by Dave Edlund
“Who’s responsible in this case?”
“Can’t say for sure, but intelligence suggests it was the Janjaweed militia. There were very few eyewitness reports, but it seems the raiders came in on horses firing indiscriminately into the camp. Typical MO for the Janjaweed. Casualties are very high. Near as we can tell the camp housed only women and children—refugees from previous raids. I don’t know how many survived, but initial estimates place the number at less than ten.”
Jim rubbed a hand across his chin, disgusted by the senseless violence and waste of life.
Ellen continued. “The DIA is recommending U.S. military intervention. The Janjaweed and Sudanese government may have gone too far with this attack. It seems that one of the students is the daughter of a Congresswoman from California—Lois Bennett. She serves on the Defense Appropriations Subcommittee. She’s a rising star in the Republican Party and some of the talking heads are suggesting she could be a good candidate for presidency… if not the next election then the following one.”
Jim perked up and leaned forward, reaching across his desk for the file Ellen was reading from. He quickly read the first page while Ellen continued, reciting from memory.
“Congresswoman Bennett’s constituency is in San Diego County. She has served in Congress for fourteen years. She was recently re-elected by a large margin, in part due to sizable campaign donations from some of the largest defense contractors. General Atomics, Lockheed Martin, Spawar Systems Center Pacific, General Dynamics, L3 Communication—”
Jim held up his hand, palm facing Ellen. “I get it,” not taking his eyes from the report. He read further.
“Her daughter is Wendy Bennett. Says she’s also a student at the University of Oregon.”
“Is there significance to that?”
Jim nodded. “That’s where Ethan is attending, so they’re likely in the same aid group. If we can locate Ms. Bennett, I bet we’ll find Ethan as well.”
Ellen nodded. “Makes sense.”
Jim handed back the file. “It’s time to clean house.”
“Congresswoman Bennett is stirring the pot. She’s authoring a House Resolution condemning the attack. It’s expected to be up for a vote later today or tomorrow and to pass with little or no opposition. That will put some pressure on the administration to act.”
“Do you think the President will authorize a strike based on the outrage of a few members of Congress?” Jim understood the practical side of politics better than most.
Ellen shrugged. “The Pentagon hasn’t made any recommendations yet, but it’s still early. My guess is that the President will first seek the support of a U.N. Resolution calling for a no-fly zone, maybe bolstered with limited military strikes.”
“The wheels turn slowly. But God help anyone who’s caught in the path.” Jim wanted to start planning the mission now, but he knew it could be weeks before the order came down… if it ever did.
“All right. Here’s what I want you to do. Send a memo up the chain, all the way to the top, and copy everyone between me and the Joint Chiefs. Diplomatically suggest that this is a mission tailor-made for the Strategic Global Intervention Team. Explain that SGIT can infiltrate discretely, we carry plausible deniability in the extremely unlikely event of capture or causalities, and we have an unequaled record of success. Remind them of the Aleutian Islands mission where we averted a terrorist strike on U.S. soil and assisted with the capture of a Russian Spetsnaz sniper team as well as their stealth submarine launch vehicle. I want this mission— understand?”
Lacey nodded.
“I’ll phone Colonel Pierson directly after the memo goes out, see if I can get his support, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That should do it. I sure hope it does. We need to be there to set things right.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll let you know the instant we have a response.” Ellen folded her notepad and stood to leave.
Jim stopped her. “Just one more thing.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Does the name Abdul Wahid el-Nur mean anything to you?”
“Yes. He’s the leader of a splinter group of the SLM—the Sudanese Liberation Movement—in self-imposed exile in Paris.”
“That’s right.” Jim opened a bottom drawer in his desk and retrieved a cell phone. He threw it to Lacey, who caught it one handed. “Here. I want you to contact him. Tell him I asked you to call. He’ll remember me. We’ve done business before and I’ve saved his ass more than once. Tell el-Nur I want him to meet a mutual friend. If he says no, remind him that he owes me, and I aim to collect. And be sure to use the electronic voice alteration system when you call.”
“What do you want me to do after I speak to him?”
“Call Peter and give him Wahid el-Nur’s name and phone number in Paris.”
Ellen looked at the phone and then a wily smile crossed her face. “A throw-away phone? Plausible deniability?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Would you, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir!” Ellen turned smartly and left Jim’s office.
Chapter 11
Paris
June 8
Under different circumstances, the trio would have enjoyed the business-class seating on the Air France flight to Paris. But their thoughts were heavy and dark, wondering how they would first find Ethan and then bring him home safely. All three men tried to rest—sleep was impossible—knowing they would need to remain vigilant and sharp when entering Chad and Sudan.
After landing at Charles de Gaulle airport and clearing customs, Gary and Todd found a comfortable spot near the airline counters. They would keep a tight eye on the gun cases and luggage while Peter hailed a taxi to take him into Paris. Just before boarding the plane in San Francisco, during a tense call to the phone number he had been given anonymously, Peter hastily arranged to meet with Abdul Wahid el-Nur.
At first, el-Nur had been skeptical. He had many enemies, and why should he risk harm by meeting with a total stranger on short notice? It sounded too much like a set up. But there was something in the man’s voice that was genuine. The concern and fear for Ethan’s life came through clearly, and equally clear was the speaker’s attempt to hide this most-human vulnerability.
Besides, el-Nur had been told by an unidentified caller that this meeting would be payback to Commander Nicolaou… it would clean the slate, and they would be even. Abdul el-Nur wished he had time to verify that claim, but he didn’t.
Against his better judgment, el-Nur agreed to meet with Peter at a public location in Paris—the Shakespeare & Company bookstore on the east bank of the Seine River. The quaint old store was packed with books and frequented by casual as well as serious collectors. The shop and the rooms were small, such that it would be difficult for anyone to approach without first being noticed, and this gave Abdul el-Nur a slight sense of security.
Educated in the U.K., the revolutionary leader had chosen to flee to Paris to avoid persecution from the Sudanese government. A large man, but not tall, Abdul el-Nur wore a beige suit over a charcoal collarless shirt. His dark complexion and cleanly-shaven face and head contributed to his sophisticated appearance.
Upon meeting Peter, he quickly realized that his instincts were true; this man was no personal threat. He took Peter by the arm. “Come, let’s wander through the stacks, shall we?”
They strolled aimlessly, and Abdul’s eyes were flicking about, scanning every face as the patrons moved about. He didn’t see anything to cause him to be alarmed; mostly young people leisurely browsing through books pulled down from the miles of shelves. No one even paid the slightest notice to Peter and el-Nur.
As they continued to shuffle through the narrow halls and rooms stuffed floor to ceiling with books, many old and worn, Peter explained how his son, a volunteer in the Peace Corps Reserve, had been captured during a raid on the refugee camp.
“How may I be of assistance?” asked the leader of the SLM.
“I know where the refugee camp
was, but I don’t know where my son may have been taken. I’m hoping you can help me answer that question.”
“Assuming I can answer your question… then what?”
“That’s my business. I’ll take care of the rest.”
As his finger moved across a collection of leather-bound French poetry, Abdul el-Nur pondered this man standing next to him. Typical American. Thinks he can do anything, anywhere.
“You make it sound so simple. I tell you where to look for your son and you… you… do what? You are but a single man and the Janjaweed are many.”
Peter looked directly at el-Nur and clenched his jaw, but didn’t say a word.
“Do you think I will lend you my rebel army?” he scoffed.
“No. You tell me where my son is… that’s all I ask. The rest is up to me. I will get him; you can be assured of that.”
“What do I get in return for this information you seek?” Abdul el-Nur was amused, and he decided to play along. In the end he would provide whatever information he could regarding the location of the man’s son. That would repay his debt to James Nicolaou.
Peter spoke slowly, choosing his words precisely. “Your enemy is my enemy. To free my son I expect I will kill some—maybe many—of them. That should be sufficient payment for your information.”
Peter Savage surprised el-Nur. At first he appeared to be barely in control of his emotions, stricken with grief. But now… now he was as cold and hard as stone. There was little doubt that he would indeed kill anyone preventing the rescue of his son, or die trying. The latter was more likely, the SLM leader thought.
Peter Savage was not to be treated lightly, he decided. Maybe he could be of assistance. Perhaps, just perhaps, this American could help strike a significant blow against the Janjaweed.
Breaking the silence, Abdul el-Nur said, “Perhaps I wish to up the ante.”
Now it was Peter’s turn to be surprised and confused. “What do you mean?”
“I have no interest in the welfare of your son. My people have suffered far beyond your imagination.”
A young woman approached the pair and eyed a set of blue-bound screenplays by Lillian Hellman. She stopped and removed one of the books from the shelf and gently turned the pages. Abdul el-Nur nudged Peter along into the next room, which was empty except for the aged, musty-smelling tomes.
He continued, his voice firm. “Where were you and your countrymen when my people’s villages were being burned? The Janjaweed have murdered the men, raped the women, burned our villages and crops, and yet no one came to our side.”
“I am an American, but I don’t run my country. I don’t have control over policy, and I don’t have the power to send armies to help others. There is little I can do to influence the future… and I’m damned sure I can’t change the past,” Peter replied. “It was wrong, but I can’t change it. I am truly sorry. And yes, now I need your help. Just one answer; that’s all I’m asking. Please. Where is my son?”
“I cannot tell you with certainty where your son is being held. But I may know.”
“Go on, please. What do you want in return? Name your price.”
Abdul Wahid el-Nur thought for a moment before answering. Peter Savage was an odd mix of compassion and hardness. He had an edge barely tempered by his devotion to everything that he believed was good. He studied Peter further, not saying a word. He saw, buried beneath the veneer of civility and kindness, a capability of violence that may be boundless.
Abdul el-Nur had read of Peter’s resourcefulness in the redacted file that the unidentified caller had uploaded into a secure, virtual drop box for him to retrieve. The caller had only reluctantly agreed to provide the file so that el-Nur would have some knowledge of the stranger he would meet. Peter’s exploits on Chernabura Island against a well-trained and armed band of mercenaries were remarkable to say the least. Just then an idea came to el-Nur.
“I do not ask for money.”
“Then what? Tell me.”
“An enemy of my enemy is my friend. Yes?”
Peter answered, “I’m familiar with the proverb. Yes.”
“Then I want you to lead my soldiers against your enemy—against our enemy. That is my price for the information you seek.”
“I’m not a military man. What makes you think I can do this?”
“I know something of your past. You are a resourceful man when faced with adversity.”
Peter didn’t answer.
“I see a rare mixture of compassion and violence in your eyes. You are a man who knows the difference between good and evil and who does not shirk from fighting evil in the most forceful ways imaginable—without hesitation or mercy.” Abdul el-Nur paused, watching for a response from Peter. There was none. Peter remained completely passive, peering into the eyes of the exiled revolutionary.
Abdul el-Nur nodded. “I see my analysis is accurate.”
Suddenly Peter turned to leave, his face flushed with frustration. He took two steps and stopped, looking back over his shoulder at the man he hoped would provide critical information. “I came to you with a simple question. I am truly sorry for the suffering your people have experienced, but I can’t change history, nor am I responsible for it. As a father, I appealed to your sense of humanity and goodness. How different are you from the devils who attacked the refugee camp and took my son?”
Immediately Abdul Wahid el-Nur was in Peter’s face. “I am very different from the Janjaweed, I assure you. Otherwise I would have cut your throat within the first minute of our conversation.”
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just that I need your help. Where do I look for my son? That’s all I am asking. Can’t you understand that?”
“Yes, I do understand,” he answered in an even, low voice. “And I also understand that you are a man to be trusted. You are a man who will do what is right, no matter the cost. That is why I need your help.”
Peter was stunned. He had grossly miss-read his contact and now regretted his outburst.
“Okay,” Peter said, “let’s assume I agree. What do you want me to do? As I said, I am not a soldier, and I’ve never served in the military.”
“No. But I see in you a natural leader. And, you are motivated. I want you to lead my men against those who butchered the women and children in the refugee camp and then kidnapped your son. I want you to inspire them, to lead them against what is likely to be a superior force. When you fight…” el-Nur leaned close for emphasis, “…I want you to give no quarter. That is the saying, yes?”
“I understand the meaning,” replied Peter. Although it was one thing to say this, he knew that when it came to killing another man, that decision did not come lightly. Having gone down that path before, he knew it weighed heavily on his conscience. Even now, long after the shootout on Chernabura Island, Peter would still occasionally awake in the dead of night, drenched in a cold sweat, reliving that nightmare and the actions he was forced to take.
Despite his self-doubt, Peter knew he had no choice but to accept the terms. “The raiders who attacked the camp will receive no mercy from me if they bear arms. They can surrender or die.”
Abdul Wahid el-Nur had a smug look and folded his arms across his chest. “I’d strongly prefer the latter.”
Chapter 12
North Africa
June 10
Following the meeting with el-Nur, the trio of Americans boarded a flight that would take them to N’Djamena, the capital city of Chad. Getting all of their firearms checked in at Charles de Gaulle International Airport proved to be more challenging than they had thought. The French authorities were thorough and made it abundantly clear that they preferred not to have civilians checking baggage containing guns—it didn’t matter that it was for sporting purposes.
“I fail to see the threat,” mumbled Gary. “The guns are in locked cases in the baggage compartment beneath the passenger cabin of the airplane. Do they really think we’re going to somehow find our way down there and dig through piles of luggag
e just to hijack this flying crate?”
Gary Porter had a cheerful appearance; his blue eyes and wavy blond hair caused most people to think of him more as a surfer dude than an accomplished software engineer. He had always been rather direct, but his quick wit and humor could get him out of most confrontations.
The Air France agent looked at Gary sternly. Before she could comment Peter stepped forward, smiled politely and asked if everything was in order. At the same time he raised his left foot and discretely kicked Gary in the shin.
“Oww!” Gary yelped, but he got the message and shut up. Todd Steed, standing several steps away from the check-in counter, smiled inwardly at the exchange—he was quickly taking a liking to Gary.
In contrast to the Paris airport, the security at N’Djamena International Airport was nearly nonexistent. Fortunately, Peter, Gary, and Todd had deplaned quickly and were waiting at the baggage claim when their duffle bags and gun cases arrived. All three men feared that if they had not immediately claimed the gun cases someone else would have.
“Feels like I’ve been stuffed in a box and shipped all this way,” Peter complained. Although he was not one to follow a regular exercise routine, he disliked long periods of inactivity—it caused his whole body to ache.
Gary stretched, alternating between arching his arms back and then bending over to touch his toes. “I’m with you. I’d really like to run at least a mile right now. My butt is killing me.”
“Sorry, that’s not happening. Best I can offer is a 500-yard walk to the private air terminal. Our charter flight should be waiting for us.”
Gary and Todd scooped up their bags and followed Peter out the door. Their destination was the neighboring building that handled the logistics for the private aircraft that shared the runway with the commercial flights. Although Peter and Gary were breathing hard from the physical strain of carrying their bags and gun cases, Todd wasn’t showing any sign of fatigue. Being a practicing machinist, he constantly handled heavy metal with an ease and endurance that most men would find impossible to match. The result was impressive upper body strength and a bone-crushing handgrip.
