Raven Strike d-13

by Dale Brown

  “Maybe.”

  “I would say he might be able to go to a ball game, as long you’re under escort,” said Esrang.

  Zen was surprised, but he wasn’t about to disagree. “I’ll set something up. You coming?”

  “Absolutely… The Nationals will win, right?”

  Zen laughed. He’d started to wheel into the building when he heard Jason Black clearing his throat behind him.

  “Excuse me, Doc. We’ll find our own way out.” Zen turned back to his aide. “What’s up?”

  “Steph needs to talk to you,” said Jason. “Like as soon as you can.”

  Zen pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket. There were half a dozen text messages, including two from Stephanie Delanie — Steph — his chief legislative aide. The Senate Intelligence Committee had scheduled an emergency session for eleven o’clock — they’d just make it if they left right now.

  “Grab the van, Jay,” said Zen. “I’ll meet you out front.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Just the usual Senate bs,” said Zen.

  Chapter 7

  Southern Sudan

  Twice Amara came to checkpoints manned by government soldiers, and twice he drove through them, slowing then gunning the engine, keeping his head down. He’d learned long ago that most times the soldiers wouldn’t risk trying to actually stop a pickup, knowing they faced the worst consequences if they succeeded in killing the driver: whatever band he belonged to would seek vengeance immediately. The Brothers were especially vicious, killing not only the soldiers but any relatives they could find. It was an effective policy.

  Besides, the soldiers were more interested in bribes than checking for contraband. Their army salary, low to begin with, was routinely siphoned off by higher-ups, leaving the privates and corporals in the field to supplement it or starve. Amara knew this from his older cousin, who had been conscripted at twelve and gone on to a varied career in the service until dying in a shoot-out with the Brothers at sixteen. By then his cousin was a sergeant, battle-tested and the most cynical man Amara knew, a hollow-eyed killer who hated the army and admired the Brothers, though eventually they would be the death of him. He had urged Amara to avoid the army, and warned him twice when bands were coming to “recruit” boys from his village—“recruit” being the government word for kidnap.

  His cousin’s influence had led him to the Brothers. Amara lacked the deep religious conviction many of the Brothers and especially their leaders held. He joined for survival, and during his first action against a rival group, found he liked the adventure. His intelligence had been recognized and he was sent to a number of schools, not just for fighting, but for math and languages as well.

  He liked math, geometry especially. His teachers told how it had been invented by followers of the one true God as a method of appreciating God’s handiwork in the world. To Amara, the beauty was in the interlocking theorems and proofs, the way one formula fed to another and then another, lines and angles connecting in a grid work that explained the entire world. He sensed that computer language held some of the same attractions, and his one regret in killing Li Han was that the Asian had not taught him more about how it worked before he died.

  Amara’s promise was so great that he had won the ultimate prize: an education in America. Handed documents, he was sent to a U.S. college in the Midwest to study engineering. He was in well over his head, simply unprepared for the culture shock of the Western country. He was not a failure — with effort and struggle he had managed C’s in most of his classes, after dropping those he knew he would fail. But within two years the Brothers recalled him, saying they had other jobs. Someday, he told himself, he would return, only this time better prepared.

  The black finger of an oil-drilling rig poked over the horizon, telling Amara he was nearing his destination. He slowed, scanning both sides of the road. Here the checkpoints had to be taken more seriously; they would be manned by the Brothers rather than soldiers, and anyone who didn’t stop would be targeted by an RPG.

  He found the turnoff to the hills, then lowered his speed to a crawl as he went up the twisted road. Moving too fast was an invitation to be shot: the guards had standing orders to fire on anything suspicious, and they were far more likely to be praised for caution than scolded for killing a Brother who had imprudently alarmed them.

  Amara spotted a man moving by the side of the trail. He slowed to a stop, and shouted, “As-Salamu Alaikum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuhu.”

  The shadow moved toward him. Two others appeared on the other side of the trail. Then two more behind him. Amara was surrounded by sentries, all of them four or five years younger than himself. They were jumpy and nervous; he put both his hands on the open window of the car, trying with his body language to put them at ease.

  “I am Amara of Yujst,” he said in Arabic, naming the town he had taken as his battle name. “I have completed my mission.”

  “What mission was that?” snapped the tall man he’d first seen. He was not necessarily the oldest of the group — he had only the outlines of a beard — but he was clearly in charge.

  “The mission that I have been appointed. It is of no concern to you.”

  “You will tell me or you will not pass.”

  “Are you ready for Paradise, Brother?” said Amara.

  The question caught the tall one by surprise, and he was silent for a moment.

  “One of you will ride with me,” Amara continued. “You will come into camp. The rest will stay here and guard the pass.”

  “What gives you the right to make orders?” said the tall one, finding his voice.

  “I told you who I am, and why I am here. I need nothing else.”

  “Two of us will come,” said the tall one, trying to save face with the others.

  Amara might have challenged this, but decided he didn’t want to waste time. “Move, then.”

  The tall one got into the cab; another man climbed into the truck bed, squatting on the tarp. They drove through two more switchbacks, watched by guards crouching near the rocks. As Amara turned the corner of the last curve, he spotted a small fire flickering in a barrel ahead. Men were gathered around it, warming themselves. The stripped shell of a bus stood behind them, crossway across the path. Amara slowed even further, easing toward the roadblock in an almost dead crawl.

  The man in the back of the truck yelled at the sentries near the fire, telling them to move quickly because an important Brother had arrived on a mission. Even so, they moved in slow motion over to the bus. The vehicle had been stripped of its engine and much of its interior, its only function now to slow a determined enemy. The men put their shoulders and backs to the front and pushed, working the bus backward into a slot in the rocks. They held it there as Amara went past, then slowly eased it back in place.

  Amara pulled the truck to the side of a small parking area just inside the perimeter. Vehicles were not allowed any farther; the way was blocked by large boulders, protection against vehicle bombs. He took the laptop from beneath the seat and got out of the truck.

  “You will guard the contents below the canvas with your life,” he told the two men who’d accompanied him. “If they are even touched, you will be hanged, then fed to the jackals.”

  Even the tall sentry had no answer for that.

  Amara turned and held his hands out.

  “You will search me, then take me to Brother Assad,” he told the approaching guards. “And be quick.”

  Chapter 8

  Duka

  Less than three minutes after Melissa ran back inside the clinic, bullets crashed through the windows. By then she and Bloom had barricaded themselves inside one of the examining rooms with the patients who’d been inside.

  Melissa hunkered down behind the desk they’d pushed against the door as a truck drove past outside. There were shouts and a fresh hail of bullets. She reached down and rolled up her pant leg, retrieving her 9mm Glock from its holster.

  “That’s not going to do m
uch,” said Bloom, a few feet away. Two patients, a mother and four-year-old daughter, were huddled next to her. The other patients, both teenage women, both pregnant, were at the far end of the room, crouched down behind the overturned examining table.

  “It’s better than nothing,” said Melissa.

  She took out her sat phone, forgotten in the rush for cover. There were two missed calls. Before she could page into the directory, the phone rang. She answered quickly.

  “What the hell are you doing in that building?” demanded Danny. “Why wasn’t your phone on?”

  “It was on,” she told him. “The volume on the ringer was down. I couldn’t hear.”

  A round of bullets blew through the building. Two or three whipped overhead. One of the women screamed. Another was crying.

  “What’s your situation?” asked Danny.

  “We have four patients in here, three women and a child. What’s going on outside?”

  “They’re shooting up the town,” said Danny. “Where in the building are you? I can’t get a good read.”

  “The back examining room.”

  “Stay there. One of the trucks is coming back.”

  There was fresh gunfire at front. This time, though, none of the bullets was directed at the clinic. The Sudan First gunmen were driving through the area, firing indiscriminately.

  “All right,” said Danny. “They’re moving south. Are you all right?”

  “So far.”

  “We’re coming for you. Is there a basement?”

  “No.” She’d already decided this was the safest room in the building.

  “Don’t do anything until you hear my voice.”

  “Sure,” she told him.

  * * *

  Danny closed the connection.

  “She’s nothing but trouble,” said Nuri. “I told you. And this Bloom. If she’s really a washed out MI6 agent—”

  “Not now, Nuri,” snapped Danny. “Boston, Flash, you’re with me.”

  Danny left the tent, trying to control his anger as he strode toward the Mercedes. The truth was, Nuri was right — even if he should’ve kept his mouth shut about it.

  Boston and Flash hustled behind him, humping two ammo-laden rucks apiece. Beside their SCAR assault rifles, Boston had an M-48 squad-level machine gun.

  They piled into the car. Danny started the engine and was about to pull away when Nuri grabbed the back door.

  “I thought you were staying,” Danny said.

  “We better hurry — there are two dozen men coming by foot from the Sudan First camp.”

  Chapter 9

  Southern Sudan

  Amara’s escorts eyed the laptop nervously. The case was more than large enough to hold a charge of plastic explosive powerful enough to take out a good portion of the small cluster of buildings that served as the nerve center of the camp.

  He’d shown them that it worked; beyond that, Amara could offer no other assurance. He held it under his arm and walked with them to the small hut where Assad lived and worked.

  Assad had served an apprenticeship in Iraq and was one of the older members of the Brotherhood, respected for his experience, though not completely trusted by all because he had been born in Egypt. He and Amara had not been particularly close before this assignment, and in fact Amara suspected that Assad was not the one who chose him.

  Assad’s cousin Sayr served as his aide and bodyguard. He was standing outside the house, and put up his hand as Amara approached.

  “You’re back,” said Sayr. “You’ve taken your time.”

  “I drove night and day,” answered Amara. “And ran two blockades.”

  Sayr pointed to the laptop. “That is not allowed in the hut.”

  “This is why I came,” said Amara, holding it out.

  “It’s not allowed inside. I’ll take it.”

  Amara hesitated, but turned it over. There was no alternative.

  “Be careful,” he said. “It has a program on it that’s important. Do not even turn it on.”

  Sayr frowned at him. Amara wondered if he even knew what a program was — unlike his cousin, Sayr was not particularly bright.

  One of his escorts knocked, then opened the door to the small building. Assad sat in the middle of the floor on a rug. There were pillows nearby, but no other furniture.

  “I have returned, Brother,” Amara said, stepping inside. “I have eliminated the Asian as directed and returned with the computer and the guidance system.”

  Assad nodded. He stared blankly at the rug, seemingly in prayer, though it was not the time to pray. Finally he looked up and gestured for Amara to sit.

  “The Asian is dead?” Assad asked.

  “As you directed.”

  “He was an evil man,” said Assad. “But a useful one.”

  The door opened. Sayr entered and walked over to his cousin, stooping down and whispering in his ear. As he straightened, he shot Amara a look of disdain.

  “Very good,” said Assad, his gaze remaining on Amara. “Fetch us some tea.”

  Sayr gave Amara another frown, then left.

  “How strong is your belief?” asked Assad. “If it were necessary to sacrifice yourself, could you do it?”

  A shudder ran through Amara’s body. A true believer was supposed to be prepared to sacrifice himself for jihad, accepting death willingly for the glory of the Almighty. But it was a complicated proposition. It was one thing to be willing to die in battle, and quite another to accept what Assad seemed to be asking: deliberately sacrificing himself.

  The Brothers did not as a general rule use suicide bombers to advance their agenda. They were considered unreliable. But there were always exceptions.

  Amara hoped he wasn’t to be one.

  “Could you become a martyr?” repeated Assad.

  “Of course,” said Amara, knowing this was the only answer he could give, even if it did not come from his heart.

  “You hesitate.”

  “I… only question my worthiness.”

  Assad smiled but said nothing. Sayr returned with a small teapot and two cups. He carefully wiped Assad’s and set it down before him. He was much less careful with Amara’s; liquid dripped from the cup.

  “He doesn’t like me,” said Amara when Sayr had left. “But I have done nothing to him.”

  “You’ve taken his place on an important mission to America,” said Assad.

  “I have?”

  “We have been asked by friends to help a project they have undertaken. One of our Brothers is in the Satan capital. He needs some technical assistance, and equipment. We think you can help him.”

  “What sort of help do you mean?” asked Amara, unsure if the question was meant literally or was a more subtle way of asking if he would be willing to become a martyr.

  He certainly hoped it was the former.

  “Drink your tea,” said Assad, nodding, “and I will instruct you.”

  Chapter 10

  Duka

  They were still about two miles from the city when MY-PID told Danny that the trucks blasting the area occupied by Meurtre Musique had met up with the men on foot.

  “Where are they headed?” Danny asked the system.

  “Insufficient data.”

  “They’re kind of aimless,” said Nuri, watching on his control display. “They’re just intent shooting up whatever they can. There’s a group of men in Meurtre Musique’s area. Looks like they’re planning a counterattack.”

  “We’ll go north and come back around from that end.”

  “Don’t get too close to the house where Li Han is,” said Nuri. “We don’t want to spook him.”

  “We’re the last thing he’s going to worry about,” said Danny.

  He pressed the accelerator to the floor, speeding down the road. There was gunfire in the distance.

  I shouldn’t have let her go, he thought. He’d put the whole mission in jeopardy.

  Why had he given in? The argument that he couldn’t stop her didn�
�t hold water.

  It was because she was pretty, he realized, and he liked her.

  What a fool he was.

  * * *

  Despite the fact that Danny had told her not to leave the building, Melissa asked Bloom if there wasn’t a safer place in the vicinity. The clinic, she reasoned, was the largest building in the area, and a ready target for anyone who didn’t like Meurtre Musique.

  “There are the huts,” said Bloom. She was shaking. “The walls are mud.”

  “It still might be better than staying here,” Melissa told her. She pulled the desk back from the door.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to scout the front.”

  “What if they’re nearby? Don’t go.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Of course not.”

  Melissa looked into the older woman’s eyes. She saw fear there for the first time. She hadn’t completely believed the story about Bloom leaving MI6; she thought there was a good chance that she was in fact still an agent under deep cover. But the look in the nurse’s eyes told her it was true.

  Or close: maybe she hadn’t quit. Maybe they had eased her out because she wasn’t strong enough.

  “They’re not nearby,” Melissa told her.

  Bloom nodded reluctantly.

  Melissa scrambled across the hall to a room with a window looking toward the road. There was no one outside.

  “Marie, come on!” she yelled. “Let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  “They’re moving out of the building,” said Nuri. “Shit. Why the hell can’t that bitch just do as she’s told?”

  Danny felt a swell of anger — not at Melissa, but at Nuri, for calling her a bitch. “She’s just trying to do her job,” he said tightly.

  “Bullshit. Her job was getting Li Han. She’s not even doing that. She’s screwing everything up. Typical Agency prima frickin’ donna.”

  Boston reached across from the passenger seat and tapped Danny on the knee. Danny glanced over. Boston had his game face on, a look that said he shouldn’t waste his brain on trivia.