Sting of the Wasp

by Jeff Rovin

  “Our friend here communicated with the Yemeni military using his own device,” Williams said to Grace.

  She understood and reached across him, slapped his pockets, found the smartphone along with the dead Israeli’s papers. The man seemed repulsed by her familiarity with his body, by her hair touching his cheek.

  Williams pocketed the phone in his robe. He glared at the prisoner over his gun. “The only reason you’re still alive is we may need you. You move, you speak, you die.”

  Rivette had returned and removed his headdress. He used the cord to tie the man’s wrists, tightly, to the metal armrest of the seat. Breen’s cord attached the man’s ankles to the leg of the chair in front of him.

  “I’ll watch him,” Grace said, drawing one of her knives from under her robe and sitting on the handrail across from him.

  The other men moved a few steps forward. Breen was facing the front of the bus, keeping an eye on the driver; the man sat very still, his hands on his knees. If he hadn’t seen the weapons he had heard the English. He was also Saudi; he had no reason to become involved in whatever was going on, only to survive it.

  “We can’t stay on the highway, obviously,” Williams said—surprised how good it felt not to have to whisper anymore. He felt like a commander again.

  “We also can’t continue off-road,” Breen contributed. “This thing can’t take it.”

  “My ass can’t take it,” Rivette said. “No joke. If my lower back is off, I’m off, my aim is off.”

  Williams had known snipers, had known their artistic idiosyncrasies. He did not dismiss the complaint. He looked back at the Yemeni. He knew that something had been off with the bastard, and was not gratified to have been right. But the man gave him an idea.

  “The military is off-road until they see a blue bus,” Williams said, thinking. “When they see one, they will converge on it, on the highway.”

  “Assuming they don’t just shoot the shit out of it,” Rivette said.

  “Unlikely,” Breen said. “They’ll want to interrogate the passengers.”

  “Right,” Rivette said. “How much distance you think we got? I can pick ’em off—”

  Breen ducked down, looked out the windshield. “City lights look about a mile, a mile and a half away. They wouldn’t park too far from HQ in case this is a feint. And they’re not using air cover, probably to keep from scaring us off.”

  “Good gets,” Williams said.

  “Too far without an M107, which we don’t have,” Rivette lamented.

  “Not sure guerrilla war is what we want out here,” Williams said. “We still have to get to Aden.” He thought for a moment. “There’s no chance they’ve seen us yet. It’s nearly dark. The bus moves forward, headlights will keep them from seeing inside.”

  “We can’t run through or around this,” Breen said.

  “No. But I have an idea.”

  He told the other two what he was thinking. The plan seemed to self-blossom, parts of it emerging as he walked them through it. Breen was stoic as usual but Rivette’s smile broadened as he listened.

  “I like it,” the lance corporal said when Williams was finished. “I want to be the one to stay with this guy.” He indicated the Yemeni.

  Williams shook his head. “Anything goes wrong, we will need your firepower.”

  “And I may need cover,” Grace said from the back. “I’m staying with the prisoner. I’ll meet you on the other side.”

  If this were Op-Center, Williams would probably not have approved the plan. It made him realize how his limited field experience had made him think that JSOC was recklessly out of their skulls most of the time. They weren’t. Still, Williams hesitated.

  “It’s her call,” Breen reminded Williams.

  That was something he needed to hear—again. “All right,” Williams said, easing around Breen. “I’ll try and communicate to the driver what he has to do to survive this.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Harad, Yemen

  July 24, 7:48 p.m.

  The dump truck was filled with potatoes grown in the highland regions of North Yemen, roughly one thousand meters above sea level where the temperature, sunlight, and water supply favored their growth. Qahtan al-Beid had worked the fields since he was a young boy, growing as they did, encouraged by the government’s establishment in 1980 of the Seed Potato Production Center. Today, he and his two sons and both of his male grandchildren had a successful business; successful enough so that they only had to grow the vegetable and not participate in the drug trade. Illegal operators did not pressure him to surrender land; they, too, liked potatoes with their meals.

  For the past sixteen years al-Beid had a contract with the government to provide potatoes for the military outposts and depots in the north. They did not pay very well, but what the family lost in profits they made up for with regular visits from military patrols as well as fly-overs by helicopters. That helped to let bandit groups know the fields were not to be molested. By and large, the tactic was successful. Bandits could only carry so many potatoes in any case; they were acceptable losses and some of them had even become al-Beid’s eyes and ears in the region, warning about clandestine operations by Saudi invaders. That information, passed to Commander al-Shaabi, made the officer seem prescient to his own superiors in Sana’a. In all, it was a successful and synergistic relationship. The old but vital driver flicked his hand-rolled cigarette through the open window and sipped tea his grandson poured from a thermos. Though al-Beid carried a shotgun beside the door—the military could not be everywhere at once—he felt quite safe on Highway 10.

  It was for that reason the grower and his son Nashwan were surprised when a blue bus suddenly, slowly struggled across the highway into their headlights, blocking the road.

  * * *

  Having moved two hundred meters to the west along the slight incline athwart the highway, Major Breen had flashed Williams’s smartphone twice to signal the approach of the target. That was the sign for the frightened, greasily perspiring driver to move his bus onto and across the single east-running lane of the two-lane highway.

  The dump truck would have plowed through it, had the driver not applied his brakes; though the impact would have done considerable damage to the cab and its occupants, who had not bothered to install seat belts.

  The driver pulled up a shotgun but remained seated. His companion, sitting on the left, drew a revolver and rose up slightly, looking to the side and behind—as much as he could see over the stacked potatoes.

  He froze when he saw the guns.

  Rivette had been lying belly-down, facing the road. As soon as the truck stopped, he was on his feet, crouching, two guns drawn, moving forward in the deepening blue twilight. He hurried silently onto the running board, quietly cursing his cramped lower back, and pointed both weapons into the cab—one on each of the occupants. The shotgun remained at the height it had been raised.

  That was when Breen stepped up. He pointed his own weapon at the driver and relieved him of the .12 gauge.

  Rivette opened the left-side passenger door to pull the man out. There was not a great deal of traffic but the team did not want another vehicle to stop here now.

  The lance corporal had warned the others not to fire unless they had to. Even a single shot would be heard a mile away. He broke that rule when he had opened the door and a light came on and he saw the young man’s revolver pointed at him. The passenger’s finger tensed and Rivette fired into his shoulder.

  That was it, he thought unhappily. The clock is really running now.

  Rivette pulled the young man out while Breen did the same on the driver’s side. The two Americans jumped into the cab of the truck, Rivette at the wheel. They turned off the road, back into the rugged plain, while the old man ran to see to the other.

  “Wait!” Breen said to Rivette. “We can’t leave them. The military will know where we’ve gone.

  Rivette swore and, together, they got out and pushed the two Yemenis up t
he rear swing gate and into the back. Williams arrived then and pulled himself up beside them. Grace followed. The plan had been to stall the army by driving the bus to the checkpoint where Grace would slip out and rendezvous with the truck. That plan was dead; even now the horizon was bright with lights racing in their direction. The woman jumped from the driver’s side running board to the dumping bed then on to the potatoes.

  “Hold on!” Rivette shouted out the window as he tore into the countryside, the passengers sliding over the high, unsteady load. The jostling was extreme; Grace buried herself deep, facedown, to keep from sliding around. Williams followed her example.

  “What did you do with Lahem?” he asked the lieutenant.

  “He killed Ben Kimon, saw the banker, heard us talk,” she said. “I had no choice.”

  Williams did not, could not, approve of field executions; he also did not blame her. “The driver?”

  “I gave him some of the money for his trouble, kept the rest in case we need it. He actually seemed okay.”

  Breen was lying on his side near Williams, his gun on the Yemenis. He was facing the back of the truck. The old man had removed his keffiyeh to try and bind the bullet wound of the other. He was on his knees, more skilled than the rest at keeping his balance.

  “Lance corporal—is there a first-aid kit in the cab?”

  “There is!”

  “I’ll cover him,” William said, grasping the major’s intention.

  Breen handed him the gun and elbow walked to the front of the truck. He extended an arm through the open window, took the kit from Rivette, and squirmed his way back. He gave the kit to the old man—who seemed both surprised and grateful.

  The major turned back toward the others and recovered his gun. “The soldiers are still going to see the tracks,” he said. “And the potatoes that are bouncing out.”

  “If we abandon the truck they’ll hunt us down,” Williams said.

  “End run!” Rivette shouted from the cab.

  The other three had no idea what he meant until he swung the truck into a dramatic turn back in the direction they had come—but to the east.

  “Shit,” Grace said. Then, to Rivette, “Nice one!”

  “Thanks!”

  The other two realized, then, what the lance corporal meant. He would get back on Highway 10 below the military checkpoint.

  “Choppers’ll spot us,” Williams said.

  “Not in the city,” Breen said. “We abandon the truck.”

  The other two agreed as Rivette steered them back toward the highway. They thumped onto it well below the spot where the original checkpoint had been. When Harad was just a turnoff away, they stopped.

  Williams said something to the old man in English. He replied in Arabic, made a show of not understanding. That was good enough. Even if they’d heard what the Americans were saying—potatoes proved to be surprisingly sound-absorbing—they couldn’t tell the troops anything. Blindfolding them with their own headwear and tying them back-to-back with their rope belts—gently, so as not to pop the younger man’s hasty bandage—the team slipped from the truck and moved silently toward the city.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Aden, Yemen

  July 24, 9:00 p.m.

  Ali Abdullah did not spit when Sadi called again. This time, he was consumed with fire. The Quran relates how it is the djinn who are created from flame; if so, then Abdullah was now himself a being of the supernatural.

  Upon returning to Aden with their prized passenger, Abdullah had brought him to the warehouse to await further instructions—and also to introduce him to his fighters. The experience put most of them on their knees, threw some into prayers of thanks, the du’a from the Quran. Abdullah had never seen his fighters like children, like women, but he did not begrudge them that. He had wanted to bring Salehi here to stir their passion, and that had happened. The Iranian was openly embarrassed by the spontaneous display, but he was also poised and present enough not to dismiss the respect he was being shown.

  Afterward, Abdullah offered to give the man privacy in one of the sleeping areas that had been set up for the fighters. Salehi asked, instead, to go outside in the sun, to smell the sea. The warlord understood and, fixing him up with headgear to conceal his features, went outside with him. Abdullah always carried a Walther P-99 in the pocket of his robe and, for added security, had quietly sent two men to the roof of the warehouse to watch over their guest. He did not wish to crowd the captain but to see to his protection.

  The warehouse was just fifty meters from the water and Salehi approached with quiet reverence. It was a rare moment of balance for Abdullah, he was with an ally who had achieved a great victory against an enemy of Islam, someone who had done, in a minute, what the Supporters of Allah had been struggling for years to achieve.

  They remained outside for nearly an hour, after which Abdullah allowed Salehi a quiet meal in their galley—and he informed his men that their mission was not yet complete.

  “We will review maps of the port of Al Hudaydah,” he said. “It is there we will be taking our honored guest—and protecting him from a strike I have been informed is coming from a team of commandos.”

  The information roused the men anew.

  For several hours, they studied maps of the port and of the ships presently in the harbor. They learned about the tanker al-Wadi’i to which they would be bringing Captain Salehi. Their benefactor had sent over the plans and they ascertained access points for themselves … and an unknown number of commandos who might come for them. They did not look for exits since each man would die rather than retreat. They studied the corridors, stairs, elevators, and charted routes that afforded the greatest protection. After making their plans they slept, while Salehi did the same.

  Abdullah was awakened by the call from Sadi, informing him that the commandos had gotten as far as Harad, where they had apparently evaded a roadblock.

  The news of the foreign team evading another force in their own land should have been concerning to Abdullah. But it had just the opposite effect. Ahmed Salehi had pitted himself against the greatest odds a man could conceive and had won a great victory. Abdullah and his core group, the best of his fighters, now had a chance to do the same.

  “I do not have information on their exact number,” Sadi said. “But they are small and mobile and should not be underestimated.”

  “They will not be,” Abdullah assured him.

  “The al-Wadi’i docks are at high tide tomorrow morning, 11:09,” Sadi said.

  “Overcast with rainfall,” Abdullah reported. He always made it a point to know the weather where he would be fighting.

  “You please me,” Sadi told him. “I do not know that I will have further information. From now until the encounter you must be vigilant. These invaders have proven difficult to predict and resilient, as have your own fighters. Perhaps Captain Salehi can contribute observations from Trinidad.”

  “An excellent thought,” Abdullah replied.

  “Fi Amanullah,” Sadi replied before hanging up.

  “May Allah protect you as well,” Abdullah replied, throwing off the vestiges of sleep and going to see Captain Salehi.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Al Luḩayyah, Yemen

  July 24, 10:08 p.m.

  It was not the lights of Harad that Rivette had seen. He had traveled further south, paralleling the highway, and had reached the coastal town of Al Luḩayyah.

  “Read the signs next time,” the lance corporal muttered as they entered the town.

  “This is actually good,” Grace said.

  “How do you figure?” Rivette asked.

  “Because the chance we have of getting to Aden quickly—and at all—is by sea,” Breen said.

  “The Red Sea,” Williams said.

  His remark had the effect of putting the team into a new and different state of mind … and spirit. It hit them, to varying degrees, that this was not just a region of religion. It reminded Williams of the feeling h
e had whenever he went to the Oval Office. Regardless of the occupant, it was the Oval Office. This was immediately bigger. It was a place where God Himself hammered prophets with suffering, raised them when there was need. Now that Williams had given them time to catch their breath somewhat, to take stock, to save the peace of the nighttime, it was humbling on an entirely new level. He could sense, from their silence, their almost reverent tread, that the others felt it, too.

  The men walked shoulder to shoulder, Breen in the center, Rivette on the right. Grace had repaired her outfit and was walking behind the men. She did not mind; it left her better able to keep tabs of anyone who might be around them. She had been amused, on the flight over, that the military had prepared backpacks for them: more weapons, more ammunition, medical supplies, and radios. Except for power bars tucked in pockets, they had left it all behind. She carried only what she had when she left Trinidad, hidden beneath her robes, the knives still tight in their sheaths. She had choked Lahem to death rather than cut his throat as he deserved. In Ancient China, a literal coat of blood was a warning to others who aspired to enter a community and become murderous “entrepreneurs.”

  The short, potholed exit ramp opened to a bleak vista where the spotty electric lights seemed to be accompanied by the sound of generators. The only nearby lights came from two campfires about one hundred yards ahead. They were lit in the ruined foundations of buildings that once stood on two empty lots. There were burned vehicles on the road beside those lots and the firelight revealed craters averaging a yard or two in diameter. Williams had seen enough combat photos to recognize the damage caused by rocket-propelled grenades.

  Several men were gathered around each fire; driven by a gentle sea breeze, the cottony smoke floated toward the new arrivals. Some of the men had rifles slung over their shoulders. Two were standing, using binoculars to try and ascertain what was going on up the highway. All turned to look at the ghostly white trio coming down the road followed by a woman.