The Chimera Sanction

by André K. Baby

‘Cut the crap, Harris. We both know you can’t pull me off. I’m in this mess too bloody deeply already and you don’t have a replacement. Otherwise you would have yanked me eons ago. Plus, the media will be down your throat in a second, asking why.’

  Harris pointed his pipe at Dulac again. ‘Someday, Dulac, you’ll go too far.’

  ‘Right. Until then, I apparently have a Pope to rescue, with or without Brentano’s approval.’

  ‘How did you know it was—’

  ‘I didn’t. Thanks for confirming it.’

  Chapter 22

  Suluq, 5.15 a.m.

  ‘At 50 km-an-hour average,’ said de Ségur, pointing the map to his driver Antoine, ‘it will take us six hours to get to Al Jaghbub and two more to get to the Egyptian border. Then we go east. Plenty of time to rendezvous with the jet at 1800 hours.’

  Four hours later, as the two van convoy continued to make its way into the undulating vastness of the Great Sand Sea desert, the red disc had risen well above the dunes and was pounding them with increasing intensity. Inside the vans, passengers tried to fan themselves with whatever came to hand. Everyone knew that soon the sun’s full power would overwhelm the vans’ puny air-conditioners and the heat would become brutal.

  By 11 a.m., the water bottles had become disgustingly warm and the thermometer read 41°C. By 2 p.m., the temperature had reached 43°C. De Ségur, sweltering in the oven-on-wheels, looked at the motor’s coolant gauge, its needle heavily into the red zone.

  ‘We’ll never make it,’ said Antoine, conscious of de Ségur’s worried gaze. ‘The motor is too bloody hot.’

  ‘You’d better make sure we do. It’s a long walk for you to Al Jaghbub.’ De Ségur picked up his satellite phone and called the driver of the white van ahead.

  ‘We have an overheating motor. What’s your status?’

  ‘We’re OK.’

  ‘Then stop your van,’ de Ségur ordered.

  The van ahead stopped and de Ségur ordered Antoine to pull up beside it. ‘Get the touareg clothes,’ de Ségur said to Antoine.

  Reluctantly, Antoine gathered the clothing on the back seat behind him while de Ségur opened the door and stepped out.

  ‘Come with me,’ de Ségur said, pointing to the men in the rear seat of the overheating van.

  Leaving Antoine and the remaining passengers in the van, de Ségur and the men walked over and entered the white van. De Ségur sat in front, while the others joined the passengers in the back.

  ‘That way, you’ll be lighter,’ shouted de Ségur to Antoine through the window. ‘It’ll help cool your motor.’ Turning to his new driver Jean Gaspard, he added, ‘Let’s go, we’ve wasted enough time already.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  The convoy started again under the flames of the killer sun. De Ségur mopped his eyes and brow with his already sweat-soaked kerchief, then picked up his bottle and took a swig of piss-hot Evian water. Suddenly, his hand started to shake violently and he dropped the bottle, spilling the contents onto his pants. ‘Damn,’ said de Ségur. He slowly picked up the bottle from the van’s floor, his hand still shaking slightly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ said Gaspard.

  ‘I’m fine. Just tired.’

  Gaspard threw a glance at his rearview mirror. ‘We’re losing them,’ he said.

  De Ségur turned and saw the van slowing, then caught Gaspard’s inquiring look. ‘We can’t wait. Keep going.’

  Gaspard pressed on while de Ségur watched the other van gradually disappear into the haze.

  De Ségur’s satellite phone rang. ‘What’s going on?’ said Antoine, panic in his voice.

  ‘You’re holding us up. If we wait for you, both of us won’t make the jet. Not much sense in that, is there? If you don’t get to Al Jaghbub by 4 p.m., head south. Go to the border at Noma. There’s less chance they’ll stop you there.’

  ‘But we won’t—’

  De Ségur turned off his phone.

  The sun had started its descent towards the desert’s haze-covered dunes when the irregular outline of Al Jaghbub’s few palm trees appeared on the horizon. De Ségur looked at his watch again: 5.25 p.m. It’s going to be tight.

  As they entered the town, Gaspard looked at the fuel gage. ‘We’ll have to refuel.’

  A few moments later, they spotted a half dozen Berbers, sitting beside their 45 gallon gasoline drums. One of them rose, signaling to the van, a wide grin on his face.

  ‘Must be his turn,’ said Gaspard. Rolling down his window, he spoke in Arabic: ‘How much for 50 liters?’

  The scraggly-bearded man came closer, then peeked suspiciously inside the van. ‘Hundred liters minimum,’ he said.

  ‘How much?’ asked Gaspard.

  ‘900 dinars.’

  ‘What? That’s—’

  ‘Pay him,’ said de Ségur.

  A toothless grin formed from the corners of the old Berber’s mouth.

  ‘Absolute robbery.’ said Gaspard, reaching in his pocket and counting out the 900 dinars.

  The Berber took the money, went to the rear of the van, and slowly started to fill the white Izuzu’s gas tank with his small rotating hand pump.

  De Ségur looked at his watch. ‘Get out and help him.’ De Ségur’s satellite phone rang. He recognized Antoine’s edgy voice.

  ‘We’re stalled. Our motor just quit. I think it’s seized.’

  ‘What is your position?’

  ‘We’re about 25 km south of Al Jaghbub.’

  ‘How far to the Egyptian border?’

  ‘About 15 km due east.’

  ‘How much water do you have?’

  ‘About twenty liters.’

  De Ségur took a detailed map from a side pocket of the van and unfolded it. ‘Head north-east. You’ll come to a dirt road leading to Siwa. You’re bound to come across a caravan.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Once you reach Siwa, there’s public transportation to Mersa Matruh, then to Cairo.’

  ‘We’re filled up and ready to go,’ interrupted Gaspard.

  ‘Good luck.’ De Ségur shut off his phone and signaled Gaspard to drive on. The white Izuzu rumbled to life and they exited Al Jaghbub, past the decaying remnants of the Senussi fortress and into the Great Sand Sea desert again. The temperature read 39°C on the van’s outside thermometer. De Ségur mopped his brow with his wet kerchief. He turned to Gaspard and said, ‘We must get to Siwa before dark.’

  ‘Can’t the pilot wait till tomorrow morning?’ Gaspard said.

  ‘That plane makes a fat target for US reconnaissance satellites.’ De Ségur looked at his watch. ‘We must leave tonight.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Gaspard. ‘How are the others in the—’

  ‘They’ll be ok.’

  Suddenly, the front of the van started to shake and de Ségur shot an anxious glance at Gaspard.

  ‘We’ve got a flat,’ said Gaspard. ‘The left front tire has gone.’ Gaspard brought the van slowly to a stop.

  ‘Jesus Christ. That’s all we need. How far to Siwa?’

  ‘About 90 km.’

  De Ségur looked at his watch, then turned to Gaspard. ‘What are you waiting for? Get out and fix it.’

  Gaspard started out of the van and de Ségur ordered the others to do the same.

  After a moment, Gaspard returned from the back of the van looking sheepish. ‘Ah … we … there’s no spare.’

  De Ségur felt the blood rush to his temples. ‘No spare? You mean you didn’t check before leaving? This is the goddamn desert, not the Champs-Élysées.’ De Ségur grabbed the satellite phone from his pocket and phoned the jet’s pilot. ‘De Ségur. We’re stranded about 90 km from you. We’ve got a flat.’

  ‘We can’t take off after dark. The runway is full of pot-holes and—’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘—and they’re hard to see already.’

  ‘We’ll make it. Wait for us.’

  De Ségur closed the phone and turned towards Gaspard. ‘Let’s g
o.’

  Gaspard, perplexed, looked at de Ségur. ‘But we risk destroying the bearing. The wheel will seize up.’

  ‘What do you suggest? That we sit here and wait for the next Egyptian border patrol to pick us up?’

  ‘We can transfer the flat to the rear and put the good tire on the front. At least we’ll have steerage.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  As the van started again, the disc started falling into the horizon, fading away in Gaspard’s rearview mirror, blinding him. He flipped it into polarized position. ‘It’ll help if we all sit to the left and keep the weight off the right bare wheel,’ said Gaspard.

  ‘Everybody to the left side,’ ordered de Ségur. The van tilted slightly.

  ‘At least the motor is getting cooler,’ said Gaspard.

  They hadn’t driven for more than half an hour when suddenly, they heard a loud explosion. ‘Christ, not again?’ exclaimed de Ségur.

  Gaspard nodded silently as he struggled with the steering wheel.

  ‘Two, two bloody flat tires. Unbelievable,’ screamed de Ségur, throwing his hands up in frustration. ‘Keep going,’ he yelled. ‘Get this goddamn piece of shit to that plane, understand?’

  ‘Yes sir. I’ll try.’ Gaspard grabbed the severely shaking steering wheel and pressed on the gas, as the flop-flop-flop of the rapidly deteriorating tire accompanied the hissing sound of the rear wheel’s bare rim on the hot sand. Soon, the smoke and smell of burnt rubber invaded the van’s interior, surrounding its occupants with nauseous, toxic fumes.

  De Ségur rolled down his window and turned towards Gaspard. ‘If you value your good health, you’d better make that damn jet.’

  The pilot noticed the windsock near the runway changing direction. ‘We’ll have to take off from the other end,’ he said to the co-pilot.

  The Bombardier’s two Rolls-Royce engines burst into life and the jet started to taxi down the runway.

  ‘Getting pretty dark,’ said the co-pilot.

  ‘Just remember any holes you see,’ said the pilot as he hit the pedal hard and the jet swerved right, barely missing a large crater.

  ‘Jesus!’ said the co-pilot as he looked outside over the pilot’s shoulder. ‘That would have taken out the whole goddamn landing gear.’

  They reached the end of the runway and the pilot pressed full left brake. The Bombardier swung obediently around until its nose pointed down the end of the runway into the darkening dusk. The pilot looked at his Rolex again.

  ‘Call de Ségur on the sat phone,’ he said to the co-pilot.

  The co-pilot took the Globalstar from its leather holder and dialed de Ségur’s number. ‘I can’t get a signal.’ He tried again, to no avail.

  ‘What? How can that be? De Ségur just called us.’

  ‘Don’t know. He can probably call us but we can’t call him. Don’t ask me why.’

  ‘Shit.’ The pilot nervously tapped his fingers on one of the throttle levers. ‘Five more minutes, then we’re outta here.’

  As the seconds ticked away, the pilot looked anxiously ahead into the darkening dusk. He glanced at his watch. ‘That’s it. We can’t wait. Get ready for takeoff.’

  The co-pilot picked up the clipboard and went through the takeoff checklist. A moment later he said, ‘Ready for takeoff.’

  The pilot moved the twin throttles all the way forward and the turbines intoned their high-pitched wail. The jet accelerated, shaking slightly as it gathered speed. Halfway down the runway, the pilot bore right to avoid a crater, then straightened his course, hugging the left side.

  Suddenly the co-pilot yelled: ‘Christ! What the hell—?’

  Dead ahead, two lights had swung onto the middle of runway and were bearing down on them on a collision course. The pilot yanked back the throttles and jammed on full brakes. The jet shuddered violently as it veered left, then right, the pilot trying desperately to keep it on the runway. At the last possible instant, the lights swung right, barely missing the plane’s left wingtip. As the lights swept past, the pilot caught a glimpse of sparks flying from the rear of a white van. ‘Crazy fucking bastards.’

  The jet slowly came to a halt, and the pilot’s satellite phone rang. ‘You weren’t really thinking of leaving without us,’ said de Ségur.

  Chapter 23

  Guidonia Air Base, 10.25 p.m.

  The black, angular shaped, carbon-fiber clad Comanche RAH 66 B surged into view, hovered before Dulac’s still unbelieving eyes, and lowered itself quickly onto the tarmac. At least it’s not an F-16, he thought. The pilot alighted and walked towards the Guidonia’s Air Force base main administrative building. Dulac rose dejectedly from the worn leather seat and walked out to meet him.

  ‘I’m Dulac.’

  ‘Guten tag, my name is Gerhard Klein,’ said the pilot, offering an immense right hand. ‘Sorry to be late.’

  Dulac suppressed a smile. The man was well over six feet tall. He was anything but klein. ‘Not late enough,’ said Dulac.

  Klein gave him a quizzical look.

  They regained the chopper, and Dulac caught sight of Lescop, dressed in his worn beige gabardine jacket, seated in one of the back seats. Lescop barely acknowledged him.

  ‘You’re blaming me for this?’ said Dulac as he grabbed the hand hold and boarded the chopper.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Lescop, unconvincingly.

  ‘Why can’t I stop thinking that your brilliant rescue in the Briand case has something to do with you being here?’

  ‘Flattery I don’t need,’ said Lescop, a scowl on his unshaven face.

  As Dulac settled into the front beside Klein and fastened his safety harness, Lescop poked his bald head between them. ‘Is it too late to request a transfer?’

  Dulac turned to respond. ‘And miss all the fun? Request denied.’

  The twin LHTEC T802 motors wailed in protest, the helicopter lifted from the tarmac and, nose down, accelerated into the pale remnants of the evening dusk. Moments later, the dense brightness of Rome’s lights disappeared, giving way to the occasional white dots in the Campania countryside. Suddenly two balls of fire burst on either side of the Comanche, streaked headlong in front of the chopper and disappeared into the night.

  ‘What the hell was that?’ Dulac asked Klein.

  ‘Our Italian escorts,’ replied Klein. ‘They kick in the afterburners to show how much faster they are. That just cost the Italian taxpayers about 10,000 Euros.’

  ‘Where are they headed?’

  ‘Probably Tripoli. They’ll play games with the Libyan MIG 23s to distract them.’

  Dulac could feel his right palm start to sweat over the arm rest. ‘How much longer?’

  Klein looked at the GPS. ‘About two and a half hours. There’s 721 km left to Benghazi.’ Dulac tried to relax into the uncomfortable seat. Soon, he was being lulled into a dull semi-consciousness by the rhythmic whump, whump of the blades, as random thoughts drifted erratically through his mind. Had de Ségur kept his bargain? Or was the Pope dead? If he was alive, would Gazzar keep his word and not interfere? Had Kargali found out and secured the perimeter? Were they flying into a Libyan trap? The odds were anything but good. More likely would be his nanosecond perception of the explosion when one of the Libyan MIG’s missiles would blast him and the intruding helicopter into eternity. I won’t feel a damn thing. He nodded off, his head dropping onto his chest.

  A soft beeping sound jarred Dulac from his sleep. He looked up, to see the Comanche’s GPS blinking in red over the yellow screen map, indicating ‘waypoint arrival’.

  ‘We’re over our target,’ said Klein.

  ‘I don’t see anything,’ said Dulac, looking out the right window.

  ‘Below, and to the left,’ said Klein, pointing downwards from his side window.

  Dulac leaned over toward Klein and saw two pinpoints of light barely visible in the sea of darkness. ‘That’s it?’ Dulac said.

  ‘Must be. There’s nothing else around.’ Dula
c felt the hairs of his arms stand erect.

  ‘We’re going in. Behind that dune,’ said Klein, as he angled the joystick downwards and to the left. The Comanche quickly lost altitude and moments later, settled slowly onto the desert dust. ‘You’ll have to be quick,’ said Klein as Dulac fumbled with the ’copter’s door latch. ‘We are at the limit of the fuel range and I have to keep it idling.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Dulac. Then turning towards the back to Lescop. ‘Ready?’

  ‘Ready.’

  They stepped out of the helicopter and, feet sinking in the soft sand, climbed their way to the top of the dune. Breathing heavily, Dulac crouched on the still hot sand and signaled Lescop to do the same. A few hundred yards away, they could make out a small, flat roofed one-story house, a soft yellow light coming from its two small windows. Dulac unlatched the safety of his .38 Benelli short-nosed B80S Parabellum pistol, and they guardedly made their way towards the low, earth-brick building. As they neared, the remnants of de Ségur’s Alouette helicopter came into view.

  ‘Won’t go far with that.’ Dulac said, pointing his Benelli at the helicopter. He turned and whispered to Lescop. ‘Go to the rear and try and see inside. I’ll take a peek through the front. Come back and we’ll assess.’

  Lescop made a wide arc and disappeared behind the house. Crouching low, Dulac approached the front. Suddenly, he sensed danger, behind him. He half-turned, only to see the dark, turbaned shadow a split-second before he felt the blow to his left temple. For a millisecond, all of the stars of the Libyan Desert danced crazily before his eyes, then nothing.

  When he awoke, the only thing Dulac could feel was the angry jackhammer pounding relentlessly inside his skull. He was lying down. He opened his eyes. Two rows of gold and yellow teeth were grinning down at him. He tried to get up and a sharp pain shot through his head. ‘What…? Where the hell am—?’

  ‘Salaam aleikum. You OK?’ said the woman dressed in a dark blue jellaba.

  ‘Aleikum salaam, I guess so.’ Dulac looked at the Berber woman and cautiously felt the large lump on his left temple.