by Ward Larsen
“That leaves quite a gap to reach the Lebanese border.”
“Twenty-five kilometers, more or less. There are a few farms, but it is mostly open desert.”
“So, if we’re ditching the taxi, I assume you have a plan for traveling the rest of the way?”
“I have many plans. But I have chosen the best—”
Achmed’s eyes suddenly flickered with caution.
Slaton looked ahead and saw a military truck approaching in the opposite direction. It was slightly smaller than the Ural he’d stolen yesterday, moving slowly. He weighed whether to retrieve the hidden MP5. A squad of soldiers, between eight and ten men in uniform, were seated on twin benches in the truck’s open bed. They didn’t look particularly alert, most either talking or keeping their heads down against the sun.
Achmed kept a steady speed, but soon it became apparent that the narrow lane wouldn’t accommodate both vehicles—stone walls of various heights lined the road on either side.
“Pull over!” Slaton said, pointing to the next driveway on the right.
“No,” Achmed argued. “If I do that the truck might block us in!”
“Do it!” Slaton ordered.
His hard tone worked. Achmed pulled the car to a stop in the recess of the next driveway. The truck came closer, not yet slowing. Sun glinted on its windshield, preventing Slaton from seeing the driver’s eyes. He mentally rehearsed the moves required to retrieve the MP5.
He said, “If I engage these guys, I’ll get out of the car first. I’ll use the nearest wall for cover.” He looked at Achmed. “If there’s still room, move the car. Forward, backward … anywhere but here.”
Achmed nodded.
Slaton devised a plan to fit the scenario. If he could access the MP5 quickly enough, he would put his first two rounds through the truck’s windshield—not to kill the driver, but to convince him that continued motion was in his personal best interest. From there he would pair rounds on the nearest rack of infantry, beginning with whoever was moving most quickly.
The truck was a mere fifty feet away.
Slaton knew his blueprint was notional, subject to a hundred variables.
Thirty feet, speed still steady. He got a glimpse of the driver, saw him chatting amiably with someone in the passenger seat—probably the unit’s commander. A junior officer or sergeant.
Slaton made eye contact with Ludmilla, who seemed to understand—she half turned in her seat and gripped the hem of her abaya.
Achmed waved cordially to the driver.
Salma appeared to be praying.
The truck passed uneventfully. Slaton turned, kept watching until it disappeared in a cloud of tan dust.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Crisis averted. Let’s go.”
Achmed put the car in gear, and the collective sigh was palpable. That is, from everyone except Naji. Never once through it all had he stopped chirping his happy tune.
FORTY-THREE
Achmed explained the next steps as the souk came into sight.
“We will leave the taxi and go into the market. On the far side a friend has provided what we need to reach the border.”
“And what is that?” Slaton asked.
“It will become clear when you see.”
“What about the timing? The Americans need to know where and when to meet us.”
“Very early tomorrow morning … I would say between two and four. As we discussed earlier, the hills south of Deir El Aachayer.”
Slaton pulled out his phone, turned it on, and sent the message. When an acknowledgement came thirty seconds later, he turned the phone back off.
Achmed found a parking spot on a narrow side street. Slaton pulled his hood low over his forehead and donned the knock-off Ray-Bans he’d taken from a box full of them in Achmed’s hall closet.
Everyone got out and assumed the briefed formation. Achmed was in the lead, Slaton at his side. The women brought up the rear with Naji between them. So arranged, they set out into the market trying to look like the family they weren’t.
* * *
The report from the Sudanese army, detailing a suspicious event at a remote site in Darfur, stirred a surprisingly concise reaction from the controlling regime—if the recognition of shortcomings could be considered effective governance.
The army was convinced they might be dealing with a potential biological or chemical event. This was entirely outside the wheelhouse of a fighting force designed for chasing down rebels who traveled primarily on foot. For the government, requesting outside help was a maddeningly fluid concept. Their patrons changed from year to year, and sometimes from day to day. Russia, China, France, Egypt, and Saudi Arabia had all left recent footprints in Sudan.
The politics of the day in the Horn of Africa were driven by any number of factors: military sales, food aid, infrastructure projects, and more often than not, outright bribery. As it turned out, on that Saturday, as had been the case for much of the last year, the Americans were the ally of choice. Their NGOs were increasingly committed, and there had even been recent whisperings of arms sales. Best of all, the new administration in Washington was determined to lay bare the Chinese Belt and Road Initiative for what it was: a combination land grab and protection racket on a global scale.
Which was why, in the early hours of that same morning, the foreign minister of Sudan had dialed his counterpart in Washington, D.C., with an impassioned plea for help.
* * *
The U.S. Air Force C-130, operated by the Tennessee Air National Guard, landed on a dirt strip outside the village of Umm Badr minutes before noon—although to those sitting in the cargo bay, the term “landing” might have been charitable. The Hercules was built to land on unprepared surfaces, but the meeting between aircraft and earth on the very short, fifty-meter-wide strip of dirt was closer to a controlled crash.
The flight had taken off that morning from Incirlik Air Base in Turkey. A team from the DOD’s Chemical and Biological Defense Program, or CBDP, had taken up permanent residence there, a rotating squad of nine men and women who were fully prepared for rapid mobilization: their three standard pallets of equipment included personal protection suits, decontamination gear, and various sensors for detecting, marking, and sampling both chemical and biological agents.
The Hercules reached the end of the landing strip, and once stopped, the aircraft commander simply set the parking brake, started the auxiliary power unit, and shut down the engines. There was no separate pad for parking. The aircraft’s integral boarding stairs were lowered, and the first person off was the lieutenant colonel in charge of the CBDP team.
He was met by the CIA’s Khartoum station chief, a man named Bates, who’d driven from the embassy in the city.
“What’s the latest?” the colonel asked.
“Nothing new,” Bates replied. “The Sudanese suspect there may have been an incident of some kind, and everyone’s been waiting for you. Nobody wants to go near the place.”
The commander frowned. “Any idea if it’s chemical or biological?”
“I’m guessing chemical, but my expertise is pretty limited.”
“How far back are the Sudanese?”
“One kilometer.”
The rear loading ramp of the Hercules began to pivot down, and somewhere inside the cargo bay a motor rumbled to life.
“Make it two,” said the colonel. “And make sure they stay upwind.”
* * *
The CBDP unit, highly mobile by definition, was assembled around two standard Humvees. The Hummers were preloaded with all the necessary equipment and a high-end communications suite that could, if necessary, contact national command authorities directly. Of the nine team members, seven set out in the vehicles, while the remaining two, including the lieutenant colonel, stayed with the Hercules for logistical support and security, and to establish a forward-based command post.
The team set out under a blazing midday sun and reached the compound in less than an hour. The team leader,
a captain, established an observation post as per protocol—on high ground and upwind of the incident site—while a corporal geared up in a protective suit. The captain studied the buildings much as the Sudanese had the night before. Also like the Sudanese, he was bothered by what he saw. Dead people, dead animals. No evidence of a firefight.
He walked over to the corporal, who was nearly ready to go. “Careful on this one, Josh. It could be the real deal.”
The corporal didn’t argue, and minutes later he was climbing into one of the Hummers, which would take him to within a hundred yards of the buildings. From that point he would be on his own.
The first readings arrived ten minutes later. The M4A1 Joint Chemical Agent Detector was the best bit of hardware they’d received in years. It was designed to sense not only chemical warfare agents, but also toxic industrial vapors. A handheld device, the M4A1 provided real-time detection of nerve, blister, and blood agents. Best of all, at least from a command and control point of view, the unit was net-capable, able to send a snapshot of results at any moment via a secure comm link.
Which was how, within ninety minutes of the CBDP team arriving in Sudan, their findings reached various nodes of the command structure in Washington, D.C. Among them was the director’s suite on Langley’s fifth floor. This instigated a burst of secure phone calls, and one hastily scheduled meeting.
With a rough idea of what they’d stumbled upon, and knowing it would take time for higher headquarters to sort out a response, the CBDP team elected to not wait in place for subsequent orders. Within seconds of retrieving the corporal and putting him through decontamination, the captain repositioned his team away from ground zero.
Far, far away.
* * *
Anna Sorensen updated Coltrane on the Syria mission in the director’s office.
“Slaton hopes to get Kravchuk out tonight,” she said, dispensing with the code name Corsair.
“Has an extraction point been chosen?” he asked.
“The border with Lebanon, roughly due west of Damascus. I have a team from the Beirut embassy standing by in support. It’s a remote area, so we should be clear on the Lebanon side. But there is one complication.”
“There always is,” Coltrane quipped.
“It’s actually more diplomatic than operational. It involves the owner of the salon where Kravchuk took up hiding. According to Slaton, she was fearful the Syrians would go after her for aiding the enemy.”
“She probably has a point.”
“Slaton thought so too, so he included her and her four-year-old son in the plan. He wants us to take them into Lebanon with Kravchuk.”
Coltrane blew a sigh of exasperation. “This thing is starting to blow up. By all accounts, Slaton didn’t go lightly in Damascus. He laid waste to an entire street and two Mukhabarat men ended up dead. If the Syrians think this woman was complicit, and she later ends up in our custody—they’re going to pitch a fit.”
“No more than they will when they realize we have Kravchuk.”
Coltrane weighed it all. “All right, Slaton made the call. We’ll figure out how to deal with it after everyone is safe. Right now, I’m more concerned with what’s going on in Sudan. Are you following it?”
“I saw the initial report,” Sorensen said.
“It occurs to me that this incident might be what Kravchuk heard about at the summit.”
“She used the word attack,” Sorensen argued. “Terrible as it is, I don’t see how a pair of dead cattle herders qualifies as a terrorist event.”
“True,” Coltrane said. “This looks more like an accident.”
“Or a demonstration?” Sorensen ventured.
“Possibly. Whatever it is, we need to get to the bottom of it.”
“Who’s taking the lead on the event in Sudan?”
“The army has control of the site, and more resources are being sent downrange. By this time tomorrow, we should know exactly what we’re dealing with. I think it’s safe to say, this threat didn’t originate in Khartoum—they were the ones who called us in. I actually have it on good account that this is scaring the hell out of the regime. I’m assigning a working group to figure out where this nerve agent came from. Once we know that, we’ll have a better idea of how to react.”
“Kravchuk might be able to shed some light on it.”
“Maybe she can,” Coltrane said. “So, let’s hope Slaton comes through tonight.”
FORTY-FOUR
The souk was big and busy, the obvious hub of Darayya. Like most markets across the region, it was a grocery and pharmacy and community center all in one. To Slaton’s eye, there was something visceral and connective about it, as if the entire square where it existed comprised a single living thing.
He saw hundreds of tiny shops, the majority of which, he was sure, were set up each day. Notwithstanding the lack of brick and mortar, it was nothing less than the community’s bedrock. Every kind of fruit and vegetable was offered, brimming in baskets and crates that came straight from the fields. Flatbread was stacked high on carts, offered either in bulk packages, or stuffed with meat from simmering skillets. The air was thick with scents: the tang of fat dripping on grills, the sweetness of fresh-baked sweetbread, the mingling accents of exotic spices. Slaton took it all in with a curious sense of familiarity. Take away the car license plates, the occasional flag, and he could have been in a market anywhere from Marrakesh to Karachi.
The main thoroughfare was defined by a high corrugated roof that ran along one side. Opposite that, vendors sat beneath the same shade tents one might see at kids’ soccer games in the States or on beaches in Spain. People were everywhere. Old and young, men and women. The crowds bogged down in shoulder-to-shoulder traffic at chokepoints.
Achmed carved through it all like a knife.
“At the far end we will find our transportation,” he said to Slaton under his breath. “It was provided by a man named Rafa.”
Slaton didn’t venture a reply. After some coaxing, Naji had agreed to ride on his shoulders. It not only conveyed an image of family, but also helped conceal Slaton’s face. Those who did glance his way focused on the cute child—a perfectly natural human behavior. While one hand anchored Naji’s legs, Slaton held his phone near his chest with the other. This allowed him to keep his head canted downward. Twenty years ago, it would have seemed a peculiar behavior—walking on a busy street while carrying a child, not watching where you were going. These days it was perfectly normal. And a surprisingly effective countermeasure.
Notwithstanding these visual screens, Slaton’s eyes remained busy. He scanned the stalls in the periphery, the crowds ahead. He made sure the women didn’t get separated. He kept an eye out for roving pickpockets, not wanting one to bump into Ludmilla and discover an MP5 under her abaya. A great many things could go wrong in a crowd so dense.
“Have you seen any police yet?” Slaton said in a low voice, cocking his head toward Achmed.
“Only one uniform, some distance away. The usual.”
Let’s hope it stays that way, Slaton thought.
A chicken scuttled in front of them, flapping and clucking, and a young boy was right behind giving spirited chase. Naji giggled. When Slaton stepped to one side to dodge the boy, he bumped into an old woman. She said something in Arabic, a few words of which he caught. Enough to know that it hadn’t been, “Have a nice day.” He easily ignored it.
Achmed turned from the main avenue into a broad alley. Fifty feet farther on was a cul de sac of sorts. He came to a stop, and before them, deep in the shadow of a building, Slaton saw an untended vegetable cart. The cart was fifteen feet long, five wide, with two wheels supporting a flat cargo deck. At the other end a gooseneck hitch rested on a brick. Beyond that he saw a worn leather harness and, tied to a post, the engine: a disinterested donkey with its mouth deep in a feed bag.
“You are kidding,” Slaton said. He lifted Naji off his shoulders and set him on the ground.
“Look closely,” Achm
ed replied.
Slaton did. The donkey was a donkey. The cart, too, seemed unremarkable. Its cargo bed was hip height, and there was a short wraparound rail on the sides and front. The load consisted of dozens of produce crates, most half-empty. Carrots, lettuce, oranges, dates, melons. His eyes returned to the cart, and on second glance he did discern something unusual in the undercarriage. A sidewall ringed the deck, perhaps eighteen inches in depth.
“A compartment?” he asked.
“Rafa is the other kind of smuggler. He makes fewer trips than I do, but they are far more lucrative.”
“Drugs?”
Achmed cocked his head indifferently. “I do not judge my fellow man. He makes a good living … and he is very careful.”
“How big is the space?”
“He tells me there is enough room for two people.”
Slaton stared at the Syrian. “Ludmilla and … me?”
“Only until we are clear of the city. The rest of us are Syrian and won’t be challenged. Once we reach the desert everyone can walk until we near the border.”
Slaton smiled noncommittally, his gray eyes a blank.
“The door to the compartment is on the other side,” Achmed said.
Slaton looked over his shoulder toward the market. Rafa, whoever and wherever he was, had been clever. The cart was backed into a shadow where two buildings merged. The right side was completely screened from sight.
Achmed retrieved a folded tarp from the cart and draped it strategically to give even better cover. He told the women the plan, and assigned Salma to stand watch on the market while they prepared to move.
When everyone was in place, Achmed unlatched an artfully concealed access panel on the side of the cart. Slaton studied the compartment. It was big enough for two, but only just. Ludmilla looked doubtful, and Slaton hoped she wasn’t claustrophobic. He’d seen the routes Achmed had mapped out, and knew they’d be traveling over rough terrain. It wouldn’t be comfortable.
