“You did.”
Silva closed Josh’s file to move to the other open folder. He drummed his short fingers on it, contemplating.
Josh tapped his own chest.
“Sir, is there something about me you’re unhappy with?”
“No. You’re a good worker. Excellent Arabic.”
“Then what’s this about?”
“I’ll get right to it, then.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Are you a CIA officer in my embassy I don’t know about?”
Josh’s hands went to the arms of the chair. He was not going to rise, but every instinct told him a man got to his feet when he felt like Josh did right now.
“What? No. What?”
Silva patted the open file.
“This request. It’s from the Agency. I’ve been asked to lend you to them for a mission. It actually says that. A ‘mission.’ ”
“Can I see it?”
“No. Young men who’ve served five weeks in Cultural Affairs are not the subject of such requests. Why would they ask for you?”
Josh shifted. The chair squeaked under him.
“I don’t know. I’m not a spy.”
The ambassador toted Josh up, nodding to himself when he’d reached a sum.
“To be honest, you’re a little abrupt for a diplomat. You’ve got a direct style about you. I’ll chalk that up to your military background. Mind you, these aren’t complaints, just snap observations.”
“Are these snap observations in my file?”
“A few are. Again, you’re young in this business. We like to give folks a chance to settle in. You seem to be taking longer than we’re accustomed to. That’s all.”
Josh flipped his own mental file of everyone he knew in the embassy, every encounter in his five weeks in Sana’a. Who wrote him up? What did he do?
Silva remained blandly judgmental.
“Let me say that if you’re not a spy, you’ll have to work on your manner.”
“I will, sir.”
“If you are a spy, you’re a bit transparent.”
Again Josh was stymied. He couldn’t admit that he’d heard this before, only days ago, in fact—and like then, it bordered on an insult. At the same time, he wanted to hear what mission the CIA might have for him, if for no other reason than to change the subject. The ambassador continued.
“On the plus side, you’ve got a steady nerve. You didn’t blink when you came into my office the first time.”
“Nor did you, sir.”
“I’m entitled to know. Are you a spy in my house, Josh?”
“No, sir. I’m not. And if you don’t mind, do you have any other questions?”
“No. I don’t.”
Someone knocked on the ambassador’s door, and it opened. The secretary entered carrying Josh’s bottle of Balvenie 15.
Josh’s throat seized. Is this what he was in Dutch over, sneaking a bottle of Scotch into the embassy? Booze was prohibited in Yemen but this was a private bottle, and only for after-hours.
The ambassador folded his hands while the secretary set two crystal highball glasses on the desk.
“You prefer ice? Josh?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“One cube.”
“Same for me. Michael, a little ice, please.”
The secretary disappeared. In his absence, Silva unscrewed the top to pour for them both.
“I hope this is all right. I ran out a week ago. The diplomatic pouch hasn’t arrived. I thought we ought to have a tipple, you and me. Before we tackle this request.”
“How’d you know?”
“I don’t mind good Scotch in my embassy. I do mind secrets. No different from a Ranger company.”
“Point taken.”
“I’m pleased to hear that.”
The secretary returned with a bowl of ice, then slipped out. Silva and Josh each dropped one cube into their glasses before raising them to the other. Both swirled the Scotch and ice before sipping to let the peat flavors open a hint.
The ambassador set his glass on the desk. Josh held on to his; one Scotch together did not make them equals.
Silva gazed out his windows at bright, antiquated Yemen. He seemed again to be doing figures in his head, adding up caution and prudence, Josh and the CIA, counting the heads of snakes.
Plainly reluctant, Silva sucked his teeth.
“The Agency wants you to ride in a car.”
Josh opened his mouth twice before he could speak.
“They what?”
“That’s what they’ve asked me to send you to do. Ride in a car.”
“You mean with someone else driving.”
“I interpret ‘riding’ to mean that, yes.”
“Why? Where?”
“Where is from Ma’rib to the Saudi border. When is tonight. Why is the interesting part.”
The ambassador finished the skim of chilled Scotch. He tipped the bottle’s neck at Josh, inquiring if he wanted more of his own liquor. Josh waved him off. Silva poured himself a second highball, adding a fresh cube.
Josh wanted to prod, speed up the facts from the file. Silva had his own pace.
“In Ma’rib, a woman has decided to leave her husband. She’s the daughter of a prominent Saudi prince. She has no visa or passport, and now she wants to go home. The CIA needs you to tag along in the car.”
“As what?”
“As an observer. There are American interests in play, judging by the involvement of the CIA. You’re to be the American on the scene.”
“What interests?”
“The file doesn’t say. But we can draw our own conclusions. We know the woman’s father is a senior member of the Al Saud. Let’s assume some backs are getting scratched. The father wants an American in the car. He’s getting one. I don’t know what CIA is getting in return. Someone’s hide, most likely.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Make sure everything goes smoothly. Be an American presence.”
“Why doesn’t the CIA just send one of their own?”
“They claim that if something does go sideways, politically it’s easier to explain if a diplomat’s in the car instead of an intelligence officer. Plausible deniability. Unless it so happens that you’re both.”
“I’m not. And please stop saying that.”
“Of course. But you have the language skills. A military background. You were asked for by name. You should be pleased.”
“I’m holding off on that until you explain one more thing.”
“That is?”
“What do you mean ‘sideways’?”
“You’ll be moving at night. The roads out of Ma’rib cross tribal boundaries. It’s possible you might come up on a roadblock. It’s not uncommon for the Hadhramaut qabili to charge traffic for the right to pass. They still consider parts of the desert their land.”
“The government lets them get away with that?”
“The Yemeni government does whatever it has to do to keep the tribes quiet and happy. So yes, they let them get away with it. Charge a toll. Nothing much, a few thousand riyals. Ten bucks. After a few hours, they disappear.”
Silva pulled the cardboard box to him. He reached inside, then lay on the desk a sheet of paper stamped and signed under the seal of the Yemeni Interior Ministry.
“This is a tasrih. It’s signed by the Interior Ministry. I’ll make you a dozen copies. It should get you past any checkpoints.”
“Should?”
The ambassador dug back into the box. He lifted out ten banded packets of Yemeni currency.
“That’s five million riyals. Just shy of twenty-five thousand dollars. In case the tasrih doesn’t work, you’ll use this as baksheesh.” Bribes.
“The Saudis sent the money. They’ve got plenty. Remember, the princess doesn’t have papers.”
Josh poked at the stacks of cash. She had plenty of papers now.
The ambassador returned the money to the box.
“And Josh. Please note that I have signed for this.”
Josh put a fresh ice cube into his empty glass. The ambassador poured.
He carried the Scotch with him to one of the satellite maps on the wall. There, he measured the distances and routes: a hundred miles west from Ma’rib to Sana’a on the N5; then another 150 north on the N1 to the Saudi border town Dharan Al Janub. On the map, the roads looked good, the terrain sparse, rocky, and rolling.
Tracing a finger over the route west, then north to the border, Josh figured six, seven hours.
The ambassador stirred his whiskey. The ice clinked against the crystal. Silva shook his head.
“They’re not going that way. They’re heading east out of Ma’rib, then north.”
“East?”
“That’s right.”
Josh retraced the route. East on the N5 another 125 miles, then north on the S150 fifty more. Beneath his trailing finger, as soon as the road left Ma’rib to the east, the landscape turned amber, rippling, and barren.
“That’s into the Rub‘ al-Khali.”
“It is.”
“Why go into the desert?”
Silva sipped. The silk of the Scotch did not ease the sourness on his features. One more time he tapped the open folder, making clear the blame lay with it and not him for what he had to say.
“Two years back, when the princess and her husband left the Kingdom, they were smuggled out. Disappeared. Her family lost track. The Saudis cancelled both their passports.”
“So she needs to be smuggled back in.”
“Exactly.”
“Why not just send a plane to pick her up?”
“The delivery has to be done overland. The CIA was specific and secretive about this. Not unusual.”
If the crossing had to be done by land, the only place to do that was where the border between Saudi Arabia and Yemen wasn’t patrolled, or even marked—in the middle of the largest sand desert on earth. The Rub‘ al-Khali. The Empty Quarter.
Up to a point, this made sense. A Saudi princess had followed her husband to Yemen. Whatever reasons took them there, things had turned ugly enough for her to jump ship. She called Daddy. He said I’ll get you out. The old man was cashing in some chips with the CIA. The Agency agreed to handle the transport. But to rate this kind of attention, Daddy had to be very important. And the husband, pretty nasty.
“Does the guy know his wife’s splitting on him?”
“He does not.”
“I’d like it better if this made sense.”
“That’s why I’m not comfortable saying yes.”
The ambassador eyed him over the rim of his glass. Josh believed he’d sat perfectly still but plainly had not, for Silva chuckled into the Scotch before taking a sip. “You want me to say yes.”
“Can you say no?”
“I can. With some consequences.”
“Would you?”
“To protect you, yes. You’re one of my team. This embassy is my Ranger company.”
“Roger that, sir. It’s your call.”
“Let me show you what else is in the box. Then it’s going to be your call.”
Silva laid on the desk a black device the size of a pack of cigarettes, with a screen and keyboard. Josh took this in hand. “A Blue Force tracker.”
“Have you used one before?”
“Not one this small. But yes.”
Also from the box, Silva lifted a memo. He slid the page across the desk.
“Here’s the instructions. Once you’re in the car, every fifteen minutes you’re to send an ID code. Program that in before you leave. At the same intervals you’ll transmit an all-clear signal. That’s threat level one. If you get into trouble, you’ll send threat levels up to four. The GPS will monitor your location.”
“Who’ll be watching?”
The ambassador left his chair to stride to the satellite map. He indicated a point thirty miles north of the border, inside the Kingdom.
“Tonight, a SEAL team will arrive at the airport here in Sharurah. They’ll be on four-wheel ATVs waiting just north of the Saudi line. The mission calls for your car to reach a prearranged checkpoint nine miles south of the border. The SEALs will cross the frontier in the dark, travel off-road, and pick up the princess. They’ll sneak her back over the border at some remote spot in the desert. You and the driver will turn around and head back. You may take tomorrow off.”
The ambassador returned to his chair. Josh admired the man’s walk, measured and straight, as if on a rail. He had bearing, a momentum about him; he carried his country when he walked, like a good soldier.
Josh hefted the blue force tracker.
“What happens exactly if I dial in threat level four?”
“A lot of wheels start turning.”
“What wheels?”
“A rescue response team will take over, also sitting alert in Sharurah.”
“Who’ll it be?”
“A team of air force pararescuemen.”
“PJs.”
“I’ve heard them called that. Did you know them in the military?”
Josh had seen the PJs work. They were Special Operators, a small and very elite corps with the mission of CSAR: combat search and rescue. They ran, flew, jumped, climbed, swam, and forced their way into any terrain, hostile or remote, to reach downed or isolated personnel. If you fell in battle, anywhere, and your own guys couldn’t get you out, couldn’t save you, the PJs got the call. Through hell and high water.
“Everybody knows them.”
“Good. If you have confidence in them, I will.”
One more sheet of paper emerged from the box.
“Here’s the time and place of the meeting tonight in Ma’rib. Memorize this and leave it here. If you’re going.”
“I reckon I am.”
“You’re sure? This is not the way out of Cultural Affairs, Josh. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Silva poured one more splash of Scotch for himself. “But this will look good in your file.”
“Apparently my file could use it.”
“All right. The driver will be expecting you. Take one of the embassy cars to Ma’rib.”
“That’s everything? No weapon?”
“I can’t arm you.”
Silva spoke into the glass at his lips.
“Of course, I have no idea what you do when you leave here.”
Chapter 10
Outside Camp Lemonnier
Djibouti
Quincy jammed his fists to his hips. When he stood like this, he was a colossus.
“No. Dude, no, you do not get to pull rank.”
LB swung his shoulders to Berko for the final say.
Quincy kept on. “I grew up in the desert. I know this shit backwards and forwards. LT, come on. He grew up on the Strip.”
A mile behind Quincy, under a stark East African sun, a rooster tail of dust dashed across the open savanna, past flat-topped acacia trees and the trash fields. LB couldn’t hear the gunning motor or what he imagined were the happy yells of PJs. But he was going to drive next. LB tapped his own chest.
“I’m team leader.”
Berko had been reluctant to make the call, but finally gave LB the nod. Quincy kicked at the ground before turning to watch one of the two just-delivered GAARVs, short for Guardian Angel Air-Deployable Recovery Vehicle, tear up the plain.
The dust plume cut a long straight swath, accelerating over flat ground. The GAARV’s top speed on level te
rrain was 55 mph, and whoever was behind the wheel—Wally, young ex-sailor Dow, Mouse, or Jamie—was taking all of it. The vehicle sped one mile, two miles in a straight line, flat out, pushing its limits until it kicked up a billow, marking another hairpin turn to a skidding stop. Berko let loose a whoop. Doc whistled and hit LB in the arm. Berko’s radio tweeted; the young officer brought the handheld to his ear, then to his mouth. Team 1 was finished galloping over the Djiboutian plain; Wally was bringing the GAARV back in for Team 2’s turn.
The big vehicle turned to barrel straight at them, floating on waves of heat, trailing a yellow cloud on a windless noon. Approaching fast, she looked snub-nosed and squat, grabbing the earth with enormous tires. Painted coyote-tan, the GAARV looked battle ready, with her antennas and dual mounted M-240B machine guns. A rear protective cage for two litters, bulletproof steel skin, tubular impact grill, roll bar, high ground clearance—all made her appear raw-boned and rough. She was the pinnacle of Special Ops combat rescue ground mobility: durable, balanced, fast, and powerful enough for the full range of GA missions in every climate and condition. The GAARV could be dropped by parachute into a mission to ford a stream, push down a flooded street, climb a mountain, race over sand and snow, face an enemy, or, better yet, outrace one.
LB’s eager hands twitched. The whole team had spent yesterday studying manuals on the GAARV’s operation, capacities, limits, and maintenance. The vehicles had arrived on a cargo plane from AFRICOM last night. This morning the riggers kept one for themselves, while the PJs divided into two teams to field-test the other. Wally and his team had been out on the plain since 0800, with a swap time of 1200. Right now the time was 1230. LB and his team had been waiting in the heat and arguing over who got first crack.
The GAARV rushed at them without slowing; LB, Doc, and Quincy lowered their goggles, knowing what was coming. Doc elbowed Berko to do the same.
Jamie was behind the wheel when the GAARV roared past, barely slowing. Beside him sat Wally, with Mouse and Dow strapped in the rear. When they roared past, all four were hollering and punching the air. Jamie downshifted into a tight circle around LB’s team, ringing them three times, trying to choke them.
The Empty Quarter Page 14