Khalil snared another skewer from the tray, Josh did not. The waiter departed. The colonel chewed on the first bit of meat, pleased with himself.
“I did well, didn’t I.”
“You read a file on me?”
“No. All deduction.”
“The military thing was right.”
“I knew it. What service?”
“Eight years in the army. Rangers.”
“Iraq, Afghanistan?”
“Yep.”
“Your share of medals.”
“Yep.”
“So you left the military. The foreign service wanted you for your language skills. You accepted, done with the clash of weapons, preferring the war of ideals.”
“You can stop now.”
“Two years posted in Riyadh doing consular work, visas and such. Now in Sana’a in your second posting, as a low-rung cultural affairs officer. Shaking hands.”
“You read a file.”
“Of course. Haven’t you read one on me?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have no interest in you.”
“That hurts.”
“You’ll get over it.”
Once more, Josh sensed the tug of judgment at his sleeve, telling him to wish the colonel Ma’a salama and ease into the crowd the way the Egyptian did, classy and final.
“So why the interest in me?”
“I think you might be a spy, Joshua Cofield.”
“I’m not. And you have to stop saying that.”
Josh considered that al-Din might, in fact, be a spy. The man wore all white to stand out; he laughed loud and often, to be heard; and he was overt and oddball behind the mustache, all to hide in plain view, to make those seeing him catch a mask. The men Josh had known who meant and did exactly what they said, those were quieter men.
Khalil touched Josh’s shoulder.
“May we be honest with each other?”
Josh shrugged under the colonel’s hand to remove it.
“No.”
“I suppose that’s true for now. I’ll tell you what. I’ll be honest with you and you decide whether to repay me in kind another time.”
“Go ahead.”
The colonel sucked on the finished stick.
“I’ve seen you before. I’ve been watching. I’ve had others watch, as well.”
“That’s not making me happy. And it’s creepy.”
“You are awkward as a diplomat. You know this. You are thirty-two years old. And though you had a fine record in the military, you are not a young man to be on such a low rung in the world of diplomacy. That is why I read a file on you.”
“Because you think I’m a spy. I’m not.”
“Because I think you are a man who wants to get ahead. A man I may want to deal with.”
“What do you want?”
“Your discretion. Your trust.”
“For?”
“On occasion, I would like to feed you privileged information, but without attribution. Anonymously, you understand.”
“That’s spying.”
“It’s also back-channel diplomacy. Done all the time.”
“Why would you do that?”
“On occasion, when my country would like to see something in your press or in your ambassador’s report, something we can’t officially claim, I’d like to know you are a reliable partner.”
“Such as.”
“Intelligence on terrorists’ movements. News regarding Yemeni economics, politics, tribal tensions. Whatever we’d prefer to release without putting a name to it.”
“Why not?”
“As you’ll learn quickly in Yemen, we dance on the heads of snakes. We balance a hundred competing interests: tribes, warlords, Islamists, reformers, revolutionaries. Look around you. Every person here, every dashiki, robe, and tuxedo, knows Yemen harbors both oil and al-Qaeda. We are a choke point for the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden. We teeter between democracy and a failed state, like Somalia. This makes Yemen coveted and frightening. The United States operates more armed drones over my country than any place on earth. Much of what we have to say must be uttered in secret, to known friends only. I am trying to make a friend of you.”
Khalil backed up a step; he’d moved in close to Josh, almost whispering, wagging the bare kebab stick like a baton. Raising his long, white-clad arm, he signaled for a fresh round of pomegranate juice. When the tray was delivered, Khalil snatched two full flutes.
Josh accepted. He didn’t lift his glass until he’d heard it all.
“Of course, there is something in this for you.”
“I figured.”
“If you are a spy, this will make your work easier.”
“I’m not going to say it again.”
“It doesn’t matter. Either way, you will look good to your superiors when your own reports feature confidential information. You’ll look connected. Perhaps this will help you move up the ladder, whichever ladder you’re on. Yes?”
This Yemeni colonel might be a clown, or he might be an against-the-grain James Bond genius. Josh could bet either way. But al-Din did have instincts, he’d done his homework, and he knew what to dangle. Josh had no desire to be locked in as a public affairs officer for his whole career. There were five diplomatic “cones” in each US embassy: economics to study the host nation’s economy; management of the embassy’s staff and business; consular to handle visa applications; public affairs, where Josh was assigned now; and political officer, dealing directly with power and the powerful, the fastest track up. If he was CIA, that would be his cover.
Josh raised his glass. He drained the sparkling juice, privately toasting what might turn out to be his good luck. But wasn’t it bad luck to toast with anything other than booze? Too late now. He placed the glass on the steps beside his two other empties. He kept a bottle of Balvenie 15 in his desk drawer at the embassy.
“You know where to find me.”
Without hurry, Josh walked away, leaving the Turks’ party early.
Chapter 5
Lashkar Gah district
Helmand River Valley
Afghanistan
LB’s boots hit the stony ground a moment before the chopper’s wheels touched down. The healing gash in his calf yipped but didn’t slow him. When Torres put him, Wally, and Jamie back on active status, he’d hoped they’d have more than one day before the next rescue. That hadn’t worked out.
Beneath the spinning rotor LB bolted through twirling ghosts of dust, running for the clot of marines. The men kneeled in a circle, guns up in four directions on the high Afghan plain.
LB bowled into their midst on his kneepads. Inside their parting ring, two marines were down. One of the wounded had a stained bandage wrapped around his thigh and a tourniquet at his groin. The second marine lay on his side, seething bloody bubbles through clamped teeth. One of his buddies held him in place by the shoulder. LB patted the back of this fighter’s wrist to say I got him, get your hands back on your weapon.
Someone in the circle loosed a volley toward a scraggy line of brush 150 meters away. A few more in the forty-man patrol fired from their positions, spread out and on their bellies, with only rocks, weeds, and natural depressions for cover in the baked-white wadi. The insurgents answered, firing tit for tat, and hit nothing but their own pocked earth.
Pedro 2 was a big target on the ground. She bounded into the air, kicking up more dust.
Two marines scooted sideways to make room. Doc burst into their center, skidding to his knees. Immediately he began to unroll the flexible Skedco litter he’d lugged from the chopper.
LB addressed the marine with a bullet in his thigh. The kid was tango two, needing exfiltration within the hour.
“You okay for a few?”
Thi
s tough kid sat up on his elbows. “Take care of my buddy.”
Doc set to work. He flattened the Skedco, then shrugged off his med ruck. Doc dug in while LB took a sit rep from the squad’s lieutenant.
Fifty minutes ago his patrol had walked into an ambush. They took small arms fire from an indeterminate force embedded in scrub to their north and on high ground east and west. The young officer’s best guess was two dozen enemies with automatic weapons. A pair of his marines went down in the first seconds under fire; the squad retreated, set up a perimeter and a casualty collection point, traded gunfire with scurrying shadows, and called in the Guardian Angels.
Overhead Pedro 1 roared an arc over the dry battlefield. Pedro 2 climbed behind her. Both circled, waiting for LB’s direction.
The name tape on the marine under LB’s hand read ROME. The kid’s comrades had already stripped him of his vest and pack. LB leaned down, nose to nose. Rome was tango one, requiring evac now.
“They call you Romeo, marine? Huh?”
Rome rattled his head, quick and pained, a shudder. “Not Romeo. Just Rome.”
“They call me LB. Little Bastard. You’re gonna be fine, Rome. Hear me?”
Doc rolled the kid faceup to cut away the buttons on his tunic, then sliced away the olive drab T-shirt. On his back, Rome struggled for breath; blood pooled in his trachea. Moving fast, Doc peeled back the soaked cloth to reveal a neat hole an inch below the left collarbone. The round had punched just above Rome’s chest armor, probably tearing off the top of his lung. Judging by his difficulty breathing, the lung had collapsed. On instinct Rome had rolled onto his left shoulder to keep his working right lung above the flood. The kid hacked up more red foam. Doc eased him onto his side again.
He readied an ampoule of ketamine and uncapped a needle. Rome, in a lot of pain, weighed about 180 pounds. He’d need twenty milligrams to cool him out.
“Doc’s gonna give you a shot for the pain. Okay? Hear me?”
Inside his helmet in the white dust, the boy’s head wagged up and down, blue eyes wide and wild on LB. Specters of fear and death had come uncaged inside this brave boy whose breath had turned red. Shot in a foreign country, defended by his brothers, Rome fought hard to stay brave.
Doc spiked the ketamine into Rome’s biceps. Moments later, LB withdrew his hand when he felt the kid sag. Overhead, Pedro 2 rocketed past in a dogbone pattern, Pedro 1 seconds behind.
LB slipped out of the marines’ circle, leaving Doc heads-down on the wounded. He’d stay heads-up. LB pushed the push-to-talk clipped to his vest.
“Pedro 2, Hallmark.”
“Go, Hallmark.”
“Pedro 2, request for exfil. LZ remains hot.”
“Copy that, Hallmark. LZ is hot.”
Downrange one mile, the big HH-60 broke out of the dogbone to rocket straight for LB. Behind her, the second chopper maintained the pattern. LB hailed this bird to bring her big 7.62 six-barreled machine guns into play.
“Pedro 1, Hallmark.”
“Hallmark, Pedro 1. Go.”
“Pedro 1. Call for fire.”
The helo banked hard. She dropped her nose and came charging at LB.
“Send it.”
“Pedro 1, mark my position.” LB stood to wave his arms at both advancing helos. “Target one five zero yards north my position, in the bushes. Fire for effect.”
Both choppers closed at 120 mph, then blasted past. Pedro 2 did not land; the guns of Pedro 1 did not fire.
With gunships in the air but no reason to hide from them, the Afghans in the bushes and on the high ground opened up. The marines responded and the firefight flared. Ten steps from LB, several rounds nicked the pebbles. Doc lay across Rome to shield him. LB dropped to a knee to ram his thumb on the PTT9.
“Pedro 2, needing exfil. Pedro 1. Shoot.”
The choppers zoomed straight away from the embattled wadi, now buzzing with gunfire.
“Hallmark, Pedro 1. I saw no smoke. Mark your position.”
“Pedro 1, my position marked by me getting shot at and waving my fucking arms in the air. Or did you not see that?”
LB didn’t wait for the chopper pilot’s answer. It wasn’t going to make LB happy anyway. He flung himself flat on the ground.
Pedro 2 crept closer, poised to set down for evac but keeping its distance.
“Juggler, Juggler. Hallmark. You copy?”
“LB, Juggler. Go.”
“Juggler, get on one of that chopper’s guns and fire it yourself.”
“LB, where’s your smoke?”
“Juggler. I swear to God. I mean it.”
“Did you forget your smoke again?”
LB rose to his knees. Pedro 1 banked slowly, warily.
From his knees, LB pushed the PTT. “Yes. Okay? I forgot it.”
LB did not wave his arms this time but held them out, palms up like a beggar.
Pedro 1 leaned steeply out of its turn to charge back to the wadi. The pilot’s voice snapped in LB’s headset.
“Visual you, Hallmark.”
“Pedro 1, roger. Brush line to the north. Clear to fire.”
“Tally target.”
Above the plain, Pedro 1 swung onto her side, leaning over to widen the gunner’s field of vision. The chinking bark of the portside 7.62 cut through the whop of her rotors. Kneeling in the open door, tied in by cow’s-tails, Wally and Jamie added the firepower of their M4s. Big Quincy let his legs dangle out.
The chopper opened up hard, shredding the shrubs, pulverizing rocks. A cascade of brass casings trailed her. On the ground, the marines turned their guns on the hills to the left and right. Forty meters away, Pedro 2 scudded in low, adding the thunder of her rotors to the guns all around.
LB scampered back to Doc and the wounded.
Together they lifted Rome onto the Skedco sled, laying him on his side. The ketamine left Rome loose, eyelids fluttering. Scarlet drool drizzled from his open lips; his breathing was shallow but not labored. Doc finished strapping in Rome while LB tapped a meaty corporal to grab a handle and help skid the plastic litter to Pedro 2. Nearby, the HH-60 set wheels down, impatient, pawing at the ground.
Overhead Pedro 1 broke off her firing. She streaked away to bank for another pass. All the guns on the ground went quiet. The bad guys were hunkered down and would stay quiet for another minute. The plain echoed.
“Doc, move.”
Rome was hauled away. Watching him disappear, the circle of marines called encouragement. LB squatted beside the kid with the leg wound. His name tape read BRAUN.
“I think we can beat ’em. You ready, Braun?”
LB hoisted the marine onto his one good leg. His buddies in the ring reached out to say So long, but LB slipped under the kid’s armpit to hop him away as fast as he could.
He really wanted to beat Doc to the chopper.
The bay of Pedro 2 sweltered. The HH-60 blasted through arid, mile-high desert air under an afternoon sun. Dried perspiration from that morning’s casualty evac added salt to the sweat of this afternoon’s mission. LB’s crotch and armpits itched.
Rome lay dopey on the Skedco. LB pinched a Zoll’s monitor over the kid’s index finger to track blood O2 and pulse. Doc plugged both marines into IVs. LB slumped beside Rome, resting his arm on the marine’s raised shoulder. Doc eased the tourniquet around Braun’s thigh to let fresh blood flow into the leg.
No one felt chatty for the sixty-mile flight. Rome moaned; Braun grew paler. LB and Doc mopped their brows and monitored vitals. After forty minutes, the Pave Hawk set wheels down on the pad at Camp Bastion.
Doc moved first. LB, lulled by the heat and rocking of the airframe, had closed his eyes, drowsy in the last minutes of the approach.
From outside, the chopper door was shoved open. Rotor wash and tarmac heat gushed in, followed by the urgent arms of a four-man fire
man team. They slid out Rome’s Skedco to hurry him to a waiting ambulance. Another group of firemen darted forward to lay Braun on a fabric litter, then hustled him away.
LB dropped his boots to the concrete. He paused in the shade made by the HH-60. Slipping off his helmet, he lowered his chin to let the wind from the flipping blades gust down his back, past the armor plating. One of Camp Bastion’s Irish nurses slipped three bottles of water into his hands. LB gulped one dry, emptied one into his canteen, and the other over his head.
Thirty meters away, Pedro 1 settled to the pad.
Doc brushed past LB, looking just as worn. He rapped LB on the med ruck, striding toward one of the ambulances. A member of the recovery team had to stay with the casualties for the short ride to Bastion’s hospital, to brief the waiting doctors.
“I’ll do the handover.”
LB lifted a grateful palm at Doc, who followed Braun’s litter bearers. He folded to the helo pad, into the long shadow of the Pave Hawk. The chopper began to shut down its turbos, but for a few minutes more the blades would make a giant fan. LB laid down his M4 to slouch against his pack. The concrete was hot; the low sun made the distant mountains and corrugated plains appear Martian. The water dribbling off LB’s crew cut in the mechanical wind slackened the heat.
He did not react to the noise of metal landing near him or the tinny squeal of rolling. The sound was joined by another, then two more.
A smoke canister nudged LB’s leg. Three more rolled past, all missing him.
Wally raised his fist in triumph, having bowled closest. The loser, Quincy, threw up one great arm in disgust. Even Doc had turned back to roll one at LB. He waved before strolling off for the ambulance.
Limping, Jamie joined LB in the shade, grinning to be sure LB was okay with the jibe. Quincy, who’d missed by the most, fetched the three errant canisters in the sun before folding his long legs beside Jamie.
Wally strode into the shadow. He did not sit. LB cocked his arm to toss him the smoke grenade. Wally raised a palm.
“Keep it. I have a spare.”
“This again? Seriously?”
LB shifted his rump on the tarmac, trying to dispel the image of Pedro 1 scorching past without Wally demanding the gunner open up to protect his PJs on the ground. All because LB had forgotten, again, to pack a smoke canister, while Wally packed extras. Wally did everything by the book. LB didn’t take the book on rescues. After eighteen years together, the two dealt with each other like old boxers, mostly through tired jabs.
The Empty Quarter Page 7