The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  The mountains were receding off to the left and right now, and the terrain started to flatten on both sides of the road. Brenner increased the speed and we were flying down the middle of the crumbling blacktop. The color had returned to Mike’s face, but his knuckles were still white.

  Brenner transmitted, “Predators see nothing ahead.”

  Everyone acknowledged the good news.

  Mike found his voice and said, “Predators usually operate in pairs… two Hellfires each… so we’re out of missiles.”

  “Right. But the bad guys don’t know that.”

  “Yeah… and they don’t want to find out.”

  I hope.

  Clare was sitting low in the rear seat, and she had her radio in her hand. She transmitted, “V-5, M.D. here. How’s Z?”

  Z himself replied, “Don’t need you.”

  Then the other DSS agent transmitted, “Bullet passed through his brain. No damage.”

  Everyone was on an adrenaline high now, happy to be alive and very happy to joke about death.

  Someone else transmitted, “I feel bad about the donkey.”

  Another guy said, “Legat, legat. Permission to return fire.”

  Howard replied, “I’m checking.”

  Brenner said, “Can the chatter.”

  So we continued on in radio silence.

  Clare confessed, “I’ve never been so frightened in my life.”

  Mike replied, “Welcome to the club.”

  I focused my binoculars on Buck’s SUV, then Brenner’s. I could see some raw metal where they’d taken hits. Also, Brenner’s back windshield had been hit. I wondered what the new ambassador would say when he was picked up at Sana’a Airport with these vehicles.

  The road was straightening out, and we were definitely on the downslope. I began seeing more mud and stone huts, livestock, and people, plus a few motor scooters raising dust on the mountain trails.

  We increased our speed, and as we crested a hill I could see flatlands in the distance.

  Mike’s knuckles were pink again.

  Mike had his sat-phone plugged into the antenna jack, and I speed-dialed the DSS driver in Vehicle Four. The driver answered, “Steve.”

  “Is Ms. Mayfield awake?”

  “Yeah… hold on.”

  Kate’s voice came on the line. “Who is this?”

  “Just called to see how you’re doing.”

  “I’m doing fine. How about you?”

  “Good.” I asked, “How’s Howard?”

  “Fine… a little concerned that there may have been ICs back there.”

  “Only the donkey was an IC.” I added, “And by the way, I told you this place was dangerous.” Finally, I got to say it.

  Kate replied, “You may be right for a change.”

  “See you later.”

  I hung up and Mike said to me, “As we used to say in Iraq and Afghanistan, we can’t tell the ICs from the jihadists, so kill them all and let Saint Peter sort them out.”

  “They’re Muslims,” I pointed out.

  “Right. So the innocent Muslims get the seventy-two virgins, and the jihadists get to jerk off for eternity.”

  Interesting theology. More importantly, Mike Cassidy, who seemed like a regular guy from Daytona Beach, had apparently become a little callous, maybe numbed by years of this stuff. Well… maybe it was happening to all of us, by small degrees, and we didn’t see it.

  We were onto the plateau now, and there were farms, people, and vehicles around. I’d say we were back in civilization, but that would be stretching the definition of civilization.

  The radio crackled and Brenner said, “Fuel status.”

  Mike looked at the computer display: 96 kilometers left to empty.

  Everyone reported about the same, and Brenner said, “Refuel in Ta’iz. Details to follow.”

  Mike let us know, “Ta’iz is a big town—maybe three hundred thousand people, and a dozen gas stations. But sometimes they’re out of gas.”

  I thought they produced oil here. The only thing this place was never out of was ammunition.

  The radios crackled and Brenner said, “We’re not out of the woods yet, so stay alert.” He added, “Everyone did a good job back there.”

  Thanks, Paul. The drivers actually did a great job, and so did Zamo and the other DSS guy who literally stuck their necks out to return fire. The rest of us didn’t do much except keep our sphincters tight and our bladders full.

  The best job was done by the Predator ground pilots, and if I ever met them, I’d give them a big hug. But I’d never meet them. I didn’t even know what continent they were on.

  I said to Mike, “Good driving.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clare seconded that and added, “I thought we were dead.”

  Mike admitted, “It was a little close.”

  Clare offered brown-bag lunches, but all anyone wanted was water.

  We continued toward Ta’iz, then Aden, then maybe Marib. The Panther, apparently, had found us. And now we had to find him. And kill him, before he killed us. This was simple. I like simple.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  We didn’t want to go into Ta’iz with shot-up vehicles, and Mike also explained that Ta’iz was a hotbed of Al Qaeda and anti-government activity, and that the Commies were still strong there.

  Sounded like the San Francisco of Yemen.

  The good news was that the Predators had spotted an open gas station outside of town. The Predators are better than GPS—they shoot missiles.

  Anyway, we followed Brenner’s vehicle and up ahead we saw the gas station.

  Brenner got on the radio and said, “Vehicles One and Five, fill up. Everyone else take up positions.”

  Mike parked on the side of the road with the engine running, as did Buck’s and Kate’s SUVs, while the lead and trail vehicles pulled up to the two pumps.

  Brenner, carrying his M4, got out of the SUV and went to the trail vehicle to check on Zamo.

  Buck, also armed, got out, and Clare said, “I need to make a house call,” and exited with her medical bag.

  I got out, too, carrying my M4, and checked out my surroundings as I walked. The gas pumps were modern, but the parking area was dirt, and the building was a small concrete-block hut, from which emerged six Yemenis in ratty white robes, all carrying their Yemeni walking sticks, a.k.a. AK-47s. I haven’t seen this much firepower at a gas station since my road trip through Alabama.

  Two of the Yemenis were the gas attendants—no self-service here—and the other four were nosy. They checked out the shot-up Land Cruisers, and Buck was conversing with them. I had no idea what he was saying, but he should tell them we were just shooting at each other for laughs. They’d totally believe it.

  Clare had gotten into Zamo’s SUV, and Brenner had his head stuck in the window. He made room for me and I poked my head in. Zamo was sitting in the rear seat, and Clare was unwrapping a bloody first-aid pressure bandage from his left forearm.

  I asked him, “How you doing?”

  “I’d be doing better if people stopped asking me.”

  Clare got the bandage off and said, “This is not bad.”

  “I know that,” said Zamo.

  “I’ll clean and dress it, and maybe suture it when we get to the hotel.” She handed Zamo a vial of antibiotics and asked him, “You want a painkiller?”

  “No.”

  Brenner asked the doctor, “Is he okay for duty?”

  Zamo himself answered, “Good to go.”

  Everything seemed under control here, so I walked into the station hut looking for the restroom, and thinking maybe I could buy a few Slim Jims and a Dr Pepper. But there was nothing in the hut except some white plastic chairs and a prayer rug. Which way is Mecca?

  Buck joined me and said, “The restrooms are out back.”

  We went through an open doorway where there was a slit trench, and we held our noses and dicks and did our business, joined by a few of the DSS guys, in shifts, then Brenne
r, then Kate, who asked, “Who left the toilet seat up?”

  We stood watch with our backs to Kate as she used the unisex trench. This was a great bonding experience, and I was sure there’d be more of them in the Badlands.

  Anyway, the A-team was all assembled, so we used the opportunity for a quick meeting before we got back on the road.

  Buck informed us, “I’ve reported the incident to the embassy by sat-phone, and they have relayed my report to Washington.” He added, “The State Department will notify the Yemeni government. But we are not admitting to any unauthorized use of Hellfire missiles.”

  I pointed out, “I don’t think rifle fire can cause that kind of damage, Buck.”

  It was Mr. Brenner who replied. “Small-arms fire can detonate roadside bombs and fuel tanks.” He added, “The Yemenis don’t have the sophisticated forensics to determine otherwise.”

  Right. Whatever.

  Kate then said, “Howard may want to report this as it happened.”

  Buck said to Kate, “Tell him I’d like a word with him.”

  Kate nodded and left.

  Buck explained to me and Brenner, “It’s important that there are no conflicting accounts of what happened.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “Especially true accounts.”

  Buck further explained, “We were the victims of an apparent Al Qaeda attack. We don’t want to be seen as aggressors or provocateurs.” Buck also informed us, “There are certain groups in the States who are not in favor of our Hellfire assassination program.” He added, “This incident, if it became public, could be misinterpreted as offensive rather than defensive.”

  Right. We don’t want to upset human rights groups in the States with our HAPPY program—Hellfire Assassination Program to Pacify Yemen. I made that up.

  Buck also said, “It is important that we four are not declared persona non grata and asked to leave Yemen.”

  I agreed, but pointed out, “If it wasn’t for the Hellfires, we’d all be declared persona non breathing.”

  Buck ignored that and continued, “This attack, along with the Hunt Oil attack, will cause Washington to re-evaluate our military mission in Yemen.” He added, “Just as the Cole did.”

  Right. So, bottom line here, you sometimes need an attack to get things going your way. The Alamo, the Maine, Pearl Harbor, the Gulf of Tonkin, the USS Cole, and so forth. Sometimes the attack is an unprovoked surprise, and sometimes it isn’t.

  Howard appeared from the hut, spotted the trench, and used it. He then said to me, “I don’t know how I can ever repay you for inviting me along.”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  Buck had already thought of something and said to Howard, “This is a national security matter, Howard, and a sensitive diplomatic matter at the highest level.” He added, “Please do not say anything to anyone that would jeopardize this mission.”

  Or we’ll kill you.

  Howard, practicing not saying anything to anyone, just nodded, then left.

  We all assembled in front of the station. The Land Cruisers were topped off, the windshields were cleaned of mortal remains, and we got in our vehicles. Gentlemen, start your engines. And off we went, southeast toward Aden.

  Brenner transmitted, “Predators still on station until we reach our destination.” He added, “Two new Predators with Hellfires on the way.”

  Great. So, what did we learn from our drive in the country? Well, we learned that Al Qaeda knew of our trip to Aden—but that was almost a given. We learned, too, that Al Qaeda was willing and able to attack an armored American convoy. They were getting their act together. What Al Qaeda didn’t know, however, or didn’t expect, was Hellfire missiles—and that was because the Yemeni government idiots usually said no to Hellfires. But we solved that problem by not asking. This was a new game.

  What we didn’t know was if Al Qaeda knew that Mr. John Corey was in the convoy. But we could assume they did. In fact, Al Qaeda knew that John Corey and Kate Mayfield would be in Yemen before we knew we were going. What we didn’t know was if The Panther was now in Paradise, or in Marib, or someplace else. Wherever he was, he was pissed.

  Good. I was pissed, too.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The convoy continued on toward Aden.

  Mike informed Clare and me, “The farther south we go, the less Al Qaeda is present.”

  “Good.”

  “But Al Qaeda is strong again around Aden.”

  “Bad.”

  “Also, when we cross into what used to be South Yemen, you have secessionist rebels.”

  Clare asked Mike, “Is there any part of this country that’s… like, safe?”

  “Not one square inch.”

  You’re safe with me, sweetheart.

  She said, “At least we can feel safe in the hotel.”

  Uh… about that hotel, Clare…

  We were on the downslope from the central highlands and making good time toward the coastal plains despite the traffic on the well-traveled Ta’iz–Aden road.

  Mike said, “About a hundred K to Aden.”

  Brenner’s voice came over the radio. “New Predators with Hellfires on station. No suspicious roadside activity ahead. But stay alert for suicide vehicles.”

  The fun never stops.

  Mike informed us, “The Predators can keep flying for up to twenty-four hours without refueling.”

  Correct. And the pilot was on the ground, and he could hand off the controls every few hours. The Predator drone with Hellfire missiles was an awesome weapon system. This was probably how we’d bag The Panther, if we hadn’t already vaporized him back in the hills. American military technology is a beautiful thing—unless you’re on the receiving end.

  I asked Mike, “Where are the Predators stationed? And where are the ground control units?”

  He replied, “No one knows. But I’d guess Oman, or Saudi Arabia. Or maybe Djibouti across the strait.”

  “So not here?”

  “Not in this screwed-up country.”

  “Right.”

  It was almost 1 P.M., and we’d made okay time considering we took the old caravan route, though I hadn’t seen a single camel. The ambush hadn’t actually delayed us—in fact, it sort of moved things along. Nothing like getting shot at to get your ass moving.

  We intersected the new highway that came from Sana’a and headed due south toward Aden. It was a good road, and if we’d taken it, I wonder if we’d have had the same exciting experience we had on the caravan route. I was fairly sure that it was the Predator controller who advised us to take that route. In the end, the CIA—who had operational control of the Predators—got what they wanted: a show of American force, dead bad guys, and an incident.

  I asked Mike, “Will you guys be able to get back to Sana’a before dark?”

  “Maybe… We’ll see what Brenner wants us to do.”

  I used that opening to fish. “He seems like a good guy.”

  Mike replied, “He’s good.” Silence. “But he pushes his luck sometimes.”

  Which meant pushing everyone else’s luck. Maybe he had nothing to live for. But maybe he’d just found a new interest in life. I said to Mike, “He told me he had a lady in the States.”

  “Yeah. She was here once.” He let me know, “A real knockout.”

  “So no embassy romance?”

  Mike realized he was saying too much about his boss and replied, “Not that I know of.” He added, “Slim pickings here.”

  Clare piped in, “I beg your pardon.”

  That got a laugh.

  Clare also offered, “I think he’s cute.” She added, “But a little old for me.”

  What? He couldn’t be five years older than me. I’m crushed. I wish I had died in the Al Qaeda ambush.

  We were on the coastal plain now, and up ahead I spotted a road sign, one of the few I’d seen in the last four hundred kilometers, and I focused the binoculars on it. It said something in Arabic, but beneath that it said ADAN—with an A
—GOVERNATE.

  Mike said, “We are crossing into the former South Yemen, also once known as Adan.” He added, “It’s almost like another country in some ways.”

  Actually, it was once. But I said, “Looks like the same crap hole to me.”

  “Different attitudes here. A little more modern, maybe because of the British influence, then the Soviets, and all the ships coming into Aden Harbor from around the world.”

  “Right. Like the Cole.”

  Mike replied, “Al Qaeda is new in Aden.” He added, “South Yemen is regressing.”

  Actually, the whole Middle East was regressing.

  A half hour later, we were in the outskirts of Aden. I looked to the southeast, where I knew the Sheraton was located, and I didn’t see any smoke rising into the air, so that was a good sign.

  The Sheraton Hotel is located away from the city, on a peninsula that juts into the Gulf of Aden. The landscape was formed by a hopefully extinct volcano, and there are high hills and bluffs overlooking the beaches, which is very scenic, but not good for security.

  There was a construction project up ahead, and a big sign in English said: BIN LADEN CONSTRUCTION COMPANY, which reminded me of what Colonel Kent said in Sana’a. I’m sure most of the Yemeni-based bin Laden family were good citizens, but it was sort of jarring to see that—like if I saw in Germany ADOLF HITLER VOLKSWAGEN DEALER. Right? They might want to change that company name.

  We passed the airport and began an uphill climb into the high ground above the beaches.

  I could now see the Sheraton below, a white six-story contemporary-style building, sitting peacefully in the sunlight. Behind the hotel was a stretch of white sand and palm trees, and the calm blue waters of the Gulf of Aden. Paradise. Not.

  Clare said, “Looks nice.”

  Looks like a target.

  Mike asked me, “Bring back memories?”

  “Lots.”

  We came down a narrow road on the downside of the high bluffs, and right in front of us was the Sheraton Hotel. Brenner radioed, “Niner, niner. We have arrived. Good job, everyone.”

  Mike and the other drivers blasted their horns as we pulled into the hotel driveway.