The Panther

by Nelson DeMille

  Right. A real knee-slapper. Musa—Moses—Red Sea. Get it?

  Anyway, Chet did the honors and unlocked the padlock, opened one of the rear doors, and jumped inside. We all followed.

  The interior of the van was high enough for us to stand, and the walls, floor, and ceiling were lined with Kevlar and, I assumed, lead. Unsurprisingly, there was no fish inside. Instead there was a large electronic console in the front of the van, similar to a pilot’s cockpit array. In front of the console and the twin monitors were two swivel chairs.

  Chet took a seat in the left chair and he invited Buck, the oldest gentleman, to take the other seat. Brenner, ever vigilant, stood against a wall where he could divide his attention between the courtyard and the van.

  There were a few more electronic devices mounted on the long walls of the van, and on the floor were metal boxes marked with the names of the replacement parts that they contained. More importantly, there were three cardboard boxes of canned food on the floor and I read the American brand labels—mixed fruit, mixed vegetables, and, maybe as a joke, canned tuna. Who’s supposed to eat this shit? Where’s the chili? Is this the best those bastards in Washington could do?

  Chet said, “The electronics are low-powered so that everything can be run from our onboard generator.” He hit a switch on the console, and a few seconds later I could feel the vibration and hear the steady hum of the generator from somewhere under the floor. Chet also informed us, “There are electrical outlets in here so we can recharge our sat-phones, cell phones, and hand-held radios.”

  Chet glanced up at a gauge on the panel. “Voltage is steady,” he announced as he hit another switch and the dark console suddenly lit up. “We’re in business.”

  Chet played with a few dials, then switched on the two monitors and we immediately saw moving images on the screens—aerial shots in full color of two different landscapes gliding by.

  Chet read some electronic info on his screen and said, “The right-hand monitor is the view from a Predator drone that is, at this moment, running autonomously—meaning without an active ground pilot. The drone is executing a reconnaissance flight over this area using a pre-programmed computer plan.”

  The screen showed the rugged and unpopulated terrain west of here that we’d flown over last night. It was easy to see how guerrilla forces could disappear in those hills. And easy to imagine The Panther making those hills his home. It might not be so easy to draw him out of there. But with the right bait—Mr. and Mrs. Corey and company—The Panther might come out to eat his former American compatriots.

  Chet said to us, “The images from both these Predators are transmitted by Ku-Band satellite link to this van and also to a ground control station where one or two pilots and aerial image specialists are sitting at a console similar to this one—in a van or in a room.”

  I asked, “Where is the ground control station?”

  Chet gave me a CIA reply. “It doesn’t matter. Could be in Saudi Arabia, could be an Air Force base in the States, and it could even be at Langley.” He also had a Zen reply. “With satellites and advanced electronics, real time is more important than real place. The only real place that matters is the target.”

  Whatever. Thanks. I also asked, “Where are the Predator drones based?”

  Chet replied, “I really don’t know or care to know.” He added, “And neither do you.”

  Actually, I do, asshole. But I let it go.

  Chet continued, “The pilots have a flight control stick like this one, but my stick is deactivated.”

  Have you tried Viagra? Maybe less khat.

  Chet confessed, “I’m not a pilot. But I can speak directly to the pilots and instruct and guide them regarding what I want or need.” He reminded us, “I am the one who has operational control of the Predator drones and the Hellfire missiles during the execution stage of the mission.” To make sure we understood, he also said, “I, along with the aerial image specialists, identify who or what is the target and I give the order to the pilots to launch the Hellfires.”

  Right. That’s why it’s called the execution stage.

  Chet, on a little power high, also said, “This is what we call SAA—stealthy aerial assassination.” He concluded, “Awesome.”

  Indeed. But not as awesome as me blowing The Panther’s head off with my Colt .45.

  And then there was our sometime friend Sheik Musa, who was a full-time enemy of our sometime friend President Saleh. Some genius in Washington had figured out how to make this plan work for everyone. The idiots in Sana’a feared the tribes more than they feared Al Qaeda, but the Americans were obsessed with wiping out Al Qaeda. So if we put those two obsessions together, then Washington and Sana’a, the so-called allies, could solve their different problems in the same way—a thunderbolt out of the blue. It actually was a smart idea, and even Sheik Musa, who knew a few things about double-dealing, would appreciate it. Probably The Panther would, too. They could both talk about it in Paradise.

  Chet directed us to the screen in front of him and said, “That’s us.”

  And sure enough, there was a nice overhead image of the Crow Fortress on the screen. The slow-flying Predator drone was flying a tight circle over the plateau and we could see a few hundred meters in all directions, including the road we’d taken here, and also the better road that came from Marib in the north.

  Chet punched in a command on the keypad and the Predator’s camera enlarged the view of the fortress. I could see the Bedouin in the courtyard, sitting around, chatting and chewing.

  Chet said, “The Predator is about ten thousand feet, but with the fifteen-hundred-millimeter computer-enhanced zoom lens, the view looks like it’s from about fifty feet.”

  In fact, one of the Bedouin was taking a leak against the stone wall and I could see he wasn’t circumcised. Okay, maybe I assumed that.

  Chet put his headphones on and made radio satellite contact with the ground control station. “Clean Sweep zero-zero, this is Clean Sweep six-six. Commo check.”

  A few seconds later, a voice with a nice Down South accent came over the speaker. “Sweep six-six, loud and clear.”

  Six-six said to zero-zero, “I called in a sat-phone sit-rep at five hundred hours, and I repeat, all okay.”

  “Roger, six-six.” Zero-zero inquired, “Whacha’all have for lunch down there? Looked like grits.” Zero-zero laughed.

  Hey, were we having fun or what?

  Chet, a.k.a. six-six, and zero-zero, whoever and wherever he was, exchanged some technical information, then Chet said to zero-zero, “I’ll give you a heads-up when Clean Sweep is mobile—two small white SUV Hiluxes that you see here, plus the three white larger SUV Land Cruisers containing local escorts. Destination, Bilqis Hotel, Marib. Details to follow.”

  “Roger. Predator Two will follow. Predator One remains on station above you.” He added, “Both heavy.” Meaning armed.

  Chet also told him, “I’ll be away from this station until the team goes mobile, so if you see anything in the area that we should know about, call my sat-phone. If I’m not able to receive, you have the five other sat-phone numbers.”

  “Roger.” Zero-zero asked, “Anything further?”

  “Negative.”

  Zero-zero said, “Good luck.”

  Chet signed off and said to us, “I wanted you to see and hear that everything is in place, and that we are covered by the Predators.”

  Wonderful, Chet. But can the Predators predict if our Bedouin buddies are going to smell a double cross and whack us? Or worse, turn us over to The Panther? No. We have to figure that out ourselves.

  Chet explained a few other features of the Predator monitoring equipment and informed us, “As I said in Aden, during the execution stage of the operation we’ll have four Predators. Two over the target, and two over this location for security, each armed with two Hellfires.” He further explained, “I can split these two screens and watch all four images.”

  I asked Chet, “How do we get this mil
lion-dollar van out of here?”

  “We don’t. We can’t.”

  “So the Predators take care of it?”

  “Correct.”

  That’s why my taxes are so high. I said jokingly, “I assume we will be out of the van when the Hellfire hits it.”

  “That would be a good idea.”

  The show-and-tell seemed to be finished, so Chet, Brenner, and I each took a case of canned food and we exited Moses’ fish van and Buck locked it up.

  Buck said we should share our bounty with our hosts, to reciprocate for their hospitality—thanks for the glop, here’s a can of tuna—so we did that and made our way back to the second floor of the tower.

  Chet seemed upbeat, and I imagined he saw the end in sight—the end of all his work and his frustration, and the end of his time here in Yemen.

  All we had to do now was go check into the hotel, go see the stupid ruins, then get kidnapped.

  And then wait for The Panther.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  At 1:15 P.M., the A-team, minus Chet Morgan, piled into our two Toyota Hiluxes, compliments of Sheik Musa. We left most of our personal items in the Crow Fortress because we’d be coming back later today as kidnapped Americans, also compliments of Sheik Musa. But we did take our overnight bags with us for when we checked into the Bilqis Hotel for a few days of sightseeing fun, cut short, unfortunately, by the above-mentioned kidnapping.

  The purpose here, according to Chet’s complex plan, was to make it appear that we were tourists driving in from Sana’a. And at the same time, we were obviously not tourists, so therefore we were Americans on a mission. Hopefully our arrival would come to the attention of The Panther, who would conclude, correctly, that his former compatriots were here to kill or capture him. The Panther, in turn, would make plans of his own to kill or capture us. But before he could do that, a third player—Sheik Musa—would upset The Panther’s plan by doing what the Bedouin do best: kidnapping foreigners for ransom. And the first person who was offered the chance to buy the Americans would be The Panther. The Panther, theoretically, would not smell a setup or a trap because it would appear that Sheik Musa just happened to get wind of the American presence and was taking advantage of an opportunity.

  And that’s the way the CIA thinks. It’s not the way I think—I’m a bit more direct and a lot less into the smoke and mirrors that the CIA loves. But, hey, it’s their show and Yemen is the stage, so maybe they’ve got this one right. We will see.

  Anyway, in my overnight bag, if you’re interested, I’d packed some bottled water, a can of tuna, and yesterday’s boxer shorts. Also, Chet had provided each of us with a toilet kit to complete the appearance of overnight visitors from Sana’a.

  We were carrying our concealed sidearms, we wore our Kevlar, and our M4s were across our laps. Kate also wore her black scarf so she could cover her hair and face when appropriate, like when she was kidnapped by Muslim gentlemen who would be offended to see her face.

  The three Bedouin Land Cruisers that had taken us to the Crow Fortress would now provide a discreet escort for us to the town of Marib, to prevent a real kidnapping—or assassination—by someone else. Two of the Land Cruisers had gone ahead to check out the road, and the third would trail behind. And if anyone noticed the Bedouin’s SUVs, they would or should appear to be stalking us, not protecting us.

  The two Bedouin who’d been here watching the Predator fish van when we’d arrived were staying here to hold down the fort, literally, and to provide security for Chet. I hoped they didn’t cut his throat. We needed Chet to talk to the Predator pilots.

  As for CCC—Command, Control, and Communication—the Bedouin had provided Chet, Buck, and Brenner with local cell phones so the convoy could stay in touch if a security situation arose. Also, we had our hand-held radios for point-to-point contact with one another, and our sat-phones, though they’d work only if we had clear sky, meaning not in the vehicles, unless we had our heads out the window.

  The order of march was: Hilux One, Buck driving and Zamo riding shotgun; Hilux Two, Brenner driving, me riding shotgun, and Kate in the rear.

  We gave the two lead Bedouin Land Cruisers a five-minute head start, then Chet wished us a safe drive to Marib, a nice day at the ruins, and a pleasant kidnapping. Chet thought that was funny. He waved good-bye, then stepped into the van, where he could watch us getting abducted as he ate a can of tuna.

  Buck and Zamo pulled out of the courtyard, and Brenner, Kate, and I followed.

  Buck didn’t head back to the steep ravine we’d come up, but headed north and west across the plateau, following the tire tracks of the two Land Cruisers ahead of us, whose raised dust we could see in the distance. Follow that Bedouin.

  The gray, rocky plateau looked like the video images from the first moon walk. This place could use another forty days and forty nights of rain.

  Brenner said to Kate and me, “I’ve been thinking about this thing with Sheik Musa.”

  I asked, “You mean about us killing Sheik Musa?”

  “Yes.” He admitted, “I see the reason for it. But I don’t like it.”

  “Neither will Sheik Musa,” I assured him. But the sheik would know the reason for it.

  “Aside from the ethical issues, there are practical issues,” said Mr. Brenner.

  “You mean like, how do we explain to the Saudis that we whacked their Bedouin ally?”

  “Yes, not to mention that the Bedouin here in Marib and elsewhere may not want to do business with us in Yemen ever again.” He let us know, “They have long memories and they hold grudges for about a thousand years.”

  I said, “Maybe Washington has figured out a way to make Sheik Musa’s death look like an accident or that someone else did it.”

  Brenner replied, “Assuming we use a Hellfire missile on Musa, that reduces the possible murder suspects to one. Us.”

  “Right. But it’s not murder. It’s termination with extreme prejudice, in CIA lingo.” I added, “Sounds better.”

  Kate, who’s been hanging around me too long, said wisely, “When you see a double cross, look for a triple cross.”

  Brenner agreed with Ms. Mayfield and added, “As we said in Aden, let’s keep an eye on this and talk to each other.”

  Paul Brenner was a good guy, a former cop, and a straight shooter. True, he seemed to have Restless Dick Syndrome, but, hey, we all have a little of that. I wondered what Clare was doing now. Probably floating in the pool with Howard. How did I get from Paul Brenner to Clare Nolan? Could I have RDS?

  Anyway, it was interesting that the three of us didn’t completely trust the two intelligence officers. Comes with the territory, I guess, though we were all on the same team. Whatever lies we were told and whatever information Chet and Buck withheld was based on the strong principle of need-to-know. If we needed to know, we’d be told when the time came, and if we never needed to know, we’d never know. And what we didn’t know couldn’t be gotten out of us if we were captured—or worse, interrogated by a congressional committee. And what we don’t know can’t hurt us. Wait. Let’s back up on that one.

  Anyway, Kate, Brenner, and I were now on the same page, and we had our antennae up, to mix metaphors.

  Brenner’s Bedouin-issued cell phone rang and he answered and listened. Are you allowed to drive while talking on your phone in Yemen? I guess if you’re allowed to fire assault rifles out your window, you can talk on your phone.

  Brenner hung up and said, “That was Buck seeing if these cell phones actually worked.”

  “Good thinking,” I agreed. Not that we didn’t trust Sheik Musa; it was the Yemen Telephone Company that could be the problem. Especially here. Lots of dead zones. Also, I wondered how the Bedouin paid their phone bills.

  Brenner informed us, “Buck said he got a cell phone call from Chet saying Predators report no suspicious activity ahead.”

  Didn’t they say that on the road to Aden?

  The north side of the plateau, as I saw on the Predator monitor
, was a gradual slope, and Buck followed the rutted track as it descended into the flatlands. I could see a road in the distance, a few vehicles, houses, and cultivated areas.

  Halfway down the slope, I spotted a white SUV parked behind a big rock formation, and as we got closer I saw four men with AK-47s sitting on the rocks. Obviously they were Sheik Musa’s men, guarding this approach to the fortress as promised. Our two lead escort vehicles had apparently sailed right past these guys, so everyone was in the same tribe. Right? On the other hand, this was Yemen and nothing was as it appeared.

  Buck slowed down, and so did we. It’s times like this when you fully appreciate fully armored vehicles. Beats the hell out of a Kevlar vest.

  I took my M4 off safety and told Kate to do the same. Brenner drew his Colt .45.

  Buck stopped about fifty meters from the men and they waved their arms to continue on. Like, “Come on, people. Haven’t you ever seen four guys in robes with assault rifles?”

  The cell phone wasn’t ringing, so I guess Chet and the Predator pilot were okay with these guys—or the pilot was about to put a Hellfire on them.

  Our trail vehicle caught up to us, then our hand-held radios all crackled and Buck’s voice said, “They’re Musa’s tribesmen.”

  Buck continued on and we followed. I reminded Kate, “Scarf. Don’t make eye contact unless you’re firing at them.”

  Brenner thought that was funny.

  As Buck drew abreast of the Bedouin, he lowered his window and did his peace greeting—As-salaam alaikum—which they returned. So I lowered my window and called out, “Shalom! Aleichem!”

  Kate said, “That’s Hebrew, John.”

  “Sounds the same.”

  We continued on, and our trail escort dropped back.

  We came down into the flatlands and followed the rutted track north through a sparsely populated area of small irrigated fields and brown pastureland where skinny goats wandered around looking for something they might have missed. Life here is tough. And short.

  Brenner, Kate, and I made small talk, because to keep talking about the mission sounds like you’re a little jumpy. And that was not cool.