“How is that going to affect us getting out of here?”
“They’re working on it.”
“Which leaves us in the middle of the desert with a couple of guns and swarms of miscreants surrounding us. This isn’t what I signed up for, Leo.”
“I know. But the situation’s fluid. Nobody could have for foreseen the entire country would collapse in a matter of hours.”
“Figure it out, Leo. We’re badly exposed, and we don’t have any friendlies to fall back on.”
“I know. We’re doing our best.”
“I’m shutting the phone off. My battery’s going to be into the reserve pretty soon. I’ll touch base when we get to Sebha.”
“When will that be?”
“Hopefully by tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“I’ll stand by.”
Salma yawned and sat up. They had traded watch shifts every four hours, but sleeping in hundred-degree heat had proven difficult, and neither of them was well rested.
“Last of the water,” Jet said, taking three swallows of the final bottle and handing it to Salma.
“That didn’t last long,” she said, and swished each gulp around her mouth the better to satiate her thirst.
“We’ll have to find some soon. Even in the cold we’ll be losing moisture.” She eyed the trees. “They’re getting water from somewhere.”
“Probably a register nearby, fed by a well.”
“Do you know what it would look like?”
“Sure. It will be near the road.”
They had settled in as far from the asphalt strip as they could, and as the last of the light faded, they made their way between the rows of trees until they reached the barbed wire fence that served as the lot barrier. Salma indicated a concrete trough to the right, and they approached it.
“Help me move the cover,” Salma said. Jet moved beside her and they used Salma’s rifle stock and Jet’s back muscles to shift the heavy slab aside so there was enough of a gap to peek inside.
Jet’s nose wrinkled at the smell of rot.
“All the water’s going to have algae in it. No point to purifying it for irrigation,” Salma said.
“It’ll make us sick as dogs. That’s no solution.”
“We’ll just have to hope that one of these fields or farms has a proper well.”
“How likely is that?”
“Very. If anyone’s living on the grounds, they’ll need drinkable water. Even if they have to boil it.” Salma patted her saddlebag. “I don’t suppose you have a lighter.”
“I actually do. But no way to hold water to purify.”
“We should fill the bottles, just in case we come across something we can use.”
Jet drained the last of the one in her hand and submerged the bottle until it was filled with yellowish-green fluid. They did the same with the others and then skirted the fence and walked to the next field, which was newly planted and offered nothing obvious they could use. Darkness was settling in by the time they reached a stretch of plots with a small home off the road, and they made their way to it slowly, wary of drawing the attention of any residents.
They needn’t have bothered. There was no glass in the windows, and the door was ajar, the home clearly abandoned.
“Looks like nobody’s been living here for a while,” Salma said.
“Doesn’t really help us, does it?”
“Maybe there’s a well.”
“Let’s see if we can find it.”
They eventually came across a raised stone circle. Jet reached inside and felt for a rope and, when she found one, lifted it to the surface.
The metal bucket at the end of the rope was bone dry.
“Looks like we know why they abandoned the house,” Salma said.
Jet untied the bucket. “We can use this to boil the water we have.”
They found enough pieces of broken furniture to build a small fire, and Jet lit a small piece and placed it beneath the pile. Soon the desiccated wood was crackling, and they emptied their bottles into the bucket and used the barrel of the AK to support the handle over the flames.
When they’d sanitized the water, they carefully refilled the bottles with the hot liquid and set out toward the road again, at least confident that they wouldn’t die of dehydration. They were halfway across the field when Jet grabbed Salma’s arm and stopped her in her tracks.
“Look back the way we came.”
Salma did, and her breath caught in her throat. They’d both seen the glint of metal in the light from the rising moon.
“Something’s back there,” Jet said.
“Could be workers finishing up their day.”
“I didn’t see any. Did you?”
“No.”
Jet resumed walking, looking over her shoulder periodically, and when they reached the road, whispered to Salma, “They’re tracking us.”
Salma’s tone hardened. “Mounir. He probably went looking for his men when they didn’t return.” She paused. “I’ll die before I let them take me.”
Jet pointed at another structure farther up the road. “There’s another farm over there. You’re going to have to move faster, Salma.”
They hurried to the next field, and at this one there was the dim glow of a light in the windows, and more importantly, the dark outline of a pickup parked by a smaller outbuilding. Jet led Salma to an aged Toyota truck that looked like it barely ran, and tried the door, which was unlocked. Salma stood watch while Jet reached beneath the steering column and pulled wires loose from the ignition. She crossed two of them, and the engine stuttered to life, the unmuffled exhaust deafening. Salma climbed into the passenger seat and Jet slipped behind the wheel, and then they were bouncing along the gravel drive.
The house door swung open and a pair of men ran out. Jet stomped on the accelerator and jerked the wheel hard left just as gunfire exploded from behind the truck. She continued to zigzag to the road as rounds sent geysers of sand and gravel into the air along the drive. Several thumped into the tailgate as she neared the road, and then the rear window shattered and a hole punched through the windshield six inches from Salma’s head.
“Get down!” Jet yelled, and accelerated in a controlled skid until the tires were on pavement, at which point she braked until the truck was stable and then floored the gas. The gunfire faded as the old truck picked up speed, but Jet’s eyes were locked on the rearview mirror as Salma brushed safety glass from her lap and shoulders and sat up.
“That was too close for comfort,” Salma said. She adjusted the AK between her legs and frowned at Jet’s profile. “What is it?”
“I think I can make out something back on the road. But it’s running without lights, like we are.”
Salma twisted to look out the back window. After several moments, headlights blinked on a half kilometer behind them, and Jet urged the truck to higher speed as the little four-cylinder engine whined in protest.
“That’s got to be Mounir,” Salma said, hoisting the AK. “When he gets closer, I’ll give him a surprise he’s not expecting.”
“Hang on,” Jet said. “They’re gaining on us. This thing’s underpowered. We need to get off the road.”
“You think it’ll make it?”
Jet scowled at the landscape rushing past them.
“We don’t have a choice. Next break in the fields, we’re going to find out. So buckle up and get ready.”
Chapter 29
Tripoli, Libya
Leo backed away from the window of his third-floor apartment and killed the lights. Outside on the street, gunfire echoed off the building façades, and an anguished scream pierced the night. A flurry of pistol shots cracked from below and were answered by the staccato bark of an AK-47.
Tripoli had rapidly descended into chaos since the attack on the naval base, as rival criminal and political factions used the disorder the assault had created to settle grudges and attempt to seize power over coveted areas of the city, resulting in an environmen
t that was as close to a war zone as anything since the 2011 revolution. Roving groups of heavily armed militia roamed the streets, attempting to keep a semblance of order in their neighborhoods, but ultimately only adding to the pandemonium as gunfights ensued.
Leo lay on the wooden floor of his simple walk-up one-bedroom and pointed the antenna of his sat phone at the heavens through the open window as he attempted to lock on a signal. When the indicator flashed that he was locked, he dialed the Mossad headquarters contact number and waited for his control officer to answer.
The call activated and he gave his ID code and waited as his identity was authenticated. Once it was, the line clicked and he was transferred to the group that was responsible for the Libya extraction.
“Status?” a familiar voice asked.
“The situation’s deteriorating. Since they shut the borders, Tripoli’s a free-for-all. The airport’s closed for the foreseeable future, so no chance of getting anyone out that way.”
“That’s unfortunate. What’s the situation with the assets?”
“They’re ten hours south. But if anything, it appears the environment there is even worse. As I told you the last time, they’re requesting immediate evacuation.”
“We’ve checked with Tunisia and Algeria. Neither is willing to violate the quarantine.”
“You need to apply pressure. We can’t leave them hanging out to dry.”
“Understood. But it doesn’t look like an airborne extraction’s practical.”
“Then what do I tell them?”
“They need to get to Tripoli. You’ll have to arrange for a boat for the primary asset.”
“And the operative we sent in?”
“Use your best judgment. It would be best if we didn’t put all our eggs in one basket. We can’t afford two of our operatives to be compromised if something goes wrong and the boat is intercepted.”
“What’s the status of the sea blockade? A boat won’t do any good if it gets blown out of the water.”
“It will be several days before the Americans are able to move sufficient ships into the area, and there are some issues with international cooperation. It’s bad politics to shut down what’s perceived as humanitarian assistance.”
“There’s no guarantee they can get to Tripoli safely.”
“We can’t do anything for them in the middle of the desert. They have to. They’re both capable. That’s our only option.”
“I committed to an extraction from Sebha.”
A pause. “Decommit. It’s impractical. They’re on their own until they reach the coast.”
It was Leo’s turn to pause. “That wasn’t the arrangement.”
“It is now. We don’t have any choice. It’ll be hard enough to ensure whatever boat you get the target on has clearance with the blockade ships that will be in place soon.”
“Assuming they make it, what do I tell the operative?”
“We’ll figure that out once the target is out of danger. The operative may have to go to ground until the situation improves.”
More shooting reverberated from the street. When it fell silent, Leo continued. “It isn’t stable here. They’ll be walking into a minefield.”
The voice on the line sounded tense for the first time. “There isn’t much we can do that we aren’t doing. You’ll have to do the best you can with the available resources.”
After another minute of contention, Leo signed off and sat with his back to the wall. Headquarters was basically saying that their hands were tied, and it would be up to him to solve his charges’ problem. But with the streets a shooting gallery and anyone with any resources trying to get the hell out of Libya, finding a seaworthy boat to ferry Salma to safety would be far harder than under normal circumstances, assuming anyone was willing to do it at all.
As to the female operative, he had no suggestions other than to hole up with a mountain of ammo, food, and water, and wait for conditions to improve. Which was the equivalent of throwing her to the wolves. His job was to get his operatives whatever resources they required to do their jobs, and then ensure they made it safely home. Given the current conditions, neither was practical, and he dreaded the call he’d be making once he figured out how to filter what he’d just been told. He knew from his training that it was important to keep optimistic even when the walls were crumbling, but it went against his nature to flat out lie to people who’d put their lives on the line.
More shooting from outside sounded farther away, and he sighed. Night brought out the predators, and in times of crisis, especially so. He’d have to wait until morning to assess the situation and determine how to proceed, but he had to tell the operative something, and it was with a heavy heart that he raised the sat phone to his ear again and dialed the mystery woman’s number.
Her phone rang six times and then disconnected without answering.
Leo frowned and checked the signal strength and tried again. More ringing, but no answer.
It was possible that her phone had run out of juice, or that she was in a location where she couldn’t get a sat fix. The other possibility was grim. The only reason an operative would ignore his call was because she was out of the game.
He had to proceed as though there had been some sort of technical malfunction, of course. But an acid knot had formed in his stomach when the second call wasn’t picked up, and it was impossible to shake the feeling that something disastrous had happened. Leo tried a third time with the same result and set the phone down just as another volley of gunfire from down the block announced that someone had gotten even with someone else, or had rid the world of a hated rival.
He dared a peek over the sill and saw a swarm of turbaned figures running toward another group that was standing over the bodies of three men, their Kalashnikov rifles scattered in the street. How he would be able to make it to the port without being killed was a good question, given the current level of lawlessness, which even for Libya was alarming. But he knew he would have to do it, so he crawled to his closet and removed a lockbox that contained a pistol, a box of ammunition, and the twin of the H&K submachine gun he’d sourced for the operative. Whatever he encountered, his chances of prevailing were high, given his training and the armaments, but even so it wasn’t an errand he was looking forward to, and he gritted his teeth as he fed bullets into the spare magazines, his prospects of making it to the next day lower than at any point since he’d gone into the field.
Chapter 30
South of Sebha, Libya
Jet gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles and twisted it hard left. The ancient Toyota bucked like a bronco as it veered off the pavement and onto relatively solid soil along the side of an expansive field. The tires skidded along the sandy terrain, and it took all of Jet’s abilities to keep the truck from flipping or careening wildly.
Salma watched through the rear window frame as the road receded from view, and then turned to Jet. “They made the turn. Must have seen our brake lights.”
Jet cursed under her breath. It had been a risk – she couldn’t use the emergency brake given that all that remained of it after decades was a metal shaft rattling by her knee, and downshifting had only slowed the truck somewhat, not enough to avoid tipping when she’d made the turn.
She increased the speed until the front axle was slamming alarmingly each time they hit a rut, the shocks long ago rendered useless by time and hard use. The moonlight was sufficient to make out the worst of the hazards, but at speed she couldn’t avoid them all, especially given the uncertain conditions and the tenuous grip of the aged rubber. Jet grimaced at the fuel gauge and speedometer, neither of which worked, and slammed the gear shift lever with her hand.
“It’s like driving on ice,” she said, squinting to make out the terrain rushing at them.
The headlights of the chase truck were gaining on them, and Jet tilted her head at another farm to their right, with a trio of stone auxiliary buildings a hundred meters from the house.
“W
e’re never going to be able to outrun them in this thing. We’ll have to shoot it out. I’ll get us to those buildings, and then we’ll need to take cover and hope they rush us without thinking.”
“Knowing Mounir, they will,” Salma said, clutching her rifle.
“Then they’re dead meat.”
Jet guided the truck along the perimeter fence for a bit and then crashed through it, knocking wooden posts and wire aside. They bounced across furrows in the ground, the wheel thrashing like a living thing in Jet’s hands, and slowed as they neared the outbuildings.
The Toyota skidded to a halt and Jet was already out the door with her MP7A1 as Salma threw her door open and followed her between two of the structures, the AK and a spare magazine in hand.
“How do you want to do this?” Salma asked.
“Take cover behind that one,” Jet said, pointing at the building to her left. “I’ll take this one. Don’t fire until I do, and wait until they’re close enough that you can’t miss. And try not to hit their truck – it’ll be our way out of here if it’s got good tires and decent fuel.”
“I remember my training,” Salma snapped. Jet had to remind herself that this was also a trained operative who’d undergone the same rigorous conditioning she had, not a civilian.
“Sorry. I want to avoid a crossfire, so I’m going to edge along the side to where that pony wall is.”
“Got it.”
Jet melted into the darkness and Salma hobbled to the building, rifle clutched in both hands. The roar of the chase truck’s engine grew louder, and she crouched down low, the AK fire selector in the center position for full auto. The headlights brightened and then bounced giddily as the vehicle negotiated the field, and Salma set the spare magazine on the ground beside her and adjusted the rifle.
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