I inquired, “Do you have your sniper rifle with you?”
“Does the Pope leave home without his cross?” Zamo continued, “This gun is built for close-in defense and medium-range offensive use. So if we get into a situation where the bad guys are firing from a distance with AK-47s, then you have to compensate by laying down full automatic suppressing fire to keep their heads down.” He assured us, “What the M4 lacks in long-range capability, it more than makes up for in its high cyclic rate of fire.”
Howard asked a good question. “Any jamming problems when it gets hot?”
Zamo replied, “Theoretically yes, but no one has reported a combat jam.”
Maybe because they were dead.
Zamo continued, “The small size makes it easy to transport and conceal. Easy to carry it in and out of tight and confined spaces like vehicles or caves.”
Caves?
Zamo looked at Kate and said to her, “Its size, weight, and low recoil makes it popular with the ladies.”
I asked Zamo, “Will it chip her nails?”
Zamo laughed and Kate said, “Fuck you.” Which made Zamo laugh even more. This was fun.
So Zamo went on a bit about the M4, using more words than I’d heard him use all day yesterday.
All in all, the M4 seemed like an excellent weapon. I hoped I never had to use it, but if I did, I knew I’d have a blast.
On that subject, Zamo said, “I’m sorry we never got a chance to test fire, but we’ll go out in the Badlands tomorrow and give it a rip.” He added, “We might even find live targets.”
I reminded him, “We might find those on the road this morning.”
“Right.” Zamo asked, “Any questions?”
Howard asked, “Which thing is the trigger?”
Funny.
Okay, so deadly force course completed, Kate and I and Howard slung our M4s over our shoulders, and Zamo gave us each a black satchel stuffed with loaded magazines and telescopic sights. He said to us, “Good luck and good hunting.”
Mr. Brenner, the caravan master, had gathered the DSS drivers, and he was now speaking to them, reading from a sheet of paper that outlined the route and the order of march. I wondered if by chance Mr. Brenner and Mrs. Corey were riding in the same vehicle. Would he do something so stupidly obvious? Why not? I would.
Ed Peters had come out of the chancery building, though I didn’t think he was going to Aden with us. Maybe he was here to bless the caravan.
Kate and I were standing with Buck now, and Peters came over to us and said to Buck, “I’ve got only two fully armored vehicles left, and I have to pick up the new ambassador next week, so don’t get ambushed.”
Buck assured him, “You can get five new vehicles on a C-17.”
Peters replied, “That can take over a week.” He said to me, “I hate these trips to Aden.”
“You’re not going,” I reminded him.
“My vehicles are.”
“Sorry. Is there a bus I can take?”
Clearly Mr. Peters was worried about his vehicles. And, of course, his DSS agents. As for his passengers, they were the cause of his worries. A larger issue was the lack of American helicopters in this dangerous and inaccessible country. Without them, we had to drive through Indian Territory, and basically we were no more mobile than Al Qaeda in their Toyotas.
On the plus side, we had Predator drone surveillance—and maybe Hellfire missiles—but I didn’t know if Peters knew that, or if he knew we were taking his men and vehicles on the road to see if we could get into a fight with Al Qaeda.
Mr. Peters thought he might be causing the newbies some anxiety, so he said to me and Kate, “We’ve never gotten hit on the Sana’a–Aden road.”
Buck, too, assured us, “The most dangerous thing about the trip is the Yemeni truck drivers.”
Kate asked Buck and Peters, “Aren’t the National Security police supposed to provide road security?”
Peters replied, “Sometimes the police themselves are the problem.”
Right. In Yemen, even the good guys are bad. This place sucked. Did I already say that?
Bottom line here was three possible outcomes of this trip: a nice drive in the country, a successful encounter with the enemy, or headlines in tomorrow’s newspapers. American Convoy Wiped Out in Yemen; Thirteen Dead.
Public reaction would be total bewilderment—Where’s Yemen?
Good question.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Buck got another sat-phone call, and he moved off to speak. Maybe it was his wife in Maryland questioning him about all the Russia Club bills on his Amex.
Anyway, Buck returned and we chatted awhile, though he didn’t mention the phone call.
Brenner came over to us and said, “We’re ready to roll in five minutes.” Mr. Brenner glanced at Mrs. Corey, but asked me, “You all squared away on the M4?”
“We are.”
Brenner summoned everyone to draw near and said, “Listen up, please.”
As everyone gathered around, Brenner began, “First, let me introduce you to Dr. Nolan, who some of you may already know.”
The young doctor raised her hand and waved. She wasn’t bad-looking if you like the looks of, say, Scarlett Johansson. But I digress. What was I saying? She looked competent. Right.
Brenner informed everyone, “Dr. Nolan is fully equipped to treat carsickness, and gunshot wounds smaller than nine millimeters.”
That got a good laugh. Even Howard laughed on his way back inside the embassy. Just kidding.
Dr. Nolan said, “I make house calls.”
Brenner then introduced “our very important passengers, Mr. John Corey of the FBI Evidence Response Team, and Ms. Kate Mayfield, our new legal affairs attaché.”
I held up my hand and said, “I’m John. That’s Kate.”
That got a few laughs. I mean, we were the reason for this risky trip to Aden, so I thought I should show everyone we were just nice, silly people.
Brenner also introduced Howard Fensterman, then said to everyone, “Okay, the order of march.” He read from his paper, naming the five DSS drivers and their assigned vehicles, and informed everyone, “I will be in the lead vehicle.”
Or as they say in the military, on point—theoretically the most dangerous position in a convoy, so if Mr. Point Man thought Kate was riding with him, I’d have to correct that.
Brenner, however, moved on, saying, “Mr. Harris will be riding shotgun in Vehicle Two.”
Buck raised his hand and informed everyone, “I am second in command if Mr. Brenner is not able to perform his duties.”
Right. Like dead.
Moving right along, Brenner announced, “Mr. Corey will be riding in Vehicle Three.”
The middle vehicle was usually the safest one in a convoy, sometimes reserved for the commander. But Mr. Brenner had assigned me the place of honor. Why? Because he liked me? No, because I was actually the goat that needed to be delivered as safely as possible to the trap.
Brenner then announced, “Also in the middle vehicle will be Dr. Nolan.”
Well, how about that? Actually, it was standard procedure to put the medical person in the middle, so that’s how that happened. Nothing to do with my prayers. But where was Kate riding?
Brenner answered my question. “Ms. Mayfield will be riding in Vehicle Four.”
I was really disappointed that Kate wasn’t riding with me and Clare.
Brenner continued, “Also in V-4 will be our other new legal affairs attaché, Mr. Fensterman.”
Poor Kate. Just kidding. I really liked Howard. But if I had to spend five or six hours with him in a car, only one of us would walk out alive.
Howard, perhaps reading my and everyone’s mind, said, “Kate and I are available by sat-phone if anyone has any legal questions about returning fire.”
That got a big laugh of recognition from everyone who had to deal with this nuttiness. Even Howard laughed at himself, bringing him another step closer to reality.
&n
bsp; Brenner went on, “The trail vehicle is our enhanced security unit.” He named the two DSS agents, one of whom was Zamo, who’d be riding with the DSS driver. He added for the newbies, “This vehicle has specialized armaments and security devices.” He quipped, “This is our Bondmobile.” He also told us, “The Bondmobile may change positions and may drop back or move out front to scout.”
This all sounded like standard convoy security procedure with maybe some variations based on past experience. Bottom line here, Paul Brenner was responsible for five expensive vehicles, lots of pricey commo and weapons, some sensitive paperwork, and thirteen American lives.
This was not the kind of job you trained for; it was the kind of job you were born or not born to do.
I wasn’t sure if Paul Brenner was enjoying this, but it was obvious to me that he was at home here. Back in the States, he’d be looking for another job, and in London, Paris, or Rome he’d be just another cog in the big embassy wheel; here, he was one of the wheels. I had a feeling he was staying in Yemen, though he himself didn’t know that.
Brenner said, “Commo. The hand-held radios should work well when we stay in line of sight, but remember there are some mountain curves and dips in the road. If necessary, we can relay radio messages. Also, please keep the radio chatter to a minimum for security and tactical reasons. I will initiate most calls.” He continued, “Each vehicle is equipped with a sat-phone antenna jack. If attempting a call, please don’t forget to plug in your phone.”
This got a few laughs, and it was obvious that some lunkhead had forgotten to do that once. These guys had a history together, and Kate and I were just a new chapter. And hopefully not the final chapter. It was also obvious that the DSS agents liked the boss, and that told me a lot about Paul Brenner. Actually, I liked him, too. He had good taste in women.
He continued, “As for other calls, specifically calls of nature, we may not be able to stop, so there are male and female bottles in each vehicle.” He advised, “If you don’t know which to use, call me.”
Good laughs, though they’d heard this one before.
He also informed everyone, “We have brown-bag lunches in each vehicle, compliments of the cafeteria.” He added, “Dr. Nolan can treat food poisoning.”
There was really a lot of good material in Yemen. A joke a minute. I couldn’t wait to get to Ecco’s and try out some of this stuff. “So, this camel walks into a bar in Sana’a, and the bartender says, ‘Hey, why the long face?’ ”
Brenner continued, “Because these Land Cruisers are FAVs—fully armored vehicles—they are heavy, and we will have to make a refueling stop.”
He glanced at the paper in his hand, then said, “The route. We are taking the main road to Yarim. There we will decide if we’ll take the Ta’iz road, or the new road to Aden, depending on the security situation.”
He concluded, “I’ll be in sat-phone contact with the embassy and also with the Sheraton in Aden to see if they have any info for us en route.” He then announced, “We have been promised Predator drone surveillance, but I can’t promise that it will be extensive or effective.”
I noticed that Brenner didn’t mention that those surveillance Predators might be armed with Hellfire missiles, or if they were, that the Hellfires would be used. Bottom line for any commander is don’t promise more than you know you can deliver. The men know the risks, and they appreciate honesty. Bullshit is not part of the pre-mission briefing.
Brenner also informed everyone, “The Yemeni authorities have not been advised of our movement, but as always, we’ll encounter National Security Bureau police on the road as well as local police and military checkpoints. If we’re asked to stop, Mr. Harris will deal diplomatically with the situation.”
Buck said something in Arabic, then translated, “Get out of my way, you stupid sons of diseased camels.”
Big laugh from the boys. It was obvious that no one here had a very high regard for the host country or its citizens. I could certainly see why this was so—but American arrogance led to over-confidence, and that led to mistakes.
Brenner also reminded everyone, “Flak jackets will be worn even though you’re wearing Kevlar vests. We will maintain the top speed possible, and I will set the speed. Vehicle intervals are determined by speed or terrain.”
He then got down to the tough stuff and said, “As per our training, we will not deploy or return fire if fired on—we will trust our armor, and we will drive through the ambush, even if our so-called puncture-proof tires are flat. If a vehicle is disabled by an explosive device, we will encircle the disabled vehicle, take up defensive positions, and return fire if fired upon. If we are engaged by a moving vehicle while we are moving, you may at that time lower your windows and blow him the fuck off the road.”
That got a big cheer. Even Howard let out a whoop. I’m starting to worry about him.
I watched Mr. Paul Brenner, combat veteran, and I could see, as I said, that he was very much in his element here, getting the troops psyched up, showing a mixture of professional confidence and personal aggressiveness. This was a competent leader, and a man everyone could trust—except maybe if you happened to have your wife with you. But, hey, no one is perfect. I just hoped he was focusing more on the mission than on his lonely dick.
I glanced at Kate while Brenner was speaking, and I could see she was somewhat taken with Mr. Macho. She had that admiring look in her eye that she usually reserves for me and Bon Jovi.
Anyway, Brenner wrapped it up with, “We have no reason to expect any problems on the road, but if we do have an encounter, we’re more than equipped and ready to handle anything. I wish us all a safe journey and a nice ride in the country.”
Everyone applauded. Bravo. Encore. Well, maybe it was time to go.
Ed Peters, part-time preacher, called out, “Godspeed, and safe home.”
And bring those Land Cruisers back in one piece.
Brenner shouted, “Mount up! Let’s roll!”
Everyone gathered their gear and made their way to their assigned vehicles, but I, of course, walked Kate to Vehicle Four. Howard was already sitting in the passenger seat with his M4, talking to the driver, and I loaded Kate’s luggage in the rear compartment beside Howard’s.
I closed the hatch and said to Kate, “Sounds like a milk run.”
She didn’t respond to that, but advised me, “Behave yourself.”
I put on that confused look that I do so well and asked, “What are you talking about?”
“You sit up front.”
“Of course. Shotgun.”
“Give me a kiss.”
We did a hug and kiss, and she said, “See you at the refueling stop.”
Or sooner.
So I threw my bags in the rear of the middle vehicle, where Dr. Nolan’s CPR unit and oxygen were stowed. I got in the front seat and said hello to the driver, whose name was Mike Cassidy.
Dr. Nolan was already in the rear seat with a big medical bag, wearing her flak jacket, and I turned to her and said, “Hello, Doctor.”
“Call me Clare,” said Scarlett.
The big engines of the five Land Cruisers all fired up, we buckled up, and off we went.
Both gates of the sally port were open, and the convoy passed quickly out of the American Embassy compound and into Yemen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Across the road was Tourist City, the scene of last night’s Russian adventure. Thinking back, I was certain that Buck knew of Mr. Brenner’s interest in Mrs. Corey, and I wondered what the wise old diplomat would advise his friend. I’m sure Buck would tell Brenner to cool it. Mission first.
“John?”
I turned in my seat. “Yes, Clare?”
“Have you driven to Aden?”
“Actually, I have. About two and a half years ago.” I asked, “How about you?”
“First time.” She told me, “I just got here three weeks ago.” She asked me, “How long will you and your wife be here?”
Who? Oh, my
wife. I replied, “Hopefully not long. How about you?”
“I signed on for a year.” She told me, “The State Department is helping me repay my student loan.”
“Right. Me, too.”
She laughed.
I asked, “How do you like Yemen?”
“Sucks.”
“Give it time.”
Mike Cassidy, our DSS driver, assured her, “It doesn’t get better.”
We continued south, past the British Embassy and the Mövenpick Hotel, then turned onto the Marib road, which was not well traveled, making it easier to see if anyone was following. Then we doubled back to intersect with the main road heading south again.
The Bondmobile reported on the radio, “We’re alone.”
There was some truck, bus, and SUV traffic going both ways, as well as motorcycles and scooters. The more traffic the better. Not that we were blending in—I mean, five big black Land Cruisers caravanning in the land of little white vehicles were attracting some attention, and it was obvious to even the densest Yemeni that this wasn’t a tour group. Probably, I thought, everyone in Sana’a knew these SUVs, and it wouldn’t be long before Abdul called his cousin Abdullah who was a fink for Al Qaeda. Cell phones. Everybody had one. Even here.
We passed through the ramshackle outskirts of Sana’a, and the traffic started to thin out.
Mike Cassidy announced to his passengers, “I have three weeks to go here.”
I asked him, “Where you heading?”
“Home. Daytona Beach, Florida. Then I got a great gig in Madrid.”
“You deserve it,” I assured him. I asked, “Ex-military?”
“Yeah. Six years in the Army. One deployment in Afghanistan with the Tenth Mountain Division, one in Iraq with the First Cav.”
Clare said, “Thank you for your service.”
“Still serving,” Mike said. “But the pay is better.”
I thought about Mike Cassidy, John Zamoiski, a.k.a. Zamo, and the other DSS agents, and even Paul Brenner. We’d built this extensive and expensive intelligence and security apparatus, of which I was a part, to fight what amounted to a pissant war. But this war could turn very deadly in a heartbeat, as we saw on 9/11, and on other occasions such as the Cole bombing. And when you put nukes into the equation, or biological and chemical weapons, you were talking nightmare time. Day to day, however, no one in the States gave much of a rat’s ass about any of this since 9/11, but 9/11 would come again, and this time we couldn’t say we were surprised or unprepared. Meanwhile, we followed leads, guarded embassies, chased shadows, and now and then whacked a major asshole, which made the homeland just a little safer. That’s why I was here.
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