Force Protection

by Gordon Kent

  Somali-Kenyan Coast.

  The men were lying down in the cool grass on a knoll capped with a single knurled acacia tree that was swaying in the wind from the sea. Alan sat on a lower branch he had cleared of thorns and drank coffee from his thermos.

  The Marine radioman knelt at his feet, smoking. The smoke smelled good. Alan had quit—again—only three weeks before, and the temptation seemed overwhelming, but he fought it. They were alone, the Kenyans gone into the night, headed to the village just to the south.

  The radioman suddenly put a hand up against his headset and then pulled it off and handed it up to Alan. “Something for you.”

  Alan clipped the headset on and listened to Soleck.

  “Keep an eye on it” was all he said. He handed the headset back. He looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes until dawn. A few more minutes of dark after that, Alan figured, because the storm wasn’t going to leave them much sunrise. It was still well out over the horizon, but it was coming.

  Ismailia.

  “Friend,” al-Fawzi said. “Signal.” He meant the umbrella.

  The friend was tall, thick, unshaven, smelling of coffee and onions. This was the trustworthy pal, First Sergeant of Police Kassim. He looked at the three cars and pushed his lips out in disapproval. Sergeant al-Fawzi rolled his window down and they muttered in Arabic, and al-Fawzi said to Triffler, “No parking.” Both sides of the street were lined with cars, also palm trees, and not enough trash containers.

  “We have to worry about parking?” Keatley, now awake, moaned. “This never happens to TV cops.”

  “That’s what ‘fiction’ means.” Triffler waited while Kassim got in, the car listing to the left under his weight, and then drove under his direction six streets west to an abandoned shopping mall.

  “His friend watching perp’s lodging,” al-Fawzi said.

  “How many ‘friends’ did he bring?”

  Sergeant al-Fawzi bridled. Any friend of his friend, he insisted, was trustworthy.

  The Xerxes Palace Hotel, no matter how you cut it, was a two-story motel with a four-star garden to hide behind. Lush flowers looked lurid in the early light—reds like splashes of blood, golds and yellows like egg yolk and butter. The grass—real grass, golf-course grass—was as green as Ireland.

  “Irrigation,” al-Fawzi said. “Egypt very wonderful country.”

  The other local plainclothes cop—short, solid as a tree trunk, hairy hands—was waiting for them across the street. Nobody matching Balcon had gone either in or out since he had got there at five, he said; presumably, the French journalist had gone in last night and was still there.

  Standing in the shadow of a wall, Triffler laid it out for all of them. They didn’t know what sort of protection the French journalist might have. Only Triffler, al-Fawzi, Keatley, and the two locals would go into the hotel; the rest would stay out of sight and be in touch by cell phone.

  “How about I come along?” Geddes, the DEA man, said to Triffler.

  “Nothing personal. Fewer is better. Next guy’s yours.” Just in case he didn’t get it, Triffler added, “My show.”

  He followed al-Fawzi, who followed the two local cops, into the lobby of the hotel, which had real marble floors and fluorescent lighting, too many gold-flecked mirrors and a bust of Nefertiti that looked as if she was recovering from a face-lift. Sergeant Kassim rousted the night manager, half-asleep and horrible under the fluorescents in a suit the color of an old bruise. But he was cooperative, once he’d seen the badges and heard something in Arabic that sounded remarkably like a threat.

  “The other local guy stays with him,” Triffler said to al-Fawzi. “Tell him he’s got to be with him all the time—no phone calls, no chat with visitors. He could be a—” He searched for a word. “Perp.” He didn’t dare look at Keatley.

  Somali-Kenyan Coast.

  Before Alan finished the thermos, one of Opono’s men was back. He sought Alan at the tree and pointed north, into the dark.

  “No guards. Not so many men. People in town think maybe soldiers.” The man grinned, although Alan didn’t know why, and opened his hand twice.

  “Ten soldiers?”

  “Sure, bwana.”

  “Or more?”

  “Might be more, bwana. Sure.”

  “They awake?”

  The man shrugged eloquently, a mime. Who could know?

  Alan inhaled deeply, the smell of the cigarette and the leathery, woodsmoke smell of the Kenyan ranger all together. He thought of Rafe. I want them to shoot first. If there’s shooting, make damn sure you can tell me they fired first. Right.

  Alan motioned to the gunny and the Marine officer. They came over and he opened his vinyl map.

  “Time for phase two.”

  Ismailia.

  Now there were four of them going up the stairs to the second story of the motel. The rooms opened off a balcony that ran around a central courtyard; vines, their flowers Day-Glo orange in the early sun, gave some cover. Kassim looked at numbers, padded from door to door, quiet for a big man. He jerked his head. He held up the manager’s keys in a large hand. Triffler nodded. Kassim inserted a key with the deftness of a burglar and turned it. Nothing budged. He inserted another key into another lock above the first and turned. The door opened two inches and stopped against a chain.

  Kassim produced a short-handled bolt cutter from inside his suit coat and had them inside in seconds.

  “Sweet,” al-Fawzi said.

  Triffler wondered what the hell that meant, then saw that they were in a sitting room. Suite. Aha. The manager must have told him in Arabic that Balcon had a suite. Triffler pushed to the front and motioned the others back. Pulse up, leg muscles tight, Sigarms .380 in his right hand, stepping like a Tennessee walking horse over a tray, a telephone book, two suitcases, a woman’s dress—hmmm—and an empty (cheap) champagne bottle. At the far end of the room was a door on the right, closed. Triffler turned the handle and eased it open.

  The owner of the dress was asleep on the left side of the bed, Jean-Marc Balcon on the right. She was Egyptian, long-haired, heavily scented even at this hour and from this distance.

  Triffler pulled the door almost closed again and whispered to al-Fawzi, pointing at the man’s chest, “Bad cop.” He pointed at his own. “Good cop. Okay?”

  The sergeant showed signs of enthusiasm.

  Triffler tiptoed in and took a step to his right, the gun ready. He nodded at al-Fawzi, who came through the door with a roar, something in Arabic probably contained in it, and threw himself at the bed, from which he snatched the sheet with one motion.

  The woman woke, squawked, screamed, and bounced out with a flash of butt and pubic hair. Probably a working girl, Triffler thought, but very nicely put together, very jiggly, a bit fat—all this as he was moving toward Balcon, the gun preceding him. He resisted the temptation to watch her sprint to the bathroom, but she was interrupted by al-Fawzi, anyway, who scooped her up and wrapped the sheet around her like a tight gown. She began to scream.

  Somali-Kenyan Coast.

  Soleck turned the S-3 and burned out over the water, adjusting his trim every time a bigger gust moved the plane, fidgeting with his altitude to get the most out of his radar. He couldn’t even daydream about his wetting-down party.

  “Skipper’s moving,” the chief called from the back end.

  “Roger.” Just thinking about the next part caused his stomach to do a little flip.

  Out to the east, the sky began to glow a baleful orange.

  “ ‘Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning.’ Ain’t that what Master Chief Craw used to say, sir?”

  Alan was already bone weary, and the light was growing all around them. The Marines never seemed to tire, but they were all fifteen years younger and did PT as a hobby. He crawled along behind the radioman, following a damp depression forward to a stand of brush. Somewhere ahead, one of the Kenyan rangers led their party. The other two fire teams were circling to the north, headed for the low ridge t
hat would mask their movement toward the camp.

  He was damp, and, despite the warmth of the wind, it chilled him. He felt old. He kept moving forward, a few feet at a time, copying the elbow crawl used by the radioman, who, he realized, was carrying fifty pounds more weight than he. He was the last man into the relative cover of the brush.

  Ahead, just visible because the tall grass was lying down in the wind, he could see the curved metal roof of the main building of the camp. He squatted down. They were three hundred meters away. Alan spared the energy to give the Kenyan ranger a big smile. “Nice spot.”

  “Hakuna matata, bwana.” No problem. Or, Don’t bother me, officer-man. The man grinned, the smile like a light that flashed on—and off.

  Alan looked at his watch. “We’re early,” he said quietly.

  The Marine gunny was setting a watch while the other men lay flat. The veterans would sleep and the younger ones would worry or check their kit.

  “Can we leave our rucksacks here, sir?” the gunny asked.

  Alan shook his head, not understanding.

  “I’d rather not have ’em carrying all that weight if we don’t need to. Still got to cross the grass.” The gunny pointed in the direction of the hangar.

  Alan nodded. “Once we secure the camp, you can send somebody back for the gear.” He thought it odd, as the Marines had insisted on carrying the whole load to start with. The packs could have stayed in the chopper, or in Mombasa. Marines, Alan thought. He looked at his watch again. Then he dropped his own small civilian pack and felt ten years younger. He patted his gear one more time and looked at the unfamiliar M16 that he had been issued. He’d never fired one and didn’t trust it. He shouldered the pack and looked at his watch again, but as far as he could see, the hands hadn’t moved since the last time. Out over the ocean, the sky was lighter, although the early blush of red was gone. The sun was shining out there somewhere, beyond the wind.

  Alan moved up cautiously through the thorn trees until only the high grass of the marsh separated him from the full view of the camp. He moved slowly, like a hunter in a blind, sitting well down before he pulled his Steiner binoculars from his pack and then rose cautiously to focus them on the camp.

  The metal shed stood out immediately, even in the early light. There were men moving, but not in any kind of alarm. He saw a white man, his bald head reflecting a light inside the shed. The man was clearly giving orders. Two men in camouflage were carrying rifles. Otherwise there was very little movement.

  Alan panned his binoculars to the left, inland, and found a line of tents alternating with the bandas of marsh grass that Opono had predicted. Three of the tents were quite large, and between them was something—elephant was his first thought. Then he looked again. It was one of Menendez’s fuel bladders, except now it was mostly full. Behind it was a fuel tanker, obscured by the tent.

  “Got you,” Alan whispered.

  The radioman behind him made a noise, and Alan froze, only to realize that the man was snoring. Alan touched his cheek and woke him. “Get me the other team and Mister Soleck in the plane on one line.”

  “Red Jacket and Jaeger One. Yes, sir.” The man pressed a few digits on his handset and gave it to Alan.

  Alan knelt down. “Red Jacket and Jaeger One, this is Big Blue, over?”

  The Marine officer rogered up eagerly. “Big Blue, this is Red Jacket! I have you clear and clear.”

  “Roger, Skipper, go ahead.” Soleck in Jaeger One was laconic by comparison.

  “I can see and confirm that Menendez was right about the fuel bladders, and they are being filled right now. There is some kind of armored fighting vehicle parked under a tarp near the metal structure and there may be a second under a tent. Pass to the boat that they are in the process of filling the bladders and getting ready to move. Copy all that?”

  “Loud and clear, Skipper.”

  Alan took a deep breath. This was it, the point of no return. “Mister Soleck, I authorize you to take the detachment in as close as you can get. Get me photos and provoke a reaction. If they don’t react, we’ll go in on the ground anyway, but if they do, use the bomb. Red Jacket, that bomb is your signal to move and shoot. If the plane gets no response, we’ll make a new plan.”

  “Sir? That plane will cost us the element of surprise.”

  “Roger, Red Jacket, but there’s more to this than surprise, and I’m not sure that they’ll assume we have people in the bush just because they see a U.S. Navy plane. Okay, Soleck. Execute.”

  “Roger. Estimate nine minutes out.”

  Alan settled himself, a borrowed poncho liner under him, his back against a heavier twist of the thorny brush so that he could relax. He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to capture the rare moment on the edge of action to reflect. He sat and watched the grass move in the wind and thought about everything that might still go wrong. The next time he looked at his watch, it was time. And he could hear the distant noise of a jet.

  Ismailia.

  “Mister Balcon?” Triffler held up his badge and ID. “Special Agent Triffler of the U.S. Naval Criminal Investigative Service.” A scream and a slap from behind him. He didn’t look. Balcon’s eyes were large. “This is my associate, Special Agent Keatley, and our colleague, Sergeant al-Fawzi of the Egyptian police.” The now-awake Balcon was naked and was trying to find some cover under his pillow, but Triffler grabbed it and dumped it on the floor. “Get his clothes out of here.” He bobbed his head toward the other room. The woman, now a white lily with arms and head emerging olive-skinned from the top, had gone limp in the arms of Sergeant Kassim. “Her, too.”

  Clothes flew; the woman went swooning out; a minute later, Triffler was sitting on the bed next to the naked Balcon, Keatley and al-Fawzi standing at the foot.

  “I demand to see the French consul,” Balcon said.

  Sergeant al-Fawzi laughed and started around the other side of the bed. “I teach you to demand!” he shouted.

  “You don’t frighten me!” Balcon shouted back. “I am a man of note! I have rights—!”

  Triffler waved al-Fawzi back and said to Balcon, “No.”

  “I know my rights. You!” Balcon pointed at al-Fawzi. “Show me your badge! I will break you!” He looked down at himself, then said as an afterthought, “I demand my clothes.”

  Sergeant al-Fawzi launched himself across the bed again at Balcon, who pulled up his knees and protected his privates with both hands. Keatley caught al-Fawzi just as he was about to make contact and pulled him backward and upright. Sergeant al-Fawzi snarled in Arabic. He looked ferocious—one of the really bad guys from Lawrence of Arabia. “I kill him!” he shouted. Sergeant al-Fawzi was a Method actor—really into it.

  “Hold him, hold him, for God’s sake!” Triffler said. He turned back to Balcon. He was still holding the gun. “Do you know what these Egyptian cops do to terrorists? Don’t get him stirred up!”

  Balcon moved away, sliding his naked butt over the bed. “I know no-thing about terrorists. I demand my clothes.”

  “Yeah, well, they hate terrorists here. They shoot them.”

  “I am saying nothing until the French consul is here!”

  Triffler moved closer to him on the bed. “Mister Balcon, you have two choices. One is the Egyptian police—represented by Sergeant al-Fawzi there.”

  “Give me five minutes alone with him!” al-Fawzi growled. “Five minutes downtown and he’ll puke up his guts.”

  Triffler frowned a little at that, a bit over the top, but Balcon didn’t seem to find it so. He was shivering and trying to hide by wrapping his arms around himself, his testicles and penis clamped tight between his thighs. He had pretty good legs, hairy, rather large feet.

  “You got two choices,” Triffler said. He nodded at al-Fawzi. “That’s one choice—the Egyptian cops. That choice would also involve time in an Egyptian prison. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in an Egyptian prison, Mister Balcon, but—well—” Triffler moved still closer; Balcon moved away. He’d
about run out of bed.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Your other choice is me. I’m the U.S. Navy. We have clout.”

  “The French government would laugh at you!” Balcon’s eyes flicked to an alarm clock on the bedside table.

  The sergeant pushed Keatley aside and came to the side of the bed again. “Too much talk. He’s mine—this is my country—I take him where I want, no more talk—!” He grabbed Balcon’s shoulder and Balcon squealed; al-Fawzi swung backhanded and snapped Balcon’s head around, the beautifully styled hair flying. The sergeant pushed his face down into Balcon’s. “Ever had your head held underwater, beautiful?” He grabbed Balcon’s hair and pulled; Balcon squealed again, and Triffler started pulling on al-Fawzi’s arm; Keatley grabbed the sergeant by the collar of his jacket and pulled him back and got him in a choke hold. The sergeant spat and said terrible things in Arabic, but Keatley seemed to choke him until he had to let go, and they backed out of the room that way, al-Fawzi gasping and cursing and looking as if he’d murder Balcon if he ever got free. Maybe he really meant it.

  “You see,” Triffler said.

  “You can’t do this! It’s against the law!”

  “No it isn’t.” Triffler stood, put the gun into the belt-clip holster on his right hip. “We’re talking about terrorism. The law’s different for terrorism. In Egypt, it means a secret trial and a firing squad. In my country, it means we go anywhere, do what we have to, to bring you back.”

  “I am not a terrorist!”

  “You conspired with the terrorists who blew up the USNS Harker. You conspired with the terrorists who blew up the AID building in Cairo. We don’t discriminate too nicely between the people who placed the bomb and somebody who stood by and talked about it. For his own benefit.”

  Balcon stared at him. For the first time, the rhythm of his replies was off. “You don’t know that,” he said. Again, his eyes went to the clock. Triffler checked his watch—six twenty-two.