“There’s nothing here. Nothing.”
“The next roadblock is forty more minutes.”
“How do you know?”
The elder man turned to face Arif.
“My brother is dead. No matter how fast you drive, there is no rescue for Ghalib. Please respect that I am trying to uphold my family’s obligation to you. But do not push, Arif the Saudi. I remind you.”
“Of what?”
“The missile that killed my brother was meant for you. They were following your truck. I could say the Ba-Jalal have done enough.”
“And I could say the Ba-Jalal have taken my wife.”
Mahmoud stiffened in the seat. His beard worked around his lips; he chewed on many words before speaking.
“I understand. And you must understand you are not alone in your grief.”
Arif urged the pickup into the featureless night. Close behind him trailed four more trucks, brothers and men sworn to help him because of an oath. Beside Arif, Mahmoud pushed through his own sorrow the way Arif did the dark and his dread.
Arif took a hand off the wheel. He reached to Mahmoud’s thick shoulder.
“I do not wish to be alone. Raise your hands again. We will say the Salat al-Janazah.” The prayer for the dead. “Allah hu akbar.”
Mahmoud lifted his open palms beside his ears. “Allah hu akbar.” With his hands occupied, he could not wipe away a fresh tear.
Chapter 19
Hadhramaut
The Empty Quarter
Yemen
The Mercedes’s headlamps beamed out across the sands, petering to an extraordinary sky that touched the rim of the world in every direction. The Bani Yam disappeared to the east. Standing in the motionless road, Josh checked behind him. No one came for them yet. The temperature dropped, but Josh felt the warmth of the tribesman’s hands in the Kalashnikov.
Khalil waited at the steering wheel. On the rear seat, the princess sat like a mannequin. Khalil spoke out his open window.
“Throw the gun away.”
Josh rounded the hood of the Mercedes to climb in the front passenger side. Khalil waved to stop him, calling through the windshield.
“No. In the backseat.”
Josh got in the front, resting the submachine gun across his knees.
“Drive.”
Khalil balked.
“Toss that out the window.”
Josh bit his lower lip to compose himself. He was in this predicament because of the lying, spying, kidnapping Khalil.
“Drive or I get out. And I take the money and the permits with me. You can deal with what’s up ahead on your own.” Josh patted the AK-47 on his lap. “And this big boy means I can do what I say. Now put your foot on the gas. You and me are going to talk.”
Khalil relented. The car accelerated and the Yemeni grew more agitated.
“I don’t like having it in plain view.”
Josh ignored him long enough to key in his identification on the blue force tracker. He punched in threat level 3. He hoped the watchers were, indeed, watching.
“There’s another roadblock coming.”
Khalil smacked a palm on the wheel. “We need to stick to our cover story. If anyone sees you with a gun, we’re blown.”
“Listen to me. Those guys back there knew. There was no cover story to blow. The husband must’ve found out we took his wife. He’s al-Qaeda, and he’s on his way. The Bani Yam were hired to stop us. The Sai’ar, too. We’re driving into a trap. We can’t stop, and we can’t go back.”
“You think a weapon is the answer? I thought you were a diplomat.”
“I understand a show of force. These tribes don’t like each other. My bet is the Sai’ar won’t get in a gun battle with us just for the Abidah’s money. If we get blocked again, we offer the rest of the cash and a permit. Then we’ll show them we’ll fight if pushed to it.”
“Typical American diplomacy.”
“Fucking A right it is.”
The strain between them dried up any more talk. The car slipped through the great night, but the lack of contour in the land slowed the speed and the passing minutes. Alone in the backseat, the princess took on an air of fortunateness, the one in the car who was unconscious and unaware of the dangers ahead.
When the next roadblock appeared, headlights popped up strung across the road a mile ahead. Like the Bani Yam, the Sai’ar blocked the highway in only one direction, against cars headed east.
Josh did not get in the backseat. Khalil slowed, then rolled to a stop in the collected beams of three pickup trucks.
A fat man sauntered over, odd to be so portly in such a severe place as the Empty Quarter. His sandals kicked at the hem of a long futa skirt, his beard only a thick stubble. He carried no gun or knife and wore rings on every finger. Six men around him held automatic weapons.
The pudgy Sai’ar lapped his decorative hands on Khalil’s windowsill and leaned in. He didn’t ask for papers, said nothing while scanning the interior, eyes first on Nadya slanted against her rear window, then to Khalil, and finally to Josh gripping the AK. The tribesman lifted his hands off the car to back away.
Josh got out, showing his palms, letting the Kalashnikov hang at his chest. Khalil took the same ready posture as before, easy at the wheel, the Beretta in his left armpit accessible to a fast move. The six Sai’ar formed a firing line; the fat man sank into their rank.
Josh kept the Mercedes between him and the tribesmen.
“We have money. We have a tasrih.”
All the Sai’ar shifted in surprise at Josh’s Arabic. The fat, unarmed qabil took an unconfident step forward.
“Who are you?”
“An American.”
“Are you a soldier, sayyid?”
“I was.”
“How much money?”
“More than the Abidah are offering.”
“I see the Bani Yam wagged their tongues. Did they wag their tails, too?”
“They spoke well of you. They told us you would be waiting. I will pay you the same to let us pass.”
“What price did the Bani Yam put on you, sayyid?”
“One million riyals.”
The Sai’ar chattered amongst themselves, admiring the amount. The rotund one consulted over his shoulder before turning back to Josh.
“We accept.”
Josh ducked into the car for his backpack. Another one of the Sai’ar, not the fat one, called out.
“And how much for the woman? And the driver?”
Khalil heard this the same way Josh did; Khalil’s right hand crept closer to his left armpit. Josh froze, bent over the pack. The Sai’ar weren’t going to let them go. They were just pretending to be bribed, taking the available money, buying time for the Abidah to arrive. With dread and haste, Josh ran through his options and dead-ended in a gun battle. What else could he do? Stand straight. Fire the first burst with the Kalashnikov, sweep them, scatter them. Knock out a few, no way to know how many. Khalil would join in. Jump in the car, skid around the roadblock, pray not to get hit bad by the Sai’ar still firing. Drive hard another eighty miles to the Saudi border at top speed trailed by armed tribesmen. Punch in threat level **4 and holler for the PJs.
In the army, during four combat tours, Josh had engaged very little in close-quarters fighting. He’d been a trooper, an officer, an interpreter, a witness to conquest, but the few times he’d pulled his trigger against men this close had left him shaken and feeling lucky to be alive. He drew a deep breath to let caution catch up to him. The courage of a gun in hand could be fleeting and misleading.
Josh reached across the front seat to touch Khalil’s back. He whispered, “No.” Khalil retracted his grip from his jacket.
Out of the pack, Josh freed one of the banded bundles of cash. He tossed the money over the car; the tribesma
n caught it on the platter of his gut, then tucked it into a pocket of his tunic. Josh left his open hand in the air, showing it in the many headlights, but eased his other under the Kalashnikov.
“I will give you another million riyals for the woman and the driver.”
With mutters and gestures, the tribesmen conferred over the offer. The big qabil gave their reply.
“Sayyid, the Abidah want the woman very much. They also want the ones who have taken her. Another million riyals is not enough for all three of you.”
“This is what I paid the Bani Yam. And you have brought fewer men.”
“We did not think you would get past them. Clearly they are scoundrels.”
“I have no more money than that.”
“I will not throw fuel on the fires of the Abidah, not for the same pay they offer. It is not wise.”
“Do you not worry about my fire?”
At this, Josh put both hands on the AK-47. The Sai’ar gunmen did the same.
“I do. No one wishes to die here, sayyid. Leave us the woman and your beardless driver and you may go on. We will make your apologies to the Abidah when they arrive.”
Josh stood before six weapons in an orb of white light in the middle of a desert. He kicked himself for coming tonight. He should have refused half a dozen times, to the ambassador, to Khalil. Moving up the embassy ladder wasn’t even close to being worth this.
The Sai’ar spokesman pointed to the rear of the Mercedes. “Wake the Saudi. Let her choose.”
“No.”
“Then you must choose.”
“What if we fight?”
“Then you will die. Is kidnapping a woman worth your life?”
“Is doing the work of the Abidah worth yours?”
Undetermined moments rose like heat between them. Josh widened his stance behind the Mercedes. The Sai’ar were exposed in the open; he and Khalil had the cover of the car. Josh could take out a couple before being shot down himself, the same for Khalil. This wasn’t a good choice. Nor was waiting for an enraged husband and his al-Qaeda posse to come roaring up the road. The tribesmen showed no signs of buckling to Josh’s bluster, and he’d run out of tricks.
Khalil broke the silence. He stepped out of the car with both hands in sight.
“We agree.”
Josh switched to English. “What are you doing?”
In Yemeni, Khalil asked the fat tribesman if he might speak privately with his sayyid. He rounded the Mercedes’s hood. Khalil lowered his voice, speaking English.
“Get behind the wheel. I’m going to act like I’m about to wake her. They don’t know I’m armed. I’m going to draw and fire. You hit the gas and go. I’ll do what I can.”
“That’s insane.”
“It is also the only chance you have.”
“They will definitely kill you.”
Again, Josh checked the dark road behind. There was no way to know how much of a lead they had on their pursuers. No white lights crept in the distance, only the gray of moon and star. Every minute they delayed brought someone very angry and dangerous closer. Stalling wouldn’t help.
Khalil rested his hand on Josh’s arm. “The longer we stand here, the closer the Abidah and al-Qaeda come. We cannot wait, and we cannot negotiate more. If you can come up with something else, I’d like to hear it. If you can’t, get in the car. Drive away. Finish the mission.”
“Khalil. We should think about leaving her.”
“No.”
“We’re kidnappers. I’m not sure we should put our lives on the line for that.”
“I am not a kidnapper. I am a soldier with orders. I expect you to understand what that means. Now get ready.”
Years of training tore at Josh. To do his job without asking what part he played in the whole. And to do something, anything, other than leave a man behind. In the Rangers, this was an unthinkable act.
Khalil dipped his head to say his last words to Josh. “Allahu A’lam.” Allah knows best.
Josh didn’t move. Khalil shouldered past him to reach for the rear door.
The tribesmen opened their arms at Khalil, glad of his decision to relent. Numbed and without a choice, Josh climbed behind the wheel of the idling Mercedes.
Khalil turned his back on the Sai’ar. His right hand crept to his left armpit and the pearl-handled grip of his handgun. Josh made himself ready to peel off.
“Drive away.” Josh muttered the words but said them out loud to bring the notion of abandonment into the full world, where he’d have to deal with them the rest of his life. Drive away. You’re a diplomat. Khalil’s the soldier.
He tried to imagine what his father would say, his mother, and Ambassador Silva, to have him alive, and ashamed. He couldn’t hear any of them. They stared and gave no guidance, the question too complex for a civilian. But others’ voices asserted themselves in his head, the dutiful men he asked next, all men in uniform.
“Wait.”
Khalil flicked eyes at Josh that were steeled for violence. He was primed to spin and start firing. Josh said again, “Wait.”
Leaving Khalil with his hand on the rear door, his other at the holster, Josh scrambled beside him for the backpack, for the last two bundles of cash and the blue force tracker. With his keyed-up nerves, he fought not to fumble them. He punched in his ID code, 0724. Then **4.
The princess slept. Behind her in the immense night glowed the bloodred flush of the car’s taillights. Josh got out.
Chapter 20
Sharurah Domestic Airport
Sharurah
Saudi Arabia
On a circle of tarmac surrounded by sand, the HC-130 idled, cargo ramp closed. The props turned at a low and uncomfortable rpm, waiting to be either shut down or revved up. The PJs sat in the dimly lit cargo bay on seats lined against the fuselage, rattling with the great airframe.
The men were glad to be out of the cooling desert night. Among the PJs every eye was closed and ankles and arms were crossed, not resting but containing their energies, rocking on the propellers’ vibrations. LB stayed alert, riveted on Wally. The signal would come through him.
For the next half hour, Wally kept his attention fixed on the drop-down monitor of his SADL. Beside him, Berko followed along on his own screen.
LB figured he could close his eyes for a bit. All he got was one minute of shaky peace behind his lids before Wally’s shout goaded him alert again. LB and the team sat up in their seats.
“The PC’s stopped again. Still at threat three.”
The situation wasn’t deteriorating, but it wasn’t improving. The car wasn’t moving. Not a good sign.
Another five minutes passed with no more reaction out of Wally or Berko, both monitoring the mission second by second. Cautiously, the PJs relaxed into their rocking seats.
Wally shot to his feet, pressing the earpiece deeper into his head. The team leaned forward; apprehension flooded back in like wind through a window. Wally raised an arm for everyone’s attention.
“We have ‘Execute.’ Repeat, we have ‘Execute.’ ” He turned to every team member and the cargo crew, whirling an index finger beside his head to give each the signal, We’re spinning up!
The big HC-130’s propellers sang higher and the plane began to roll. Doc moved through the PJs, keeping to his feet in the unbalancing shimmy of the plane swinging around, heading for the runway of the little Saudi airport. He bellowed.
“Jock up. Chutes on. Let’s go, go.”
LB strapped into his chute container, then clipped on the eagle bag holding his med ruck. He pulled from his vest his night-vision goggles to check the batteries, then stowed them. He touched all three spare ammo magazines for his M4 to be sure they were secure. Doc rounded through the team, inspecting harnesses, tugging on straps. He spent an extra few seconds with Berko, then gave LB a thumbs-up. When
Doc climbed into his rig, LB did the check. Wally curled around his radios, listening to Torres in the ROC five hundred miles away at Lemonnier as she gave him and the pilots the mission brief. The recovery team checked their radios with each other.
“Radio check.”
“Lima Charlie. How me?”
“Lima Charlie.”
Kingsman 1 careened onto the runway, dumping Doc into one of the seats along the airframe wall. He buckled in fast with the rest of the team before the plane gathered speed and sound and sprang off the earth. The pilots banked her south immediately in the air, plainly urgent.
The HC-130 leveled off quickly. This was going to be a nap-of-the-earth flight into Yemen: swift, low, and secret. Wally straightened out of his hunker to stand and address the team. Hanging on, he shouted over the engines.
“Here’s the drill. The SEALs’ mission has canked. Major Torres has swapped us into the lead. The SEALs are now in support. The precious cargo in the car has stopped on the N5 highway seventy miles south of the border. The diplomat in the car with the blue force tracker has now signaled threat level four.”
Mouse lifted a hand. “Any injuries?”
“Don’t know.”
Quincy asked next, “Hostiles?”
“Unconfirmed but likely. Something or someone has stopped the PC twice. Probably tribal roadblocks. The first time the car got through it. The second time, the situation got worse. Right now the package is stopped and we have to assume under attack. That’s all the intel we have. We’ll jump static line from eight hundred feet three miles from the signal. I want the whole unit plus both GAARVs on the ground.”
Wally stepped out of the center, ceding it to LB, team leader. LB addressed the unit.
“There’s not much to go on. You’ve got your teams. We need to move fast, so leave your chutes on the LZ. Load up on water, we don’t know how long we’re going to be out. Stay tight, be ready. We’re going in after civilians, and that means no one knows what’s going on. We’ll get down, gear up, figure it out, and do the job.”
LB didn’t like jumping into such emptiness, with no advance intel of what waited below in the world’s largest desert. This mission had been tight-lipped from the start; even the bird colonel Hulsey in the ROC this afternoon had little he could say. Threat level four could mean anything, from a panicked diplomat with a hair trigger to a full-blown firefight with locals or al-Qaeda. Nonmilitary clandestine ops like this were rare for the PJs. They weren’t rare enough.
The Empty Quarter Page 21
