Whiplash d-11

by Dale Brown

“You don’t have much of a sense of humor, do you?” he said.

  “I laugh at things that are funny.”

  As Nuri’s boat slipped in alongside, the Voice reported that two more cars were coming down the road.

  “I don’t want to wait too much longer,” said Nuri. “If we miss that bus, we have no way of getting to Tehran until morning.”

  “Agreed,” said Danny. “We’ll go in after these pass. You ready, Flash?”

  “Born ready, Colonel.”

  “Nuri let a soldier drive?” said Hera.

  “Boats are easy,” said Flash. “You should see me with a motorcycle.”

  “Maybe you’ll get a chance with the bus,” said Danny.

  “I’m game.”

  Hera scoffed.

  “You like driving motorcycles?” asked Danny.

  “I have to be honest, Colonel,” said Flash. “I’ve never driven one.”

  “No?”

  “Chief Boston was going to show me in Sudan, but we didn’t get a chance.”

  “It’s practically a requirement for Whiplash. We’ll have to teach you.”

  “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  “One more thing,” Danny told him. “Don’t call me colonel anymore. We have to stick with our covers.”

  “Right.”

  “Boss, anything like that is good.”

  “Right.”

  While they waited for the cars, Nuri sat on the deck at the rear of the cockpit, rehearsing his Farsi. He had spent much of the trip practicing with the Voice. Iran’s native language had never been particularly hospitable to his tongue. While the Voice could help with vocabulary, Nuri was still having fits with the pronunciation.

  “Vehicle three has passed,” said the Voice.

  “Let’s get in while the gettin’s good.” Danny slid the engine up out of idle, gave it a quick jolt, then dropped the throttle back again.

  The Voice steered them past a group of rocks to a shallow shelf at the sea’s edge. The wind had died to almost nothing. Danny handled the boat easily, stopping just short of the shore, where the water was shallow enough that he didn’t beach.

  Flash had a harder time. Just as he drew his boat up to the Phantom, the bow hit a submerged tree trunk. They pitched hard to port against the other cruiser.

  The impact caught Hera by surprise, sending her to the deck.

  “Watch it,” she said, scrambling up.

  “Sorry.”

  “Let’s go,” said Danny. “Hera, grab the line.”

  She went to the side of the boat. Nuri, still somewhat distracted, climbed out to the bow and tossed the lead to her.

  “Can’t we get any closer to shore?” he asked Flash.

  “Man, I’m just hoping I didn’t beach us.”

  Nuri sat and took off his shoes and socks, then rolled up his pants. He didn’t want to be too wet when he got on the bus. He had another change of clothes, but they were packed in the suitcase, which would be brought along by Danny and Hera later.

  He put his foot over the side tentatively, dipping it in the water. It was colder than he expected.

  “Best to just get in,” he said aloud to himself, easing down. His teeth started chattering. He held his shoes above his head and walked toward dry land.

  The water was nearly three feet deep and came up to his waist, soaking his pants and the bottom of his shirt.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  He pushed away from the boat, took a step, then slipped on the mossy bottom, dunking his entire body.

  “You better grab the suitcase and get some backup clothes,” said Danny.

  “Have Flash get it,” said Nuri, squeezing out his drenched shirt on shore.

  Flash had his own solution. He stripped off his pants and held them over his head as he waded first to the other boat for the waterproof luggage, then to shore.

  “Tell me next time so I can close my eyes,” said Hera.

  “Next time I sell tickets.”

  “You got the boat?” Danny asked Hera.

  “Yeah, they’re tied to us.”

  “Go ahead, get in.”

  “I think you ought to pull it off the tree or rocks or whatever first. Make sure they’re not hung up.”

  “If they are hung up, we’ll need their engine, too,” said Danny.

  “It’ll float higher without me in it.”

  “Just do it.”

  Hera jumped into the other boat.

  She was just one of those people who would always want to do the opposite of what anyone else suggested, Danny thought.

  He started reversing the engine on the Phantom 21. The line between the two boats grew taut — then snapped.

  “How can it be so wedged in there?” Hera asked. “We’re not even hitting anything.”

  “Get everything out and into our boat. Maybe it will float a little higher.”

  There wasn’t much in the boat except for six jerry cans. Only four had fuel in them. Hera brought them over while Danny retied the line, doubling it this time. They got the other boat to nudge back, only to have it hang up on another submerged piece of the tree. The rope held, but the boat wouldn’t budge.

  “The gods are screwing with us,” said Danny. “You take the helm here. I’m going across. Don’t do anything until I tell you.”

  Because of the time constraints, the plan called for Nuri and Flash to head for the bus at the nearby stop. The bus would take them to another line that ran to the airport.

  Danny and Hera would stash the boats a few miles away at a marina. Then they’d catch another bus to Tehran, arriving several hours later with the gear. Depending on where Tarid went — Nuri was betting on Tehran itself — Danny and Hera would immediately get a hotel room and start making other arrangements to support the surveillance mission.

  Ashore, Nuri changed and checked his watch. They had fifteen minutes to walk the mile to the bus stop down the road.

  “Flash and I have to get moving,” he said as Danny settled behind the wheel for another try. “We’ll take the bags with us.”

  “Hold on, hold on,” said Danny. He revved the engine and shouted to Hera to pull backward. The boat didn’t budge.

  “Danny, we’re going,” said Nuri.

  “All right,” he said. “You’re better off with them anyway. In case we’re late.”

  Nuri had changed everything but his shoes, deciding that his boots would look too American. He squished with every step.

  “Car approaching,” warned the Voice.

  “There’s a car,” Nuri told Flash, starting off the road.

  “Maybe we should hitch.”

  “You have an explanation about why we’re here?”

  “We went for a midnight swim.”

  “That’s not going to work in Iran. Come on — there are some bushes we can duck behind.”

  * * *

  It took Danny and Hera another hour to get the sunseeker unstuck. By then they had no hope of making their bus.

  “What’s Plan B?” asked Hera over the radio as they finally got the two vessels pointed toward the marina. The Voice tied her team short-distance unit into its communications circuit.

  “We grow wings and fly,” said Danny.

  “How come you can be a wiseass, and I can’t?” snapped Hera.

  The remark caught Danny off guard.

  “I wasn’t being a wiseass,” he said.

  “What do you call it?”

  “It was kind of a joke.”

  “But I have no sense of humor.”

  “You’re being awful sensitive,” he said.

  “If I’m going to get canned, I want to understand why.”

  “We’re going to get a later bus,” said Danny coldly. “There’s one that passes four hours later.”

  “So we just wait? What if they need us?”

  “If you have a better idea, I’m all ears.”

  “Why don’t we see if we can rent a car?”

  “There are no car rental places. N
ot even at the marina.”

  “Then let’s steal one.”

  Danny had considered it earlier, but decided that even the slight risk wasn’t worth taking if they could simply ride on the bus. Now, though, he saw the long gap as a potential problem, leaving him no way to back up Nuri and Flash for hours if something went wrong.

  “All right,” he said. “If you can jump a car.”

  “With my eyes closed.”

  * * *

  Hera had learned how to defeat alarm systems and jump cars long before she joined the CIA, though the details of her training were glossed over on her résumé.

  The problem was finding a vehicle to take. Danny had chosen the marina because the Voice’s analysis of activity there showed that it was nearly always deserted after evening prayers, and tonight was no exception. That meant no one was there to ask questions as he and Hera lifted the suitcases from the boats and rolled them up the dock. But it also meant there were no cars in the parking lot. Nor were there vehicles near the houses or on the road leading up to the small village nearby. The houses were small and battered, and didn’t even look occupied.

  The village was centered around a very small mosque. Structures leaned up against it on all sides; these were more stalls than buildings, painted and repainted, covered with tarpaper, and lean-to roofs. Half of them had not been used for years. The others were small stores and stands where a variety of goods were sold when the owners took the time to open them.

  Beyond them sat the bus stop, a post on the main road. There were more houses on the other side of the highway. These were modern structures, far larger than the ones in the village. The owners were more prosperous than the people who lived in the village, though none were considered rich, even for Iran. The real money and power — as in most places, they tended to go hand in hand — lived in the hills overlooking the seaside.

  “There’s something over there,” said Hera, pointing to a battered pickup truck. It was a late nineties Toyota, easy for her to jump.

  “Looks like it’s their only vehicle,” said Danny, examining the property. “I’d hate to take somebody’s only car.”

  “You can’t have a conscience in this game, Colonel. It’ll eat up your gut.”

  “Go.”

  Danny took the bags and walked with them over to the bus stop. A few minutes later Hera drove up at the wheel of a late model Hyundai Genesis.

  “I saw a house with two cars in the driveway. This was the fancy one,” she said, rolling down the window.

  Danny brought the bags around the back.

  “I have to change,” said Hera, running over to the bag. She pulled out the long dress and scarf, covering her black jeans and shirt. The outfit was somewhere between conservative and fashionable, typical of younger women who lived in Tehran, but had strong ties to tradition.

  “You better drive,” she told Danny. “Women usually don’t when they’re with a man.”

  “I intend on it,” he told her, adjusting the seat so he could fit his knees under the dashboard. He made a three-point turn and headed down the highway, in the direction of Tehran.

  “How far we going?” Hera asked.

  “That bus stop at Karaj, I guess. It’ll only be a half hour or so from there.”

  “Why don’t we just drive it all the way to the city?” she asked. “We can get there before Nuri and Flash.”

  “Let’s not push it.”

  “There’s no traffic. Which means no police,” she insisted.

  “The briefing I heard said there was the possibility of roadblocks.”

  “Not at night. That stuff happens down in the south, near Iraq and Afghanistan. Here the police all sleep. Even during the day.”

  “You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

  “I’ve been in Iran a lot, Colonel,” said Hera. “I know the country pretty well. It’s not as bad as you think. There aren’t police on every corner, or checkpoints everywhere.”

  “All we need is one.”

  He leaned back in the seat, trying to relax a little. His neck muscles had seized up on him, and his knees felt as if they were stiff wooden hinges — old injuries reminding him of the past.

  “I didn’t cause McGowan’s death,” Hera blurted.

  “I know that,” said Danny. The comment seemed to come out of left field; no one had accused her of that.

  “You think I don’t fit in.”

  “You don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re pissing everyone off.”

  Hera pressed her lips together, trying to think of what to say.

  “I’m not a screwup,” she tried finally.

  “I didn’t say you were…but you do have to get along with the people on the team.”

  “If I point stuff out—”

  “There’s a way to do it, and a way not to do it.”

  “And I don’t do it right?”

  “No,” said Danny bluntly. “You come off — you’re being a bitch, basically. You second-guess everyone.”

  “I’m just giving my opinion.”

  “Maybe you should hold onto it a little tighter.”

  “I’m trying,” she said.

  Hera could feel the tears coming again, hot at the corner of her eyes. She hated that — hated the cliché of the weak woman.

  “Just do your job,” said Danny. “We’ll discuss this all later.”

  “I am. I didn’t have anything to do with McGowan dying. Nothing.”

  Danny reached his hand across and patted her shoulder. “Every one of us — we all were affected by it.”

  “Not you.”

  “Yeah, me too,” he said.

  “You don’t have to worry. No one thinks you’re a screw-up.”

  “I don’t think you’re a screw-up, Hera.”

  She choked back her tears, feeling like a fool. Danny sat silently, thinking of his own doubts, his own fear, and the terrible knowledge of the price that had already been paid on the mission, not just by McGowan, but by everyone who’d died.

  “I’m sorry Carl died,” Hera said again. “I never had someone — another officer — someone on the team — die on me. Not during the op.”

  “It sucks,” said Danny, leaning back in the seat. “It affects us all. More than we know. Or want to admit.”

  42

  Base Camp Alpha

  Danny had left Boston and Sugar to pay off the mercenaries, close the camp, and get McGowan’s body and the rest of the gear back home.

  The mercenaries were now a liability. Boston couldn’t just dismiss them — they’d sell him out in a heartbeat. But they were clearly on edge, and just from the expressions of the men on watch, he guessed he had a fifty-fifty chance of making it through the day without trouble. Boston told the bus driver, Abul, to find out what the men were thinking. Abul told him he didn’t have to ask.

  “They’re anxious about getting paid. They’re wondering what happened to Kirk. And they’re worried about the government making trouble for them.”

  “They’ll get everything they’ve been promised,” Boston said. “Unless I’m shot.”

  Abul smiled nervously.

  Danny and Nuri had driven the Land Cruisers to Khartoum, leaving them at the airport, where they could be picked up by a CIA contact and driven back to Ethiopia. Boston and Sugar had the bus, and two options for evac.

  He could have Abul drive them over the Ethiopian border and then to the airport at Bole, just south of the capital of Addis Ababa. Crossing the border with a dead body was a problem, however. Without proper papers, it wouldn’t be allowed. Hiding him would be hard — the Ethiopian border guards thoroughly searched incoming traffic, and by reputation were difficult to bribe.

  Driving north to Port Sudan would take longer and probably bring them into contact with regular army patrols — including the one that tried to hold Danny up on the way down. If anyone remembered the bus, they were unlikely to get by without a bribe large enough to buy Manhattan.

 
Boston opted for Ethiopia, and had asked Breanna to see if something could be arranged with the Ethiopian government to allow the body through without any questions. They were still working on it as night fell. He decided they were bugging out no matter what; it didn’t make sense to give the Sudanese army another day to recover from the drubbing it had taken.

  Which brought him back to the question of what to do with the mercenaries.

  They’d come from Ethiopia, and so taking them back there seemed like the logical thing to do. But they were frowning when he had Abul tell them at dinner they would go the next day.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked Abul.

  “They don’t have the right papers. They want to go to Port Sudan.”

  “They’re welcome to do that.”

  “They say Kirk promised them extra money. And they want more on top of that — twice what they were hired for. The fight with the Sudanese was not what they had planned.”

  “I’ll pay them what Nuri left,” said Boston, who knew nothing about any extra bonuses. “It’s not worth debating — I’ll give them everything I have.”

  “They think you are cheating them.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I think they have friends in Port Sudan,” said Abul. “Or maybe nearby. You should give them something, just to appease them.”

  Boston looked around the two tables where the men were sitting. Not one of them was smiling.

  “I’ll give them the money right now,” he said. “I don’t have a problem with it.”

  He went and got the strongbox Nuri had left with the euros. Maybe, he thought, they’d take the hint and leave that night.

  But he wasn’t counting on it.

  * * *

  It was just about midnight when Sugar went to the northwestern observation post with some water for the guard there. A minute after she arrived, a shell streaked overhead. She and the guard on watch stared at it wide-eyed, not quite comprehending what was going on.

  There was a flash, then a rumble.

  “Incoming!” yelled Sugar, throwing herself to the ground next to the sandbags.

  The guard followed as several more shells streaked through the air.

  Sugar reached for her radio. “Boston! We’re being shelled. Mortars!”

  Her words were drowned out by machine-gun fire near the road. Sugar grabbed her gun and started returning fire.