The raw truth sent chills up and down her spine. He’s right, and you both know it.
Trevor stood and reached inside his jacket. He pulled out a business card and handed it to her. His name and a cell phone number were the only things printed on it. “You enjoy the rest of your junior year. Take the summer, too. And next Fall, on your first day of your senior year, you call me, and we’ll see what’s what.”
Amira accepted the card, and said, “Thank you,” which had nothing to do with the card but the words and sentiments behind them.
Trevor nodded. “You earned it. Now, I’m going to leave you here to do something the rest of these people wouldn’t understand.”
“What’s that?”
Trevor smiled. “Enjoy the moment and the glory,” he said, and walked away.
Less than a year later, a call had been placed, and a new way of life had been offered and accepted, and Amira Cerone had never looked back.
Part II – Apex Predator
Chapter 5
Gaylord National Hotel
The Present
1545 EST
Assassinate Tooney? These people are crazy.
“And how pray tell do you plan to frame me for assassinating Director Tooney when he’s over at Langley, and I’m tied up here? I’m pretty sure you don’t have the technology to teleport.”
Trevor laughed, smiled, and shook his head. “You really don’t know, do you? I always find it astounding when the smartest, most talented people in the world – and you are one of those, Amira; I’ll admit that – miss the obvious when it’s right in front of their face.”
Amira didn’t respond, as she knew whatever came next, it wasn’t going to be good.
“Didn’t you notice all of the increased activity around the National Harbor? Large groups of people in suits, more than on any normal day of holiday shopping? Even the Harbor’s own contracted security company has more patrols today than usual. Want to take a guess why?” The smile reappeared on Trevor’s face, a mask of pure smugness.
What did I miss? She’d admittedly been so excited about her lunch with Beth that she hadn’t considered the environment. It was the National Harbor, after all. Minus one poorly planned conceptual terrorist attack that the Prince George’s County Police Department had foiled, it was a fairly low-threat environment. Amira remained silent in her refusal to placate her former mentor’s ego.
“Fine. Since you won’t play… Today, at the illustrious Gaylord National Resort and Convention Center, marks the beginning of the annual Intelligence and National Security Summit,” Trevor declared. “And want to guess who one of the keynote guest speakers is for the final main discussion of the day, which starts in…” Trevor glanced at his watch. “…fourteen minutes, to be precise.”
The annual summit was the premier forum for unclassified discussions between members of the Intelligence Community and other government agencies and their partners in both industry and academia. The topics ranged from evolving global threats to current trends, with a focus on developing collaborative solutions. It was a who’s-who in the intelligence zoo and always garnered international attention.
The revelation hit like a physical blow, threatening to deflate what little hope she had. She should’ve known. Everything had been orchestrated to lure her into the trap that had been set, and she’d walked willingly into it. But that means… She’d dwell on that problem later.
“I know. It’s brilliant, isn’t it? And guess who has personal contacts with the private security company the Gaylord hired to protect this little soiree?”
“You’re pretty pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” Amira asked, even as her tactical mind reoriented itself to elicit more information on the soon-to-be-assassination attempt. “You thought of everything, didn’t you? You always were good with planning. Let me guess: there’s some look-alike of me running around downstairs in the convention center, likely with a back-up team in case something goes wrong?”
“See? I knew you’d figure it out. And like I always told you, the best plans are the simple ones. Less moving parts, the less that can go wrong.”
The main door to the suite opened and closed, and she heard a male voice, thick with the same Dinka accent of her captors. Jesus Christ, how many people are they bringing up here?
“Just tell me one thing, Trevor – who’s paying you to do this job?”
Trevor’s smile vanished, replaced with an accusatory stare. “How many people have you killed, Amira? How many enemies have you made? I told you on the day we met that sacrifices get made in this business, but what I didn’t understand back then – not really – is that to win in this business, you have to sacrifice your soul. And whether or not you realize it, you’re well on on your way to paying that price. But I think you know that. Look what this job has taken from you. You lost your father because of this business.”
Amira’s fears were swept away at the mention of her beloved father, and all that remained was the fury and righteousness she carried into battle. “How dare you mention him to me,” she said so quietly with such ferocity that all sound ceased inside the suite. “I don’t know how, but you’re going to die this day, and I pray I’m there to witness it.”
Trevor nodded. “I know you believe that, and you probably have reason to, considering all you’ve done, but your time is running out. In fact, you have less than thirty minutes before you become another star on the agency’s Memorial Wall. Goodbye, Amira. It’s been an honor.”
Trevor abruptly turned and left the room, abandoning Amira momentarily to her thoughts. This can’t be how it ends. I have to get out of this, somehow. But she also knew that every other captured operative, soldier, and civilian thought the same thing, usually right before they died. As her hopes dwindled by the minute, no matter what, she’d hold on to them until her last breath. It’s who you are, until the end of your time, her father whispered silently to her. Don’t give them anything else.
The conversation in the living room ended, and Nafisa, Samuel, and the newcomer entered the bedroom.
Amira’s mind froze for a split-second as she was once again greeted by an apparition from her past. No. It can’t be.
“Hello, Amira. It’s been a few years, although I didn’t know your name back then,” the South Sudanese man said. He was slightly shorter than Samuel, stockier and built like a body builder. His head was shaved, and he still wore a full beard similar to the day she’d first met him. “I’m just glad everyone in American shakes hands with their right hand; otherwise, it’d be kind of hard for me, thanks to you.”
The man held up his hand, displaying for all what Amira already knew: the fourth and fifth fingers on his left hand were missing above the first joints past the knuckles.
I always knew leaving him alive was a bad decision. And now, it looks like I’m going to pay for it. God help me.
Chapter 6
Paloich, Southern Sudan
One Month Before the Events of OATH OF HONOR
0237 Local Time
Sudan had always been a country in turmoil. After nearly four decades of fighting, the rebellious southern region would hold its crucial referendum next month. The outcome was a foregone conclusion. There was little doubt to anyone paying even the most remote of attention that the people would vote for independence.
John Garang, the deceased leader of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army, would finally achieve his goal, albeit from the grave. After all the fighting he’d caused, it had been a helicopter crash that had wiped him from the face of the earth, but his ultimate goal was at-hand.
Most in the international community knew better than to think that the South would declare its independence and stop fighting, not with everything at stake along the border. Treasured oil was buried in the territory over which they fought. No peace agreement could prevent further atrocities and bloodshed. It was naïve to believe otherwise.
Independence would be declared, but unimaginable human suffering had become a stapl
e for the Sudanese people in those contested regions.
In addition to the war with the South, the government of Sudan had faced an uprising that started in 2003, when members of the Sudan Liberation Movement, supported by the Darfur Liberation Front, attacked the al-Fashir airfield in western Sudan. They’d destroyed four Hind attack gunships and killed most of the soldiers living on the base.
Khartoum’s response had been swift and severe in the form of a ruthless genocide. They’d recruited the Janjaweed militias to exact revenge upon anyone unlucky enough to be associated with the rebels in any way.
Unfortunately, the meddlesome international media had leaked images of the horrors to the United Nations and other intrusive organizations. The UN indictments were jokes to Sudan’s president and his advisors, reminders of the ineffective bureaucracy and hypocrisy institutionalized in luxurious office buildings in New York City. But then things had quieted down after the 2005 Comprehensive Peace Agreement with the South and the 2006 agreement with the Sudan Liberation Movement in Darfur.
But in the contested southern region, tensions continued for years, with attacks on the precious oil pipeline that ran from the Melut Basin – one of the richest sources of crude oil in Africa – more than fourteen hundred kilometers to Port Sudan. And at the very end of the pipeline lay the Paloich Pumping Station.
Operated by Petrodar Operating Company, a consortium of oil exploration and production companies, the pumping station was the sole source of activity in the impoverished Sudanese village of Paloich. The facility was a sprawling complex more than six hundred meters long by more than three hundred meters wide. An endless array of buildings, production facilities, billeting, and enormous circular tanks were connected by metal tubes that moved the precious lifeblood of Africa along its evolutionary course. While multiple generators had been built inside the complex, the Paloich power plant lay adjacent to the facility and provided the power required to run the facility day and night. An impressive and ambitious operation, the problem was that the pumping station was self-sufficient, and the locals never received any of the financial benefits of having the pumping station located near their homes.
The native Sudanese locals lived in meager huts, eating peanuts with perch fished out of the contaminated White Nile fourteen miles to the west. Electricity was non-existent, as was school for most of the children. Since Petrodar had its own workers – mostly Chinese, Malaysians, Qataris, and Sudanese northerners – there were little job opportunities for the locals, and the consortium hired Paloich residents only for menial jobs. The bottom line was that Petrodar cared about the oil but not about the people. The only help came from an American aid group, which flew in food and medical supplies, as well as mosquito nets. It was this USAID-sponsored organization that provided the perfect cover for Amira Cerone, an operative for the CIA in their clandestine special access program known as LEGION.
USAID had flown Amira and several members of the US Embassy staff – including one doctor and one nurse – from Khartoum via a C-17 to the Paloich Airport. They’d set up several tents, off-loaded the food and medical supplies, and spread the word to the local population that they’d remain for three days to treat the villagers.
For Amira, it was a break from the constant commotion and monotony of Khartoum, endlessly waiting for something to happen that might require the skills the CIA had spent millions on during her training. Not even the station chief knew her real identity or purpose. Only select senior executives at the highest level of the agency had access to LEGION and knew of its existence, which was why when the chat window on her ruggedized laptop popped open in the middle of the night, triggering a chime, she bolted upright from her cot.
She looked around the tent to ensure she was still alone and turned on a small portable lantern that filled the space with a dim glow. As the person in charge of the food supplies, she’d volunteered to sleep in one of the tents where the food had been stacked. She’d told her co-workers and the medical staff she’d be able to prevent any theft – which had plagued other humanitarian efforts – but the real reason was to afford her the privacy her real job required, as she was on-call for the agency twenty-four-seven.
She entered the password on her encrypted IBM Toughbook connected via cable to a small SATCOM antenna and generator just outside the tent. The chat window popped up, and she read the message. South Sudan rebels attacked and captured the Paolich oil pumping station 5 miles to your southwest. Multiple casualties. Workers being held in the barracks. Estimated 10 enemy with small arms and automatic weapons. They’ve shut off the pipeline. Sudanese government coordinating a response, but they won’t be able to reach the pumping station until tomorrow late in the day. Acknowledge.
Amira typed, Acknowledged, hit send, and waited.
We need you to infiltrate the pumping station, eliminate all hostiles except one, and get the oil turned back on.
Amira considered for a moment, and responded, Why leave one alive?
Because you need to send a message to the rebels that attacks like this are not in their best interest this close to the referendum. We’re in negotiations with the GOS over a potential new oil field, and if you succeed, it will go a long way in achieving the US’s larger objective. Please confirm.
Amira knew everything on the continent was about oil and other natural resources. Mission confirmed. All objectives understood. I’ll reach out once it’s over. Out here.
Good luck. God speed. Out.
Amira moved with purpose to a dark-green, footlocker-sized Pelican case with a spin-dial padlock. She entered the combination, lifted the lid, and smiled at the contents, pale-blue eyes glinting in the warm glow. Tools of the trade. Time to get your game face on.
Chapter 7
Paolich Oil Pumping Station
0403 Local Time
Asim Dafalla exited the operations center and stared upward into the African darkness overhead, the stars of heaven shining brightly upon him on the unusually clear November sky. The seventy-degree temperature felt cool on his dark skin, and he inhaled the humid air. I should be resting. Omar would want me to. Tomorrow will be a long day.
Omar Bol, Asim’s best friend since the two were boys, was the leader the of the assault force that had captured the pumping station less than twelve hours ago. Unlike Asim, Omar was fierce and merciless, which explained why four of the security personnel at the station had been gunned down during the attack. Asim had quietly watched as one of the guards had tried to surrender, only to meet his fate from a barrage of AK-47 bullets from Omar. He’d felt sympathy for the guards, but he’d hidden his feelings, less Omar accuse of him of having mercy for the enemy. In Omar’s view, the enemy was everyone associated with the pumping station, whether it be the workers, the owners, or even the few local Sudanese who were employed by Petrodar. They were thieves stealing the lifeblood of the earth, oil that should’ve been used to improve the living conditions of those who lived above it. But that will all change, starting today, Asim thought.
Omar had contacted Petrodar and informed them that the flow of oil was over. Their employees would remain hostages until southern Sudan was free from the iron fist of Khartoum.
When asked what demands he had, Omar had laughed. “Independence after the vote next month. Until then, your employees are mine,” and he’d disconnected the SATCOM phone call.
The plan was simple – hold the facility until the referendum was over and then demand improvements in the local infrastructure and living conditions for the residents of Paolich. And it was Asim’s job to ensure that both their fighters and the hostages had enough food and supplies to last the next month. They knew about the USAID camp at the airport, and Asim planned to take four men with him to obtain the supplies, peacefully, he hoped.
He looked west across the facility, the structures jutting up into the night sky. It was eerily quiet, as they’d rounded up all the workers and placed them in a barracks adjacent to the operations center on the east side of the compound.
Several of his fighters, believers in a free South Sudan, stood watch, while the other members of the assault force slept and patrolled the grounds of the facility in teams of two. Asim would figure out a permanent schedule tomorrow once the adrenaline from their victory had worn off.
He stretched his arms, his AK-47 slung over his shoulder. Might as well take a walk and enjoy the silence while I can.
Chapter 8
0415 Local Time
Amira studied the facility, patiently assessing the best infiltration point. The sprawling compound was a maze of buildings and pipes built around three enormous oil storage tanks – one next to the other in a row – that stood several stories and towered over the rest of the structures.
While there had been threats to the pumping station, the rebel assault had been the first actual attack. The isolation of the location had added a false sense of security, one the rebels had exploited on their first try. As a result, the facility had only been protected by a small cadre of armed guards whose effectiveness had obviously been insufficient for the task at hand, considering four of them were now dead. Nothing like a homerun your first at bat in the Big Leagues of terrorism, her father would’ve said.
She glanced at her watch. She had less than two hours before morning nautical twilight would begin, when the horizon would start to glow with the imminent sunrise thirty minutes later. But she planned to be long gone before the African light could reveal her presence.
She shrugged off her small, black tactical backpack and checked her weapons, securing the two fixed-blade, black stilettos and a suppressed SIGSAUER P229 9mm pistol in a holster that accommodated the suppressor. She adjusted her gear one last time and moved towards the northwest corner of the facility. She’d selected the remote corner as her infiltration point since it was the furthest part of the compound from the operations center and the barracks.
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