The Crisis

by David Poyer

  “Of course I do.” He’d patted her hand, and a chill had skittered up her back like an icy-footed roach.

  Olowe had explained as the insurgent listened impassively. Now Hasheer began speaking, in Arabic. She took over the conversation, understanding it better than Olowe’s Ashaaran. The piebald general sat back, lighting a cigar and listening intently, though she wondered how much he was picking up.

  “Our official”—she nodded to Peyster—“welcomes you and wishes to know you better. We are both the general’s guests tonight, as we are your guests in your land.”

  “What’s he saying?” the RSO asked.

  “Just getting through the preliminaries, Terry. It won’t pay to rush this, believe me. I’ve got to build empathy first.”

  The Ashaaran mumbled compliments in return, and gradually they got down to business. “The general tells us you’ve grown from being a supporter of Al-Maahdi, or Al-Khasmi as he is called, to believing it’s better for the Ashaari to cooperate with the UN until the famine ends. Correct?”

  The young man leaned from side to side in his chair and explained in great earnestness that he’d fought at Ghedi’s side—

  “ ‘Ghedi’ is Al-Khasmi?”

  “Yes. I fought by him in many battles. But he was wounded at Uri’yah, when he defeated the troops of your—your democrats. Since then, he’s changed. For a time I believed truly that the Waleeli brought life to the people and did the will of God.”

  She nodded, urging him on. To hear from a jihadist what made him tick—she didn’t have to feign interest. “That’s what I find difficult, discerning God’s will for me. It’s hard.”

  “Yes. Very hard.”

  He met her eyes for the first time. Compassion and empathy: that was what made an informant useful. She’d be his big sister—no, his fellow searcher for Truth. “What is it for the Brotherhood? As Ghedi understands it?”

  “That the Americans are here to take over our country. We must resist their godlessness and evil. That is the great jihad the holy Sheekh Nassir, peace be with him, declared before you killed him. We Waleeli would unite all Ashaarans and eject the foreigners, then govern in accordance with the Book. To teach righteousness, and enforce the holy law.”

  “You took great risks for this goal. The Waleeli are brave fighters.”

  An eye flick to Olowe, then back to her shoes. “I did. There’s been so much suffering. How could a government of God not be better?”

  “What changed his mind?” Peyster asked. So he was following at least a word here and there.

  She said to Hasheer, “The high official thanks you for coming with your heart open. He respects your devotion to your suffering people. Will you tell a bit more about your leader? He’s of great interest. One who fights us, yes, but who is in his way a great man. A patriot, too.” She said a du’a to ask forgiveness for that lie.

  Peyster asked again what was going on. She told him to be patient. Olowe shifted behind his desk, tapping cigar ash onto the floor.

  Hasheer said his master was from the south, orchard country. His family had been broken up during the time of the Morgue and he’d grown up fighting. He could barely read, but was a man of honor. He was brave and noble. His men loved him. But the wound had changed him. He’d begun killing without reckoning the cost, even ordering his own brother beheaded. The man he admired had gone mad.

  She nodded, as if disillusionment with a once-worshipped leader and no other motive lay behind his presence. She asked about his master’s other lieutenants, and he described them. Peyster stirred and sat forward as Hasheer went on to describe a Saudi who served one he called the Prince of Believers.

  “This Yousef. He’s not from Ashaara?”

  “No. He’s Saudi. Very well dressed, courteous. His family is rich, I think. His plan is to use the Waleeli to install a Shura council dominated by the Arabs. After which, they’ll have no more use for Al-Khasmi, so I think they will kill him. If by then his mouth, his wound, does not cause him to die.” The slight young man spread his hands as if to say, It is not my will.

  “Interesting. So you don’t want Ashaara dominated by Arabs, any more than by Americans.”

  “The Arabs have brought us great suffering in the past.”

  “Do others feel as you do?”

  “Perhaps, but no one dares speak of it.”

  Her fingers itched for a pen, but they’d have to depend on the digital recorder noiselessly eavesdropping in her purse. If the scratch and hiss of dust on the windows didn’t blur his words, obliterate his speech. Then she’d take away only what memory could carry. “I can understand that,” she said encouragingly. “Tell me, who is this ‘Prince of Believers’?”

  “I have heard, an Arab named Usama bin Laden. For that reason, I asked to see General Olowe. The honored general answered courteously that he’d like me to meet his friends, the Americans.” He eyed her. “I did not think they would be like you. You speak very good Arabic. Where are you from? Kenya?”

  “New York City.”

  His mouth actually came open. She used that moment of astonishment. “Yes, many things they say about America are not true. We wish only prosperity for Ashaara, for a peaceful world means peace for us too. Then our soldiers can leave. Though I hope we’ll remain friends.

  “Now let us speak of the hostages your master holds. Have you seen them? How many? Are they treated well?”

  The next half hour yielded a good deal of useful information. Ali Hasheer stated firmly that he’d personally seen the hostages. Some had died, of various diseases, but fourteen were alive. Where, he refused to say, since that would reveal his master’s location. Nor would he give figures on troop strengths or organization for the insurgent forces. She didn’t push too hard. Her main concerns were the hostages, and Al-Maahdi himself.

  Plus one question for Olowe, before they left.

  The general had been sitting back, puffing out smoke. Now he cleared his throat and got up. “Mr. Peyster,” he said, interrupting Aisha in midsentence.

  “Yes, General.”

  “Here are my thoughts. You know why Al-Maahdi wants ransom?”

  “To buy weapons, is our guess.”

  “Correct, to buy helicop’er missiles.”

  “Um, to buy—I’m sorry—?”

  Olowe mimed pointing a shoulder-fired weapon, pulling a trigger. Aisha grimaced. “Antiaircraft missiles?”

  “From China.”

  Peyster said, “Is this true?” Hasheer hesitated, then nodded. The RSO sat back, looking grave.

  The general said heavily that in view of their new alliance with the Americans, the Governing Council could not allow such weapons in the country. Hasheer was prepared to cooperate in arranging Al-Maahdi’s capture. If the Americans would agree to furnish the ransom, the insurgent lieutenant would arrange the turnover of the hostages. In return, he, General Olowe, pledged to reward Ali Hasheer with a high position in the new government.

  “And the money?” Aisha asked him. He smiled, waved his hands as if to say: immaterial.

  Peyster seemed to agree. All he asked was, “Can he guarantee Al-Maahdi’ll be there? At the turnover?”

  She translated. Hasheer said he could, if the Americans made it clear they’d turn the ransom over only to him in person.

  “You’d be in charge?”

  “His other lieutenant doesn’t come to the city. I can travel back and forth.”

  Meaning, she thought, Hasheer had a safe conduct from Olowe past the roadblocks between the rebel-held hinterland and the GC-controlled areas along the main roads. Which also hinted their relationship wasn’t as recent as presented.

  Did that matter? Probably not. A lot of her work, dealing with informers for example, wasn’t that appetizing. You held your nose and got on with it. She nudged her purse an inch closer to him with her toe.

  Olowe perched on the corner of his desk. He rumbled, “Hasheer makes where you meet. Al-Maahdi comes. Then you take.”

  “He’s not to
be harmed,” said Hasheer in Arabic. “The general has promised this. Only captured.”

  Aisha gestured to the old woman, pointed to their cups. The old woman wagged her head at her own slackness, muttered apologies in Italian. As she tottered from one to the next on ancient high heels Aisha explained to Peyster, who listened with fingers locked. Till at last he rose, said, “Excuse us” to Olowe, and strolled out. The guard watched, but didn’t move to follow.

  They paced the length of the darkened corridor before Peyster murmured, “Now, you’ve met the guy? This Ghedi, the one we’ve been calling Al-Khasmi?”

  “I interviewed him in the southern mountains when we were trying to get him to join the coalition. The reaction, well, it wasn’t positive. Our informant’s right. He spoke of the ulama, of sharia law.”

  “Does he trust you? Al-Maahdi?”

  He wanted to marry me, she thought of saying, but didn’t. “I doubt he trusts me, but he knows me. With Ashaarans, that’s a big step forward.”

  “What do you think? This Hasheer. He the real deal?”

  “I see no reason to doubt he can do what he says. Or has a reasonable chance, properly managed.”

  “The JTF thinks he’s holding the hostages north of the Tanagra. It’d be too costly to take him out where he is. But if Hasheer can lure him out into the open, we can intel-drive a direct action mission. Get the hostages back, zip-tie him, and park him somewhere he can’t rally the Waleeli. Best case, Hasheer succeeds to the leadership, and we’ve got our own man in charge.” Peyster smoothed his hair and lowered his voice even more. “That’d be desirable for any number of reasons—including some leverage on Olowe.”

  She looked at him, no longer wondering what agency he actually worked for. “And charge him with—what?”

  They came to where strips of light lay against the ceiling, shining up from the floods in the courtyard, and stopped. Peyster blinked, as if she shouldn’t need to be told. “Conspiracy to murder. For the Cosmo bombing. Or don’t you think he was behind it?”

  “We’ve assumed so. That was the word on the street.”

  “Did you ask Hasheer?”

  “No. But I can.”

  The RSO shrugged. “Let it go, why rattle the teacups? In case he planned it himself. There’s enough on our plate.”

  “So what do I tell them?”

  “Tell him we’re in. Set up the meet, but he’s got to let us know where as far in advance as he can. Just make sure Al-Khasmi’s there, in person. This Yousef the Arab—we’ll take him too if we can, but I think I know who he is. We’ll have our friends in Saudi talk to him next time he goes home. Okay, he knows you, we’ll stipulate you want to personally hand him the cash, to ensure it’s really going to him. Make it personal, you and him.”

  “Right.” She turned and they started back. “We take him, and then?”

  “We hold him till Olowe gets a court set up. They try him, we don’t. I don’t think the general will mind shooting him in a courtyard someplace.” Peyster shrugged. “Slam dunk, far’s I can see. Let’s get Olowe’s chop on the deal, and get out of here.”

  . . .

  OUTSIDE, in the back courtyard, she stopped to gather herself. Trying to stifle the sense she’d crossed some obscure but fateful line. She’d finally asked the question she’d held in reserve all through the interview. Where the southerners Olowe’s troops were evacuating from the city were being taken. But the big man had just smiled blandly, looking off at nothing, answering not a word as Peyster pulled her away, apologizing.

  The wind gusted, rattling sheet metal close by. The lights dimmed as the generators wound down. The stars shone out from equatorial black. They were brighter here than she’d ever seen them. They were all but invisible in New York, with its never-sleeping beacons of the electric future.

  They seemed to move as she watched, whirling in interstellar cold. Staring up, she felt that chill again despite the lingering heat. As if everything rushed onward faster and faster, a blind gallop toward some horrific denouement no human effort could delay by a microsecond. Was this how God had written the book of their lives?

  She didn’t think this terrorist in the desert was anything more. An ignorant insurgent, fighting what he didn’t understand. The age of prophets was past. But wouldn’t it be ironic, if what they said about Al-Maahdi was true. Then she’d be the Muslim who’d set up a Judas to betray the Messenger of God.

  “You okay?” Peyster, holding the van door. “Look like you saw a ghost.”

  She grimaced without speaking, and got in.

  33

  From Thirty-five Thousand Feet

  THE gunners hugged themselves beside their weapons, sucking oxygen from tanks strapped to their waists. Freezing their asses off, but keeping clear of the SEALs, who took up most of the rear of the aircraft.

  Builds character, Oberg thought. At thirty-five thousand feet, in the unpressurized, unheated, almost unlit fuselage of the Spectre, the cold was intense. The 110-knot slipstream howling back from the open gunners’ stations didn’t help. He wore fleece and underarmor pants and tops. A face cover too. Bulky, but he was glad of it now and would be even gladder outside. He’d been sucking oxygen for forty minutes, but still the lack of air made his heart hammer as he finished dressing out. Not to mention the stabbing in his guts, the worms, or dysentery, whatever he’d picked up. And the impossibility of getting his gear off, or for that matter back on, if he had to shit again.

  Which he was going to have to soon. Freidebacher had eyed him when they fell in for the chalk, asked if he was all right. He’d given the major a hearty grin and a cheery aye, aye. No way he was missing a combat jump, even if his bowels were tearing free and getting ready to drop out.

  The four SEALs were finishing their preps between the gunners’ stations, the forty-millimeter forward and the howitzer farther aft. Obie’s arms felt like lead. His lips and face were frozen beef. His back felt close to breaking, and his gut . . . Don’t think about that, Teddy. Not till you’re on the ground.

  No, it didn’t get much better than this.

  He eyed his watch, getting concerned. They’d been on oxygen longer than usual, since it’d taken longer than scheduled to get to altitude. SEALs prebreathed for high-altitude jumps, to purge nitrogen. If they didn’t, the rapid compression as they fell could starve the brain of oxygen. No static lines on HAHO jumps; blacking out meant you cratered. So they breathed pure O2, connected to an oxygen console. In a few seconds they’d transition to the bottles they breathed from during the long drop. Trouble was, they couldn’t take even a single breath of ambient air as they switched, or the nitrogen content of their blood would jump right up again.

  None of this was guesswork. It’d been learned the hard way, in death after death.

  He illuminated the little square screen on the GPS wrist unit. Course: 274 degrees. They were forty miles south of the Tanagra, paralleling it. In four minutes they’d be over the drop point.

  This would be a high-altitude insertion. No need to worry about radar, but they did need to prevent anyone on the ground hearing the unmistakable cracks of five chutes snapping open a couple hundred feet overhead. They’d free-fall for ten thousand feet, then deploy the chutes and go in silent from there.

  “Stand by,” the copilot said in their ears. The last blue lights went out. They stood crouched and burdened, like cave bears with blackened faces, in complete darkness. He gripped the safety line and watched a dark slot appear a little above eye level.

  As the ramp dropped and the cargo door rose the stars glittered, unearthly bright at the edge of space. Teddy took a deep breath, held it, flipped the switch, and disconnected his hose. Sucked warily, and got a click and the hiss of dry gas. He checked the gauge, sucked a deeper breath. Good.

  He gave the jumpmaster a thumbs-up and waddled toward the maw where the dropped ramp of the C-130 led off in a single long step into the roaring blackness of a thirty-five-thousand-foot fall. Behind him Donoghe and Cooper and Kowacki dr
agged their 105 pounds each across the aluminum deck: oxygen masks, packs, drop lines, separate pack with double parafoils, weapons, bipods, ammunition, medical packs, radios, knives. The Spectre’s loadmaster pushed a square bulky pallet of Oh Shit gear on casters after them: machine gun, rations, water, batteries, more medical consumables, everything else they’d need for a mission that might last a week. No Walmarts where they were going. Just empty desert, and skinnies eager to kill them.

  Dickinson and Freidebacher and Lenson, all the gold braid had planned Operation King Vulture. The silent, covert insertion. The helo feint miles to the north. A second diversion, Squall and Shamal getting under way and heading south along the coast. The intel, about where the turnover would take place. A lot of smart folks had put their heads together. But it was up to Teddy Oberg to bring back the trophy head for over the fireplace.

  That was fine. That was the SEAL way: self-discipline, not discipline from above. Why they didn’t always play so nice. And how they got things done some people said were impossible.

  His bowels squirmed. Sweat prickled his forehead. He had to get his pants down, or things were gonna get messy. But the timing . . . it really couldn’t be worse.

  “On my count,” the copilot’s voice crackled. Usually there was a green “go” light, but teams didn’t usually jump from Spectre gunships, either. But there were only four of them this time, and the Spectre could circle to cover them on the way down, should they land somewhere unlucky. Such as, in the middle of an insurgent encampment.

  He concentrated, squeezed. . . . Twisting his upper body he searched the faces behind him. Cooper, no problems there. Kowacki, a steady regard back. But Donoghe’s eyes were jittering like greasy marbles behind the jump mask. Teddy gripped the web of his shoulder. Bent his helmet to put them together, like spacemen in a Mars movie. “We cool, dude?”

  “Way cool, bro.”

  “Up for this? We can do it without you.”

  “Fuck, no way, man. Let’s bounce.”

  The copilot’s voice echoed. Teddy faced front again and bent slightly. Eyes open. Chin down. . . . “Five,” the voice said. “Four. Three. Two. One. Go! Go! Go!”