Chet wrapped up his background briefing. “The weeks after the Cole was bombed had a surreal quality to them… maybe more like slapstick comedy with the Yemeni government and military running off in different directions like the clowns they are, saying, ‘Welcome Americans,’ then ‘Yankee go home.’ ” He concluded, “Totally dysfunctional country.”
Dysfunctional, as Betsy Collins said, would be an improvement.
We were about a hundred meters from the beach now, and Chet backed off on the throttle as he steered around some sandbars toward the shallows near Elephant Rock.
There were a lot of gulls on the rocks, but Chet left them alone, and instead he flipped the bird at the Yemeni Army guys manning the machine gun. Chet needs some anger management classes.
As he maneuvered the boat, he said, “In the old days of gunboat diplomacy, if some pisspot country attacked Westerners, a naval fleet would assemble and bombard the port city until it burned to the ground. Now… well, the primitive little assholes of the world get away with too much. But there will be a day of reckoning.” Chet thought a moment, then said, “In fact, every day since 9/11 has been a day of reckoning.” He nodded to himself and added, “And for Mr. Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a traitor to his country and a mass murderer, his day is close at hand.”
I hoped so. What I knew for sure was that there would, indeed, be a day of reckoning here in Yemen, but I wasn’t sure who would be reckoned with.
CHAPTER FIFTY
The cocktail hour had arrived, and Kate and I joined our colleagues in the hotel bar. Chet Morgan did not make an appearance, but he had asked us to meet him in the SCIF at 10 P.M. to discuss the operational plan.
Chet had stayed with his boat after dropping us off in four feet of water, and we had returned to the hotel pool where Howard and Clare were watching our things and apparently getting to know each other better.
Howard and Clare knew not to ask us about our new friend on the beach, but Clare did say she was worried when we were gone so long. Clare really cares about me.
Kate and I had gone back to our room to shower and dress for dinner and/or a trip to Marib later that night, as per Chet. Once things start to roll, they roll fast, and you have to keep one step ahead of the terrorists and two steps ahead of Washington.
Kate and I discussed Mr. Chet Morgan of the Central Intelligence Agency, and I confided to her my suspicion that Chet was a chewer. She thought about that, but wasn’t sure, so I dropped it.
I didn’t share with Kate my other thoughts about Chet in regard to his nuttiness or what was driving him, but I did say, “He seems a bit intense. When he’s not spacey.”
Kate replied, “You have a built-in prejudice against the Agency.”
Me?
Anyway, Kate was reserving judgment on Chet. Unfortunately, we needed to make a quick decision about going up to Marib with this loon to find The Panther.
I also broached the delicate subject of her complicated relationship with Ted Nash and said, “I think we should ask Chet if he knew Ted, and how he’s feeling about your last encounter with the deceased.” How’s that for subtle?
Kate didn’t reply for a few seconds, then said, “I’ll take care of that.”
Actually I would take care of that, but I said, “Okay.”
Well, we were now down at the bar for drinks with our colleagues, including our DSS guys from Sana’a and most of the Aden team, except for the twenty Marines, who were on guard duty.
Unfortunately, because of the high alert, and our possible trip into Indian Territory tonight, alcohol was still off the menu. The bartender was whipping up fruit drinks in the blender, and I had a mango slushie. It sucked.
But the conversation was good, and we talked about home, family, and everything but the war on terrorism, and no one mentioned the forty Al Qaeda guys heading our way. I noticed, though, that everyone was wearing Kevlar vests and sidearms and had automatic rifles with them, which is not SOP in the bar. The bartender, waiters, and the civilian clientele noticed, too, and they were looking a bit concerned. I wondered which one of them had a suicide belt. Maybe the fat Saudi guy in robes sitting by himself drinking scotch. This was a lot more exciting than Ecco’s.
At 8 P.M., Captain Mac, thinking maybe we’d pushed our luck a bit, and that we needed to get serious about security, asked all American personnel to leave the bar and return to their rooms or their posts.
A few of us, however, had a dinner meeting scheduled, and we went out to the back patio where the grill was blazing.
We sat at a round table—me, Kate, Buck, Brenner, Betsy Collins, Doug Reynolds, Lyle Manning, and Captain Mac.
It was still hot, but the sky was clear and the stars were out, and a half moon was rising in the east. Out on the water I could see the lights of big cargo ships and oil tankers. A few Western tourists were cavorting in the pool, and the really dumb ones were strolling on the beach, probably wearing T-shirts that said, “Kidnap Me.” This place was a headline waiting to happen.
The barbecue was good, as I recalled from last time, though I passed on the goat kebobs. We all drank non-alcoholic beer and chatted about how wonderful it was to be living the dream and working for the government—foreign travel, great pay, appreciative bosses in Washington, and a chance to make a difference by killing some assholes who wanted to die anyway.
We got around to security concerns, and Doug Reynolds told us he’d sent a message to Washington requesting a standby ship in the harbor for possible evacuation, and an unmarked charter aircraft—meaning CIA—at Aden Airport. So far, he said, no response. It occurred to me that Washington might be looking for an excuse to land a thousand Marines on the beach.
Captain Mac, who preferred a fight instead of a flight, said, “I can’t kill them if I’m not here.”
Right. You stay here. Good balls, though.
Buck announced, “We may be leaving tonight.”
No one, of course, asked where we were going, but everyone wished us good luck.
I said, “And good luck here.” And don’t pay for the rooms if you have to check out under fire.
Captain Mac assured me, “We don’t need luck. We’ve got twenty Marines.”
No one asked us how we were getting to wherever it was we were going, but Betsy Collins did say, “Travel at night is risky.”
Buck informed her, “We’re flying.”
Really? How did he know that?
It was understood that this was probably a CIA operation, so no one had any further comments or advice. But I sensed that the Aden team might open up if asked a direct question, so I asked directly, “What do you think of Chet Morgan?”
Silence.
Okay, so that answered that question. I said, “For the record, I think he’s been in the sun too long.”
Buck interjected, “John, we don’t need to—”
I continued, “We could be going up to Marib with him tonight—I guess by plane—and I’m concerned that Mr. Morgan may be suffering from in-country stress and fatigue.”
No one argued with that, but they’d have to report my statement in the event some of us didn’t return from Marib alive.
The dinner and the conversation seemed to be finished, and Buck said, “If you’ll excuse us, we have a meeting in the SCIF.”
Buck stood and we all stood and did handshakes, good-byes, and good luck.
Lyle Manning, who didn’t seem to like me, surprised me by saying, “You’ve made a good evaluation of the situation.”
This was one time I wouldn’t have minded being wrong.
So we went into the hotel, and Kate, Brenner, Buck, and I rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. On the way up, Buck said to me, “You have permission to leave anytime, but you do not have permission to discuss this operation with anyone at any time.”
“The subject, Buck, was Chet Morgan.”
Buck assured me, “I’ve known Chet for three years. He’s a good man.”
“Right. I could tell by what everyone said abo
ut him.”
Kate interjected, “John, let’s discuss this after our meeting with him.”
Brenner said, “I’m more interested in the plan than in Chet Morgan.”
Well, you’re wrong. The reason the best-laid plans of mice and men often go astray is not the plan; it’s the mice and men. And Chet was about ten rials short of a Happy Meal. But to be a team player, I said, “Fair enough.”
We got off the elevator, greeted the Marine guard, and walked down the corridor to the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility.
Bottom line here, The Panther was only one of my problems. My teammates were another. But hopefully the plan wasn’t as crazy as Chet.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Buck had a key for the locked door and we entered.
A black tent filled most of the emptied guest room, and we ducked inside through a flap. The dim interior of the SCIF tent was about fifteen feet by twenty, crammed with electronic equipment, desks, and file cabinets, lit only by a few desk lamps and the glow from the computer screens.
Sitting at the shortwave radio was a young man in a T-shirt and shorts, wearing headphones. He noticed us and said, “Chet’s on the balcony.”
Good. I hope he jumped. But probably he was smoking; a slower form of suicide.
We left the tent and went around to the balcony, where, sure enough, Chet stood at the rail with a butt in his mouth, contemplating the moonlit sea. He was still wearing his white ducks and silly Hawaiian shirt, and he was still barefoot. Time for home leave, Chet.
Without turning around, he said to us, “Yemen was known to the Romans as Arabia Felix—Happy Arabia.” He added, “No one has called it that since then.”
Right. Now it’s called Shithole.
Chet continued, “If Afghanistan is the graveyard of empires, then Yemen is the slaughterhouse of imperial ambitions.”
God save me from a nutcase with an Ivy League education. Right?
Chet informed us, “Alexander the Great sent a colony of Greeks to Socotra, an island off the coast here, but it didn’t last long, and the Romans invaded from the north and got as far as Marib before their army was decimated by battle, hardship, and disease.”
Marib? Isn’t that where we’re going? Don’t forget the Cipro.
Chet continued, “Yemen has seen a succession of conquerors and would-be conquerors—Egyptians, Persians, Romans, Ethiopians, Turks, the British, and the recently departed Russians. But no one has ever controlled all of Yemen. Not even the Yemenis.” Chet concluded, “I wouldn’t want to see us in a land war here, which is why these surgical operations need to succeed.”
I suggested, “Nuke ’em.”
Chet assured me, “I have no problem with that.”
Maybe he really wasn’t crazy after all. I mean, he agreed with me. And I’m not crazy. Right?
Anyway, Chet dropped his cigarette into a pail of water that had been put there for that purpose—and maybe as a khat spittoon—and he turned toward us.
The light was bad, so it was hard for me to tell if he had been chewing, or where he was in the rising and falling arc of a khat trip. But if I had to guess, I’d say he was on the upgrade of the roller coaster, about twenty feet from the top. Coming down is a bitch.
Chet said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t join you tonight, but I heard you had an interesting conversation at dinner.” He looked at me.
Well, first off, you weren’t invited, and second, I guess someone told him I’d commented on his mental health. But I didn’t think that Betsy, Doug, Lyle, or Captain Mac would give Chet Morgan a call about that. And Buck didn’t have the opportunity to speak to Chet. Probably Chet just assumed, from past experience, that someone called him a nut job, and he further assumed it was me. Good deduction, Chet. Or… he had a directional listening device and he heard us down on the patio. That’s really not nice. But I guess that’s why they’re called spies.
Anyway, Chet led the way into the tent.
There was a small map table in the corner, and Chet invited us to sit.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw taped to a wall the official photo of President Ali Abdullah Saleh, but this one was captioned Asshole of Arabia. Funny.
I also noticed a few steel-cut axes, burn boxes, and paper shredders, all necessary office equipment in a sensitive facility that was located in hostile territory. I pictured Chet high on khat, swinging an ax at the computers, and someone shouting to him, “I said there were tourists in the hallway—not terrorists.” Whoops.
Anyway, the young man at the radio couldn’t hear us with his headphones on, and Chet said, “There are no recording devices activated for this discussion.” He added, “Operation Clean Sweep is top secret, of course, and you will never divulge or reveal what was said here, or what happens here.”
Right. Just like a bachelor party in Vegas. What annoys me is that the CIA thinks they have to re-pledge you to secrecy. Like no one but them gets the concept of keeping your mouth shut.
Bottom line, the CIA doesn’t like joint operations, and they see them as babysitting jobs. On the plus side, if something went wrong, they had someone else to blame.
To get something straight, I asked Chet, “Who is running this operation?”
Chet replied, “Buck is the team leader.”
“I mean, who in Washington is running this? Who do you report to?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Then why did I ask? But obviously this was a CIA operation, directed from the highest level. If it was FBI, they’d make everyone wear blue windbreakers with big white letters that said “FBI.” They like to advertise. The CIA does not.
I asked Chet, “What is your job on this team?”
He reminded us, “I have operational control of the Predators.”
“Right. So we’re going to vaporize this guy?”
He also reminded us, “Predators are used primarily for aerial observation.”
Then why are they called Predators? Why not Doves with good eyesight?
Chet added, “I’ll get to the goal of this mission later.”
You usually start with the goal, then outline the plan. But Black Ops jobs were a little different, mostly because the goal—like whacking someone—was not always legal and therefore not spelled out; it was understood.
Chet began, “First, our intelligence sources—human and electronic—put The Panther in the vicinity of Marib.”
Brenner informed him, “This is what John and I heard from the prisoner in Ghumdan.”
“Right.”
I added, “And your colleagues in Sana’a also questioned the prisoner—or you did.”
No reply.
I asked, “Do you have a transcript of that interrogation?”
“Not yet.” He added, “Translation problems.” He inquired, “May I move on?”
“Sure.”
He continued, “Second, I have to tell you that we’ll be leaving here about midnight and flying to Marib, and we may not be coming back.”
Brenner asked, “Can you phrase that a bit differently?”
Chet actually smiled, then clarified, “If the mission is a success, we will not return here.” He advised us, “Pack only what you absolutely need, and leave everything else in your rooms, to be forwarded on.”
To where? Next of kin?
Brenner inquired, “And if the mission is not a success?”
“Then we may return here to continue the operation.” He added, “Unless we’re dead.”
Got it.
I informed Chet, “Just to let you know, Kate and I need to hear and approve of the operational plan before we go anywhere. That was the deal.”
Chet didn’t seem to know there was a deal and said, “I think you’ve passed the point of no return on that, Mr. Corey.”
Buck interjected, “John and Kate have volunteered to be bait, so they can suggest some changes to the plan as it relates to their roles.” He then said to Kate and me, “But I must tell you, this may be our
only chance to apprehend The Panther before he disappears again.”
Kate replied, “We understand that.”
Chet continued, “We are flying out of Aden Airport on a DHC-6 Twin Otter.” He explained, “This is a two-engine short takeoff and landing plane, with reinforced fixed landing gear, capable of putting down on a road, which we will do.”
Say again?
He also informed us, “The Otter is registered in Kuwait as a regional charter craft, but it will be flown by two American pilots.”
Thank God. The Otter, of course, was actually owned by a CIA front company, and the pilots were CIA employees, though both those facts would be difficult for anyone to prove. The Company has excellent air resources all over the world, known in the trade as Spook Air. If anyone was ever able to count all the aircraft owned by the CIA, Spook Air would probably be bigger than American Airlines.
“Flight time,” said Chet, “will be under three hours.”
On that subject, Spook Air could have gotten us safely from Sana’a to Aden in under three hours without an ambush. But some idiot had decided to see what Al Qaeda knew, and what they could do. And also to see what the Hellfire missiles could do to Al Qaeda. I don’t remember volunteering for that, but if we’d blown up The Panther, I’d be patting Chet on the back now and getting ready to fly to New York instead of Marib.
Brenner asked, “Will there be a pathfinder on the ground?” Meaning a guy with a flashlight or at least a cigarette lighter.
Chet replied, “Yes, a trusted local.”
Brenner informed him, “No such thing.” He flashed back to some jungle clearing in Southeast Asia and said, “It has to be an American.”
“That’s not possible here.” Chet assured Brenner and the rest of us, “We’ve used this man before. He is well paid.” Chet added, “And he has family in the States whom he’d like to see again.”
The Panther Page 35