by David Poyer
“People die when we’re polite, Commander.”
“When did GrayWolf get in country?”
He didn’t bother to answer.
Dan remembered the hills of western Virginia. Ranges, bunkers, barracks, training compounds with green steel-roofed shooting houses. Jet strips, helo pads, tank firing ranges miles long, and entire mock villages through which troops maneuvered to the crackle of small arms. Acres of concrete prefabs surrounded by new concertina, cornered by guard towers.
GrayWolf was a burgeoning empire. Torgild Schrade had been two classes ahead of him at the Naval Academy, so they hadn’t had much contact there. But at their last meeting he’d offered Dan a job, even hinted at a vice presidency. “What are you people doing here?” he asked the guard again, not moving on.
“State Department contract. See Mr. Peyster, any questions . . . Commander Lenson.”
That gave him a start—Schrade was known for tracking people of interest, by electronic and other means—before he realized the guard was just reading his name tag.
Inside he found the petty officer in charge and downloaded his slides. The military ran on PowerPoint these days. A laser printer was chuffing out takeaways.
A stir; everyone headed for gray metal chairs. He found himself next to the redhead, whose face was badly blistered. “Attention on deck,” someone bellowed. The military folks stiffened; the civilians looked blank.
“Stand at ease,” Ahearn said, ushering a white-haired man ahead of him who didn’t look at all like the child star Dan remembered. The general and the ambassador took seats in front with advisers and staffers. Dan could have sat there but preferred the back. A handsome young marine took the stage as lights dimmed and the opening slide came up. OPERATION COLLATERAL GRATITUDE. BRINGING FOOD AND SECURITY TO ASHAARA. The briefer gave a quick overview of ops to date and the location and status of forces in-country and on the Time-Phased Force and Deployment List for arrival. He stepped down after introducing the next briefer, on internal security.
To Dan’s surprise it was the black woman in the colorful dress. “The national police are disbanded,” she began. “The closest entity to a government seems to be a Governing Council that claims to exercise sovereignty, but does it? Your guess is as good as mine. We’ve met with a group that calls itself the national police, headed by a ‘general’ who was a major before his bosses flew the coop. But it may actually be nothing more than a Dalangani clan militia.
“The other clans seem quiescent, but may be arming. Case in point: the shipload of weapons Shamal intercepted last month. So far animosities between the sects are muted, but this may be only a narrow window. We’ll continue to broaden our circle of contacts, but my recommendation is to keep the Council at arm’s length until a more representative group can be formed. Since they maintain they’re the legitimate police, we may have to begin our disarmament program with another clan.” She quickly covered the drug and weapon situation, then stepped down.
Before the next briefer could begin a rugged-looking Englishman in civilian clothes stood. “Howard Quarles, Save the Children. In-country six years. I agree Ashaara needs help. But are troops and occupation forces the way to do it?”
“That’s beyond the scope of—”
“I’m interested in the gentleman’s insights,” Ahearn said, turning in his chair. “Can we meet after this brief, Mr. Quarles?”
The red-haired woman beside Dan raised her hand. “Dr. Gráinne O’Shea, International Hydrological Programme. Your efforts seem confined to the population hubs. But the real suffering’s in the villages and mountains, and the nomads of the Quartier Vide.”
“Right now we have to improve the transportation network, in order to handle shipments on the scale necessary to save more lives. But I’d like to sit down with you too, Dr. O’Shea. Any other representatives from local NGOs present?”
A nervous-sounding agricultural rep asked what the long-term intent was. Were they going to feed these people forever? “The ag sector has to be stimulated. There have to be markets, fertilizers. Above all, water. This country could be self-sufficient in grains, and the southwest was once a major citrus producer. The premium coffee market’s taking off. Ethiopia’s cashing in with Yegarcheff. That grows here too. There’s another crop, teff, a gluten-free grain—”
“Well, that may be premature,” the general said, sounding wary now, as if he’d let a cat out of a bag he should’ve kept laced. “I agree, we need to kick-start agriculture. But let’s resume the briefing. I especially want to hear how our port reconstruction’s going.”
AS a bluff-looking American spoke about cranes and wiring, Gráinne tried not to touch her sunburned face. Then she fell asleep. She woke with a start, her head on a tall naval officer’s shoulder. “Sorry,” she muttered, brushing drool off his shirt.
“Not a problem, Doctor.” He plucked a hair off and dropped it to the floor. She looked away, cheeks prickling as blood rushed to burnt tender skin. His smell lingered. Exhaust and male sweat. Not a bad smell. She’d obviously been celibate too long.
The general closed the briefing with a forceful recap of his priorities and the necessity to get food and medical care out posthaste. She followed him and the others who’d been asked to remain into a smaller room next door. The embassy library, perhaps; it was lined with bookshelves, with terminals along one wall. The drapes were closed, all the lights on. He pointed at her, then at two chairs. “Tell me what I need to do first, Doctor. Have you been in touch with our medical people? We could use your experience with local diseases—”
“I’m not a medical doctor, General. I’m a hydrologist.”
“Well, that can be useful, in a drought.”
For a moment she was tempted to tell him. But she couldn’t. He was military. Not just military, American military. He seemed well-disposed, if a bit simple, but she couldn’t trust him, nor the predatory companies that would prowl in the wake of the invasion. If there was water beneath the sand, it belonged to the people of Ashaara, not multinational corporations.
But first, she had to prove it was there.
“Irish?” said Ahearn. She nodded. “Your face. What happened?”
“Bandits stole my car and shot my assistant at a roadblock.”
“Why?”
“He was the wrong clan. I had to walk out. Cross-country.”
“A survivor.” Ahearn nodded approvingly. “Okay, tell me what I need to do.”
“No doubt you have a scheme—”
“I’d like to hear your thoughts. See what we’ve missed.”
“Set up stations in the backcountry. Supply them by air if you have to, but begin collecting the population. They’ll need days to gather, but word will spread. By the time you’re ready to feed them, they’ll be there.”
“And?”
She disciplined her voice. “The Quartier Vide’s the most arid district. Even in good times the nomads walk twenty, thirty miles for water. Do you have any well-drilling teams?”
“Absolutely.”
He was watching her, but what could he see? Not what she was thinking. She compressed burned, itching lips. “If we’re gathering people into feeding camps, we’ll need a supply of clean water. I can locate some—subsurface water deposits. I don’t know how much.”
He didn’t seem suspicious. He opened a map and they discussed where to place feeding camps. She was able to help with the north, but didn’t know the rest of the country. “Ask Quarles, and the other NGOs. Also, there was a Dr. Antwone Isdheeb at the Ministry of Interior Resources. If you could locate him, he’d be a wealth of information.”
Ahearn made a note, gestured to an officer. “Find this man. Bring him in.” He turned back to her. “This Hydrological Programme. UN affiliated, right? I’ve been in touch with New York. They’re studying whether it’s safe to return. I’m glad you stayed.”
“It wasn’t voluntary.”
“Well. I’ll give you a well crew. Just tell them where to drill. Thanks for
speaking up, Dr. O’Shea.”
She tried to feel guilty for tricking him, but couldn’t. The military had more resources than any assistance agency. If she could use them for good, so much the better.
If it was there. As much as she suspected, not just a thin film, a few million gallons. With a drilling team, she could determine how thick the lens was. If it was worth exploiting, or if Nature was just teasing.
Ahearn was rising, shaking her hand. She winced—it was sunburnt too—and only then noticed there were just two fingers in hers. “Best of luck to you, Doctor. Report back on how you do, what you need. And may God bless your efforts and those of us all.”
She almost laughed aloud, then stopped. Surely he wasn’t serious? His seamed face gave her no hint at all.
12
The Presidential Palace
AISHA tried not to react to the smells. Those pressed close had traveled days to get here, many on foot. Even in the best of times, water was scanty. But she was too American not to notice stenches. To not feel intimidated by raised voices, angry gesticulations, the shoving, seething crowd. There were no other women, and frowns were directed her way. But no one protested aloud. She wore a flowered abaya. Her purse was at her feet, with the SIG and a cell programmed with the numbers for reinforcements. It was bread-oven hot in the vast room, with its arched ceiling and Moorish-style pillars. Only empty sockets remained where the air-conditioning units had been. She’d managed to get the broken tile swept up, and found tables for tea, cookies, sliced bread, and fruit.
The clan conference was meeting where the dictator had ruled only weeks before—of itself, a symbol of radical change. A loose confederation of intellectuals and returned exiles calling themselves the Alliance for a Democratic Ashaara had organized it. Beside her in one corner—carefully not occupying the dais—were Erculiano, Peyster, and Nuura. A beefy duo in GrayWolf uniforms scanned the crowd from behind their sunglasses like Secret Service guarding the president. She’d tried to persuade Peyster to leave them behind, or at least have them conceal their weapons. The Ashaarans had all had to check theirs on entering, and having them unarmed and the Americans armed didn’t seem like the right signal. But got a flat no.
A short man in a black suit and open-collared Hawaiian shirt bent to a microphone. He said a few hesitant words with absolutely no effect on the babble. His round face glowed with sweat. Glancing at the inkjetted program she’d been handed moments before, Aisha saw this was the just-elected chairman of the ADA, a pediatrician from Rome. He tapped the mike again and heads turned reluctantly, carpets unrolled on the cracked tiles. She noted how as this happened groups drew apart, walkways of empty space appearing as gradually the assemblage sank and settled in a semicircle.
“He says welcome . . . wishes for peace . . . thanks all clans for coming.”
“What’s that one saying? Tall, with the beard?”
“He asks that there be prayer. To ask Allah for blessing.”
Aisha couldn’t follow the dialect most Ashaarans used, though she caught a word here and there, but could see the proposal wasn’t universally popular. “The chairman asks for quiet. He says, to respect those among us who are not Muslim, there will be no prayer.”
The bearded man sat amid a low buzz. Aisha frowned as she blew her nose into one of the paper towels she kept stuffed in her purse. Whatever was lodged in her chest, it hung on. She could barely sleep. Nuura said many white people got ill in Ashaara. Leaving Aisha to wonder if her translator saw her as white.
“What’s he doing now? Why do they look confused?”
“He’s proposing to not sit by clans. They are to mix up.”
“Good luck,” Peyster muttered. The Americans had folding chairs they’d brought along. “I’m going to check on the guards.”
He got up, staying low so as not to attract attention, and left. True to his prediction, there was no mixing. The pediatrician shrugged and began speaking.
Proceedings slogged on. Most of the invitees were graybeards, though there was a sprinkling of middle-aged. Everyone had to have his say, often at cheek-numbing length. Nuura translated, but Aisha found it hard going. They sounded like campfire tales, endless litanies of who had descended from whom, interspersed with fulsome compliments to people she didn’t recognize. By noon she’d never been so bored in her life. She and Nuura went into an antechamber for their prayers.
When they came back she noticed the men in suits hadn’t prayed, had stayed by the microphone, arguing among themselves in Italian. “Secularists,” she murmured to Erculiano.
“Our boys. I guess.”
“Where’s Assad? Did you see him?”
Peyster, who’d come back, muttered, “Governing Council’s boycotting this meeting. These are the ‘rebels’ the president used to round up and shoot.”
She swallowed, remembering the dead women and children she and Paul had seen during Assad’s raid. “You mean, the northerners are all boycotting?”
“Not all. Some of ’em are here. But I couldn’t give you a statistical breakdown. This is the ADA’s ball game. We’re just here to show our support.”
BY noon it hit 120 and she was soaking under the folds of cloth. Sweat was running down her legs, pooling in her shoes. At last the men stirred. Nuura said there’d be a recess, then a vote. She wasn’t sure on what; the old man who’d proposed it had spoken very low, from the far end of the hall. The men straggled to their feet, headed for the back to relieve themselves or to the tables for tea and cookies. One ancient began expostulating to Aisha, waving at an empty platter. She stared until he noticed Erculiano and a GrayWolf behind her. He shut his mouth and melted away.
“Signora Ar-Rahim.” The chairman, the guy in the Hawaiian print and sweat-stained jacket. Up close he looked done in, soaked and trembling. Not a confidence inspirer, she thought as she shook limp fingers. “I am Dr. Zumali Dahoud Dobleh. Very impressive, is it not? Issaqs, Issas, Gadabursi, Danakils. Bantus and Gilhirs. Christians and Hindus sitting down together. Even some Jazirs. The first step toward reinvigorating the national idea.”
“And all so eloquent. I’ve learned so much about Ashaaran history.”
He bowed as Peyster joined them. “Mr. Peyster. I am so glad you did not bring the military. That would send entirely the wrong message. Signora, we shall reconvene in committees. Will you do me the great favor of addressing our security committee?”
“Me?”
“You are the ranking American police agent. Not correct?”
“Federal agent. But—yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“We have a serious problem. You know General Assad.” She nodded. “He and the Governing Council do not recognize these deliberations. They maintain sovereign continuity. Unfortunately he also controls what remains of the security forces.”
“Isn’t Assad a Xaasha? The former president’s clan?”
“He is. There is much anger, but we would have seated them. If they will not join the provisional government, they’ll be left out. Will you speak? Advise on how to reestablish the police? It would very much help us.”
“I’d need to freshen up first. And, should I speak Arabic? Will they understand me?”
“Arabic would be good. Yes, you may speak Arabic.”
Peyster made as if to say something, but she didn’t look at him. “But I can’t make any promises on behalf of the U.S. Make that plain before I speak. This will just be my personal advice on reestablishing a national force.”
She looked at him now, and Peyster smiled back.
THE committee met in the shade of a wing of the palace, a beaten open area that might once have been a garden. It was cooler in the wind, though now dust was a problem. Erculiano sat to her right; one GrayWolf stood a long pace to her left. She alternately shivered and panted. Was she running a fever? She gripped fistfuls of abaya before a pond of blank faces under a dead acacia. Intellectuals, returned exiles, but mainly, the fiercely traditional heads of age-old clans. Men who’d scorn to listen
to a woman, but who’d accepted the challenge of rebuilding their society. Mutually distrustful, but sitting down together, if only to make sure they didn’t get left out of the aid package.
The only jarring note was the steadily chomping jaws. At least half were chewing qat. She hoped it didn’t completely jam their mental processes.
How could she make them listen? Motivate them to work together? And what should she tell them to do?
“Assalaamu aleikum, shuyukh,” she began, and waited for the ritual response. Enjoying their surprise as she continued, keeping her formal, fusha Arabic slow not just for herself but for them too. When she was uncertain, she used a formal circumlocution. The language worked that way, like Japanese. What you heard was a product of the listener’s mind, as well as that of the speaker.
“ ‘Allah, azza wa jal—mighty and majestic is He—has revealed to me that you should adopt humility, so no man oppresses another.’ These are the golden words of the Prophet, peace be upon him, as given in the Riyadh as-Saaliheen.
“Amma baad.” Dust spun up in a whirling wind. She coughed, and the dead leaves of the dead tree rattled above her. “These are the basis of the law. Not all here are Muslim, but all believe in law. Without law there is no civilization, no safety, no trade, no family, and no food.
“You have accepted the responsibility of caring for your nation, that it flourishes like the well-watered date palm. You have pledged to serve your families, clans, and all Ashaarans. A difficult road to caravan upon . . . but the right road. I praise you, and bow before you as your servant.”
Narrowed gazes. But here and there, a nod. As if to say, Speak on.
“The president made an unjust law, and the police enforced it unjustly. Thus came double injustice. Now you will make just laws. But to enforce a just law requires just policemen.
“My name is Aisha Ar-Rahim and I am from New York City. I work for the United States, as what you would call a member of the national police.
