by Dale Brown
“You’re pretty clever yourself, Captain.”
“Only a sergeant,” said the young man. He smiled at him — a broad smile that revealed he was missing two teeth — then left the bus.
“Why did you dicker with them?” Hera asked Nuri as Abul pushed the bus forward. “You were only pissing him off.”
“No, I was telling them not to screw with me.”
“They had the guns, we didn’t. If you made him too mad, they’d shoot us.”
“You don’t understand the psychology,” Nuri told her. “Ten dollars is a huge amount of money. When I came through on my motorcycle, they charged me the equivalent of a quarter, and in the local currency. If we gave in right away, then they would think we had a lot of money. And if we have a lot of money, then we should give them more. They feel if they are the stronger ones, they deserve it.”
“All you did was piss them off,” said Hera. “If you wanted to show them you were strong, you wouldn’t have paid anything.”
“That wouldn’t have been fair — and might have gotten us all killed.”
Hera rolled her eyes.
Roughly five thousand people lived in the village, their numbers swelling it in size to a small city. Most were crammed into ramshackle buildings made from scraps and gathered into distinct hamlets on either side of the highway, which ran through the center of town. About seventy percent were families of guerrillas, and most were related to each other. The faction was a small player in Sudan’s revolt, unable to project power much beyond the immediate area, though they had launched occasional forays against the army farther north. The villagers survived on subsistence farming, though their yields had faltered over the past few years, as the nutrients in the soil were not replaced. The situation was similar to that in western Sudan, where steady soil erosion encouraged desertification, which then made it impossible for the people to survive.
Tura Dpap, the village and rebel leader, was an elder in the tribe whose people made up the bulk of the population. He was well-liked, generally called “Uncle” by his followers — many of whom were, at different removes, his actual nieces and nephews. Unusual for the rebel movements, he was an older man, well into his fifties. He had also never married, equally unusual.
The village centered around a church building that had been founded and then abandoned by missionaries nearly a hundred years before. Uncle Dpap had taken over the building and repaired it, painting it bright yellow, a color that had come to be associated with his movement. There was no steeple, but the roof and the cross-shaped facade made its history clear.
The two buildings next to it were used by Dpap and his closest advisors as homes, sheltering not only them and their families, but bodyguards and younger soldiers with no families and nowhere else to stay. Directly across the street were three small stores and a restaurant. The buildings dated from roughly the same time as the church, and had suffered through several cycles of disregard and repair, but were the sturdiest structures around.
Rebel soldiers, most of them in their early teens, milled around the center of town. Every one of them had a rifle; many wore ropes around their neck with ammo magazines taped to them.
Though she’d seen boy soldiers and worse conditions in Somalia, Hera was appalled by how young the kids were. Some would have been in only third or fourth grade in the States.
“We’re taking our pistols with us,” she said, slipping her hand under the seat in front of her.
“We don’t need them,” insisted Nuri. But he didn’t stop her from taking one.
The video bugs Nuri was planting were bigger than the ones he normally used. About the size of a quarter in diameter and three quarters thick, the size was a function of the batteries they contained, which would allow them to transmit for as long as six days. They would transmit to a small booster unit a half mile away; the booster would send the signals to the Voice’s satellite system.
As he stepped from the bus, Nuri put a piece of gum in his mouth. The gum was the adhesive that held the bug in place. The size of the bugs made them relatively easy to spot, and thus harder to place than the ones he normally worked with. He walked over to the stores, then stopped, as if he couldn’t decide which one to go into first. He was actually looking over the facade to see if there was a place to hide the bugs.
He couldn’t find a good spot offhand, and with the soldiers watching, decided to move inside the middle building. Hera followed.
A year before, she had been assigned to visit a resistance movement in northern Tibet, living in the mountains for several months as she gauged the seriousness and strength of the movements that were opposed to the central Chinese government. She had not been impressed. The so-called rebels lacked focus and organization. The group here, with the ability to run its own stores, seemed light-years ahead.
Which wasn’t saying much.
There were only men in the store. All fixed their eyes on her as she came in, following her as she walked behind Nuri and glanced at the mostly empty shelves. A radio tuned to the government music station played a mix of European techno and African music, the beats changing violently from song to song. The floor vibrated lightly to the music.
Nuri went to the shopkeeper, who worked behind a counter with a small cash box as his register.
“Nuri Abaajmed,” he said enthusiastically in Arabic, reaching out his hand. “I am a professor of paleontology at the University of Wisconsin, America.”
The word “America” got everyone’s attention. The man’s smile showed he had about half his teeth. Nuri told him about the scientific expedition “up the road.” The shopkeeper told him he could speak English, which he promptly demonstrated.
“Honor to me a visitor here,” he said, spreading his arms in a gesture of friendship.
“We need a few supplies,” said Nuri in English. The man clearly didn’t understand, and he switched back to Arabic. “We could use some blankets, water, and perhaps fruit. Do you have fruit?”
“Usually, we have much fruit, but just now we are out of it. The customers liked it very much,” said the shopkeeper.
Fruit was in fact a rarity. The store had had a few dates some months back, but it had taken weeks to sell them, mostly because he priced them so high the soldiers couldn’t afford them.
“But here — beans we have.” The man took Nuri around to an aisle and showed him several cans, which had apparently come to Africa as part of a church donation in the distant past. The dust on them could have filled a good-sized litter box. Nuri took one, then a second.
Glancing around the shop, he thought the best place to slip a bug in would be near the window, but two soldiers were using the low ledge as a seat.
Then he had a better idea — the roof.
“Do you have a restroom?” he asked, handing the African his cans.
The shopkeeper showed him through the crowded back storeroom to a cordoned-off corner, where a round hole had been cut in the floorboards for a latrine pit.
“I’d need some paper,” said Nuri, glancing around.
The man pointed to some folded yellow sheets, then gave him another toothless smile.
“I’ll be done as soon as I can,” said Nuri when the man made no sign of moving away. “If you could look after my friend. She’s new to the country.”
The grin widened at the suggestion. “Yes, yes,” said the man, and he disappeared into the front.
Nuri had hoped for a back door, but saw none. There was a window, though, next to the hole in the floor. He pushed at the sash but it wouldn’t budge.
The stench from the hole was overwhelming. He held his breath and tried pushing up again. The window still wouldn’t move.
He was about to give up and go back inside when he realized the bottom frame was held in place by a painted bolt through the side. The bolt was on a spring that held it closed, but was easily pulled from the hole. He pushed the window upward, but could get it only about halfway open.
Squeezing his shoulders, he
pushed his upper body through the space and glanced up and down the narrow alley. When he saw no one watching, he pulled himself all the way out, then stepped up on the sill and climbed onto the roof by gripping the overhang.
It pitched on a very gentle slope up toward the front of the building, saltbox style. The radio was playing loud enough for him to hear, but Nuri knew he couldn’t count on it to mask too much noise. He kept his head down and slipped out two bugs, mounting them to cover the church building. Then he began moving backward, holding his breath.
He was only a few feet from the edge of the roof when the music below abruptly stopped.
Nuri froze. Someone had come into the building and was talking very loudly — yelling about something, though the words were difficult to decipher.
* * *
The man who had come into the store was Uncle Dpap’s brother, Commander John, the leader’s volatile aide-de-camp. He had seen the bus out front and wanted to know who was in town. He wasn’t yelling out of anger or alarm — Commander John always spoke in a very loud voice. He was a large man, so large in fact that he couldn’t fit comfortably between the aisles of the store.
Commander John spoke in the tribal language, and Hera had no idea what he was saying. But when he started toward the back, she knew she had to intercept him. So she walked around the side and yelled at him, introducing herself in English and then slightly rusty Arabic as Professor Hera Scokas.
Commander John considered himself a connoisseur of women. Unlike his brother, he had three wives and more mistresses than even he could keep track of. Hera looked to him like a woman worth giving up all the others for.
Hera recognized the way his pupils dilated.
Commander John told her in slangy Arabic that he was happy to make her acquaintance and she should see more of him. Sensing she didn’t understand his words, he took her hand in both of his and kissed it.
Hera gently pushed him back and began speaking loudly about the work she was doing. Commander John nodded politely, even though her accent made her words hard to decipher.
He truly had not seen such a beautiful woman in all his life. Ordinarily he didn’t care for white women; most were too pale and frail in his eyes. But this one had sparkle. She would make an excellent wife.
Commander John pressed in closer. Hera edged back slightly, keeping her voice loud and willing Nuri to appear.
* * *
Nuri was almost directly above her, just a few feet from the edge of the roof. But as he pushed his foot over to get down, two soldiers came into the alley, leaning against the building to share a cigarette.
He considered crawling to the other side of the roof but stopped when the Voice, translating what it could hear of the soldiers’ conversation, told him that they were complaining about rumors they’d heard that Uncle Dpap was trying to forge an alliance with Red Henri and another rebel leader, Colonel Zsar. The alliance would never work, one of the men said, because everyone knew Red Henri was crazy and Zsar was in league with foreigners.
Nuri took the reference to the foreigners to mean the Iranians.
The man kept talking, complaining about their lack of action and their dwindling supply of ammunition. Many of the ammo boxes the soldiers carried on their neck ropes were empty, and there were no reserves at the main storeroom.
This was fresh intelligence, and Nuri was happy to sop it up. But the conversation soon changed to concerns shared by fighting men the world over: they wondered when the next chance would be for sex.
Nuri assumed there would be plenty of opportunities in a village, but he was wrong — most of the women were married, and the daughters were watched carefully by men with guns. As limited as their bullets might be, there were always enough to protect the family honor.
Finally the men were called out to the road by a friend. Nuri slipped to the back of the building, made sure no one was nearby, then dropped down and went around to the window.
Which had slid back closed and locked while he’d been on the roof.
* * *
Hera had dealt with commander John types before, most often by putting her knee where it would do a world of good. But there were too many soldiers nearby for that approach, so she smiled and moved to the side as he continued to serenade her with words about how lovely she was.
His hand on her shoulder was too much, however. She pushed it off, smiled sarcastically at him, and started walking toward the front of the store.
Two of his men were standing in the aisle near the doorway. Hera lifted her head, raising her frame to its entire five feet two inches.
“Get out of my way,” she said.
Her words were in English, but her tone was universal. The men glanced over her head at their boss, who smiled and signaled that they should close ranks and not let her out. But the men weren’t quick enough — Hera pushed through like a halfback zipping into the gap between the nose guard and tackle.
One of the men swung around, reaching for her shoulder.
She began to duck and spin — the prelude to a rather nasty Krav Maga move that would have cost the young man his kneecap. Fortunately for the rebel, Nuri appeared in the front doorway, a big smile on his face.
“See anything you like?” he asked loudly.
“Time to go,” said Hera.
Nuri was ready to agree when he saw Commander John. He’d never met the rebel officer, but the man’s large frame made him easy to recognize. He stepped forward and held out his hand.
“Very pleased to meet you,” Nuri said, the Arabic rolling fast and thick off his tongue. “Very pleased. Very, very pleased. I am Dr. Abaajmed. We are digging dinosaurs. Ancient history in your backyard.”
Commander John shook his hand limply. He had no idea what dinosaurs were. To him, a doctor was someone who gave you pills or a shot when you were sick, and he wasn’t feeling ill right now.
“We came into town for some supplies,” continued Nuri. “We will be here for several weeks, maybe months. We will make you famous.”
“Nice.”
“That’s a nice old church across the way,” said Nuri. “Is the minister around?”
“What minister?” asked Commander John.
“That’s not a church?”
“It is an office.”
“I see. Who works there?”
The questions were starting to annoy Commander John. He shrugged.
“Does Uncle Dpap work there?” asked Nuri.
“Yes,” said Commander John, suspicious that a foreigner, even one who could speak Arabic like an Egyptian, would know of Uncle Dpap.
“We have been told that Commander Dpap is a very important person here,” said Nuri. “We would be honored to pay our respects.”
Commander John glanced over at Hera, and decided that he could use the doctor to get a chance to spend time with the woman, who surely would fall under his charms if he had a little more time.
“Uncle Dpap is my brother,” he said. “I will take you to meet him.”
“Nothing would please me more,” said Nuri.
15
Pentagon
Washington, D.C.
“Ten minutes until your meeting with the admiral, Ms. Stockard.”
“Thank you, Ms. Bennett.”
Breanna Stockard tapped the interphone button and went back to reviewing the Excel file on her computer. The rows of numbers — some bold, some highlighted, some in different colors — purported to show the cost effectiveness of a new shipboard cannon the Navy was angling for. But the numbers couldn’t demonstrate the real need for the weapon or, even more important, whether it would truly function as designed — and how long it would take to become operational. Those were the real questions when it came to new technology. The answers were almost always guesses — sometimes very good ones, but still guesses. Breanna’s office wasn’t developing the gun itself — a private contractor had been working on it for several years — but she had to give a report that would either help the admiral’s ques
t to win more funding or help kill the project. Her staff was divided, as were many of the people in the Navy.
As important as the issue was, Breanna couldn’t seem to focus on it, even with the admiral on his way over. She kept thinking about Danny and Whiplash in Africa.
Danny checked in twice a day, either by secure satellite phone or text message. She could have gone over to Room 4 at Langley, plug into the MY-PID network, and find out what was going on, but she resisted. It wasn’t her job to watch over every little decision Danny made, or to ride on the team’s shoulder as it went in battle. That was the whole point of MY-PID — it was a tool to help the people in the field, not to shepherd them.
She didn’t want to tell them how to do their job. But she was worried about them, even though she knew she shouldn’t be. She found it difficult to remove her emotions from the op, separate herself from the people.
The intercom buzzed.
“Ms. Stockard, the admiral has arrived early,” said Ms. Bennett with the slightest hint of annoyance.
Breanna glanced quickly at the small mirror she kept under the computer monitor, checking her makeup.
“Please send him in,” she said, rising to greet him.
16
Jabal Dugu, Sudan
Nuri put his hand into his pocket, slipping his fingers around one of the video bugs as he followed Commander John’s men into the building. It would be risky to bug the headquarters — but well worth it.
“Come,” said Commander John, looking at Hera as he spoke. “My brother is always at his desk. He will be very pleased to meet distinguished visitors.”
The pews, altar, and other religious items had been removed from the church years before. A few chairs and small tables formed different islands in the interior, but for the most part the space was filled with bundles of clothes and bags of rice and other supplies, which shaped half walls and low partitions. Three overhead fans pushed warm, stagnant air around the room. Sticky no-pest fly strips, the type outlawed in the U.S. for environmental and safety reasons years before, hung from the rafters, occasionally snapping in the fans’ breeze. A scent of sweat mixed with something sharp like cinnamon and dust.