In truth, he hadn’t gone more than a couple of consecutive weeks out of the past fifteen years without some sort of tear, sprain, or bone bruise to let him know he was still alive.

The pace of the rally itself was bone numbing.

Quinn rose at 5 A.M. each morning to drink his protein shake, wolf down a quick breakfast, and shrug on more than twenty-five pounds of protective gear. With breakfast still sloshing in his gut, he picked up the KTM from Bo, who’d spent much of the night changing oil, assessing tires, and fixing the inevitable mechanical issues that crept into a highly tuned machine when it was rattled and jumped and run at high speeds over rock and sand and gravel.

After loading the scrolled road book that would give him the day’s route, he’d grabbed the Waypoint GPS codes from the boards then raced across the bivouac where he got his time card and prepared for a 6 A.M. start. Battling crowds at gas stations during the Liaison runs, waving at fans, and being manhandled by adoring children at every stop became second nature.

As soon as Quinn started out for the day, Thibodaux, Bo, and Aleksandra struck the tents, packed the support truck, and entered a race of their own to cover as much as eight hundred kilometers over highway and back road—presumably following the speed limit—to reach the next bivouac and set up camp ahead of Jericho. Bo, who had usually worked all night on the bike, slept in the backseat while Thibodaux and Aleksandra took turns driving and keeping tabs on Zamora and Quinn on their smartphones.

Somewhere along the route each day, the Liaison ended for Quinn and he came to a point known as DSS—Departure Special Stage. Ranging from a just a few to hundreds of kilometers in length, there was no speed limit during the special stages. The fastest time—absent any penalties—was the day’s winner. Once the special was over, there was often another section of Liaison back to the bivouac where he would arrive around 6 P.M., make his camp in the blowing dust, grab a quick meal at the catering tent, debrief Bo about the bike’s mechanical issues, take a quick shower, study his road book for the following day, eat a quick second dinner to top off on calories, then stagger into bed by eleven. Even then sleep was hard to come by with the constant hubbub, light, and engine noise of the bivouac.

Some racers resorted to sleep aids, but Quinn had to keep an eye on Zamora. He couldn’t afford to be groggy if woken in the middle of the night, so he accepted a reduced level of awareness throughout the entire day.

The nights were short and the Liaisons were long, but the remote Special Stages were where the Dakar was won or lost. They were also where Quinn expected the Chechens would make their move.

Now he stood on the pegs of his bike, thirty kilometers into the fifth Special. Zamora was ahead, popping in and out of view along with three other riders as they dipped and climbed the rolling camel-colored dunes. His GPS had easily registered the last Waypoint and the road book showed a fairly straight course to the next. One of the media helicopters hovered overhead, getting official video. Their presence set Quinn’s nerves at ease. The Chechens, however desperate, wouldn’t do anything with such an eye in the sky. It was midday. Quinn felt connected with the bike and in the groove of the race. For the first time in five days, he began to enjoy the Dakar.

Without warning, the helicopter banked hard to the left, and flew south, accelerating en route.

Quinn topped the next two dunes with no sign of Zamora. He rolled on more throttle, throwing up a rooster tail of sand, but thought little of the bird’s departure until the speaker in his helmet squawked.

“You there, Chair Force?” Thibodaux’s voice startled him out of riding nirvana.

Quinn coughed, clearing his throat of dust before answering. “Go ahead.”

“Eyes wide, l’ami,” the Cajun said. “I lost Zamora and Blessington’s GPS signals about ten minute ago. It’s been fading in and out, so I didn’t worry until we drove up on this. We got the mother of all wrecks along the Liaison route. Argentine cops are saying a private truck lost control at a crossing, slammed into a crowd of fans and three riders.”

“A private truck?” Quinn dodged a series of hard ruts and worked to get his head wrapped around that kind of an accident. He could hear the sound of car horns blaring in his earphone.

“They’re talking multiple fatalities,” Thibodaux said. “It’s gridlock here and we’re stuck behind a mess. I’m betting every emergency vehicle and helicopter is responding this way. Hear what I’m sayin’?”

“I do,” Quinn said.

“It’s about to get awful lonely out there.”

The Liaisons were crowded with onlookers, and even the more remote Special Sections were generally peppered with fans, some huddled under the shade of a single lonely tree, others lined up with coolers and straw hats, braving the sun in order to catch a glimpse of their favorite riders.

Between the three medical helicopters and assorted media birds, not two minutes went by that there wasn’t some eye in the sky keeping everyone honest and safe.

Until the accident.

Ahead of Quinn, the dunes gave way to hard-packed dirt and gravel washes. He topped the next ridge in time to see Zamora’s bike dart to the right and disappear behind a rock outcrop into a dry riverbed.

The hot dry wind suddenly took on a metallic smell. This was all wrong. He glanced over the handlebars at his road book. As he suspected, the route went straight ahead for another three kilometers.

“Zamora’s decided to leave the course,” Quinn said.

“Watch yourself,” Thibodaux said. “I got your signal on the GPS but still no joy on Zamora. Something’s wrong.”

Quinn watched the two riders who’d been with Zamora pop over a hill to continue straight on the prescribed course. Wherever Zamora was going, he was going it alone.

Quinn slowed to follow Zamora’s tracks at the dry riverbed. There was no sign of the Venezuelan, but he could hear the whine of his bike around the next bend.

Standing in the pegs, Quinn poured on the throttle, wanting to catch up before Zamora lost him altogether. If Thibodaux couldn’t track him, Quinn had no choice but to speed up and keep him in sight.

He caught sight of the bike the moment he rounded the next corner. It was close—and something was extremely wrong. Quinn tried to process the new images at the same moment the front tire of his KTM seemed to fold in on itself, throwing him violently over the handlebars. A cloud of fesh fesh blossomed into the air like gray talc, blinding him as he and his bike slammed into the unforgiving ground.