LB and Jamie moved the princess’s stretcher to a glaring corner, no more darkness inside. Berko squirmed on his belly below the windowsill. Cofield kneeled next to the princess. Khalil hugged his knees in another corner. LB dashed for the GAARV to see if he might dismount one of the .240s and ammo belt. Before he cleared the doorway, one of the Abidah’s pickup trucks opened fire.
The reports were not the yips of a Kalashnikov but a different, more frightening tone, a deep-throated metal clatter like speed blows on an anvil. The weapon, likely a .50 caliber, unleashed a long salvo that shook the hut walls.
The team, Cofield, and the Yemeni all burrowed into the dirt floor. LB blanketed the princess with his armored torso. The top of the mud wall facing the gun shuddered and disintegrated, heaping chunks of ancient busted bricks over everyone inside. The interior of the hut dissolved into whorls of dust and spinning debris. Bullets pounded the wall, chewing off its cap. Under the maelstrom, through the zings and mist, Mouse dove inside. Landing next to LB, crimson dripping off his chin, he handed over three more units of blood.
The long, excruciating volley went on. The message in the salvo was: Don’t try to escape. Don’t even think about shooting back. Or we’ll blow your hut to the ground with you in it.
When the firing quit, LB rolled off the princess, careful not to spill onto her the rubble that had collected on his back. His ears rang; his teeth and ears felt gritty. His nerves uncoiled slowly after the barrage. The rest of the team, Cofield, and the spy emerged as if out of graves, shedding layers of earth. The top quarter of the front wall had been shorn off, an ugly and jagged warning of only a fraction of the firepower facing the PJs.
LB collapsed onto his back, unable to see any stars. He shouted into the haze.
“Anyone hurt?”
Everyone but the princess sounded off, coughing. No one had been hit.
The princess’s eyes fluttered open. She gazed at the billows tumbling out of the windows and the gray shapes carved on the smoke by the headlights of the Abidah.
She tried to speak. LB brought his ear close.
“What?”
She turned black eyes on him. The princess was wan and weak but conscious and smiling. She moistened her lips to utter a word, a name, just above a whisper.
“Arif.”
* * *
15 isolated personnel.
16 intelligence, surveillance, reconnaissance.
Chapter 29
Arif swept the machine gun across the hut as if he were carving into stone. I am here. You have my wife. Give her to me, then die.
His muscles rattled behind the big, quaking gun. Fifty yards away, the spotlighted hut smoked as if on fire. Hot casings somersaulted out of the chamber, piling in the sand and around his sandals on the truck bed. A hand squeezed Arif’s leg. Without releasing the trigger, he looked down on old Mahmoud. The elder shook his head. Enough.
Arif pulled his hands off the grips. The clamor of the gun had nothing to echo against in the desert. A silent aftermath fell on Arif; all he sensed was his own trembling hands and the withdrawal of Mahmoud’s touch.
He hopped down from the truck bed, plucking out the pair of torn cigarette filters used to stuff his ears. Arif worked his hands to expel the vibrations. He stood behind the trucks and their headlights. The Ba-Jalal, pistols in their holsters, waited around him. Their two dozen armed men lay in ditches surrounding the hut, perhaps frightened to have so many bullets flying over their heads. Arif gave them no more thought.
A short, thick tribesman approached. The man wore rings on every finger, a clipped beard, and a Kalashnikov at his chest. Mahmoud introduced him.
“This is Qunbula Hossain of the Sai’ar. Arif the Saudi.”
Qunbula’s name, which meant “grenade,” seemed to have shaped him. He was the one who’d followed the kidnappers from the second roadblock out of Ma’rib.
“Thank you, Qunbula Hossain.”
“My duty, sayyid.”
The man dipped his head quickly but did not retreat.
“What do you want?”
The Sai’ar thrust a hand at the dazzling hut.
“My revenge, sayyid. I want the men inside dead.”
The fat tribesman shook his Kalashnikov to make his point. Arif leaned down.
“Have you been paid?”
The Sai’ar stepped back as if Arif had struck him.
“What?”
Arif pointed at the bulge of what was plainly a packet of bills in the tribesman’s tunic pocket. The Sai’ar looked down at Arif’s accusing finger.
“Were you hired?”
“By the Abidah.” The tribesman gestured at Mahmoud. “By him.”
“Two hungry wolves let loose among a flock of sheep cause less harm than a man seeking money.”
“You give me quotes from the Prophet? I have lost three brothers.” The tribesman shot up three shaking fingers as if Arif could not understand. “Three.”
“Brothers you risked for money. Step away, Qunbula Hossain.”
The Sai’ar gaped at Arif, speechless until one of the Ba-Jalal brothers led him off.
“Careful.” Mahmoud spoke from close behind. “We have all lost a great deal tonight. The Sai’ar and the Ba-Jalal have reasons for being here that go beyond you.”
Arif turned on the elder, returning his voice to a gentler tone.
“No, my friend, you do not. You are here because of your father’s vow to me. Ghalib was killed by a missile aimed at me. The kidnappers in the hut, the soldiers who’ve come to save them, they’ve all been sent here because of me. Tonight will be my revenge, Mahmoud. But I will see that you and the Sai’ar are satisfied.”
Arif framed Mahmoud’s heavy shoulders with his hands. He held the elder at arm’s length, then kissed both gray cheeks.
“I have not been in battle for twenty-five years. I do not like this. I did not ask for it. But I will fight for my wife as I did for Allah. We are old men, you and I. Tell me I have your forgiveness. Then tell me I have your strong hand with me.”
“Yes, Arif.”
“Thank you.”
“And you will be kept to your word, as well.”
“I expect that.”
“What do you want? I will tell my brothers.”
“Spread your trucks around the hut. Surround it, keep it in your lights. Do not shoot unless I do. And when you do, destroy it. Go, Mahmoud. Masha’allah.”
Mahmoud conferred with his kinsmen. They assented and returned to their technicals, calling other men out of the ditches to drive or work the guns. Inside a minute, the pickups had circled the besieged hut, ringing it with guns, men, and lights.
Arif stood before the mud building alone, the Makarov hidden in his waistband. He strode toward the bullet-pocked wall.
Inside, men in uniform ducked, aiming weapons at him and in all directions. The soldiers were likely Americans, though Arif did not care who they were. He stopped when he’d walked close enough to speak without shouting. The empty eye of a rifle and a young face behind it stared unblinking at him.
“Nadya. Answer me.”
The desert was without birds or insects to ease the answering silence.
Chapter 30
“Shoot him,” Khalil hissed. “He’s al-Qaeda. Shoot him.”
Khalil tried to leave his corner, struggling to his knees. The pain in his shoulder tripped him.
The youngest of the pararescue team slid over to Khalil before Josh could do the same. He eased Khalil down and took away the Kalashnikov. The spy had lost plenty of blood; he seemed drained and disoriented. Khalil continued to mutter that Arif had to be shot. The PJ spoke calmingly.
“It’s okay, we got it. Let’s take a look at that wound.”
The rusty contours of the hut, the men and the downed princess, all shone bright as no
on from the lights of the encircling pickups. The open ceiling of constellations made for an unsettling, dark roof. The front wall had been battered and mown short. The mud citadel felt incomplete and vulnerable.
While the PJ tended to Khalil, the stubby sergeant they called LB scooted beside Josh.
“How’s your Arabic?”
“Good enough.”
“What’s he saying?”
“He’s asking for his wife. He wants her to answer.”
“She’s too weak.”
The husband called again. “Nadya. Can you hear me?”
Josh translated. LB chewed his lip, his attention suddenly distracted. “Just a sec.” He whirled to the young lieutenant lying beneath the windowsill. “Berko.”
“I’ll send it.”
The lieutenant pressed his radio talk button to report their situation.
“You got more assets out there, Sergeant?”
“Another mobile team two hundred yards north.”
“That’s it? Anyone else coming?”
LB rattled his head. “Not as fast as we’re gonna need them.”
“So we’re surrounded, big-time.”
“Yep.”
“We’re not getting out of here.”
“We’ll see.”
“You want my tactical opinion?”
“If you need to tell me.”
“Your other team needs to save themselves.”
“Yeah. See, that’s not what we do.”
The husband outside called again for his wife. Behind Josh, she moaned, trying to reply. LB snapped his fingers at the PJ ministering to Khalil, then hooked his thumb at the princess.
“Jamie.”
The young pararescueman, lithe and strong, sprang beside the princess. Instantly he quieted her while checking the flow of her second unit of blood. Nadya was barely able to stay conscious, and her exposed left leg looked white as a cadaver below the clamp. Though she might not keep the leg, her odds of survival seemed on the rise. Josh had fought alongside enough men to know the kind who would lay down their lives to do their jobs. These PJs were that sort. In every case, the ones who did so went down hard.
Twenty yards off, the husband called a last time for his wife. When he heard nothing from her, he gave up. He pivoted away, reaching under his tunic for a pistol. LB nudged Josh.
“Call him back.”
Josh rose to a knee, unsure what to say.
“And tell him what?”
“Just stop him from walking off. Now.”
Josh got to his feet to lean out from a window.
“Arif.”
The Saudi stopped. He didn’t turn immediately but sloped his shoulders and hung his head.
“Yes?”
Josh replied in Arabic.
“Your wife is here. She’s alive.”
The man spun. Josh stepped sideways to stand full in the opening, illuminated and exposed. Bearded Arif was a handsome man, big like Josh, weary like him.
“Let me talk with her. Have her come to the window.”
“She can’t. She’s hurt.”
The handgun at the end of Arif’s arm knocked against his thigh. Josh considered moving behind cover. He held his place and let Arif see he held a pistol, also.
Arif gazed at the ground between them. It seemed such a small distance to be so great.
“How badly?”
“She took a bullet in the hip. She lost a lot of blood but she’s stable now. These men are rescuers.”
“They are Americans?”
“Yes.”
“You?”
Josh pulled the checkered kefiyeh off his head.
“Yes. I’m a diplomat. My name is Joshua.”
“You kidnapped my wife, Joshua. You will give her back to me.”
“And in return?”
“That I cannot say. There are others around us, as you know. They have a voice in this. But I will have my wife.”
“Come inside. See her for yourself.”
“And be your hostage.”
“No. You have my word.”
Arif raised the pistol, aimed into the stars.
“I have seen America’s word tonight, Joshua. How do I know Nadya is alive?”
“I know your name.”
“How do I know she is alive right now? Ask her to tell you something only she can know.”
“All right. Wait there.”
Josh turned from the window. LB blocked his way.
“What were you talking about?”
“He wants to come inside to see his wife.”
The stocky pararescueman shook his head, skeptical.
“She’s trying to get away from this guy. I’m not sure that’s a good idea. She’s not in great shape.”
The PJs didn’t know the true mission. They’d parachuted in, put their lives on the line and, like Josh, had been kept in the dark.
Crumpled in a corner, Khalil spoke. “Tell him.”
“Tell me what?”
Josh ignored Khalil, moving to Jamie and the princess. LB grabbed his arm to turn him back.
“Tell me what, Captain?”
“If it wasn’t part of your brief, it’s not for me to tell. Need-to-know.”
Across the hut, the smallest of the PJs taped a gauze pad over his mangled ear. He grumbled. “If I hear that one more time.”
LB waved him quiet.
“We’ve all got TS17. And there’s forty guns pointed at me. I need to know. And you need to tell me.”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Compared to the rest of my evening.”
“The princess isn’t running away. She’s been kidnapped.”
LB pressed a hand to his forehead. He took a second to open and close his jaw.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You did this?”
“Khalil did. He’s with the Yemeni government. My embassy sent me along for the ride to the Saudi border. I didn’t know either. She was sedated the whole time. By the time I figured it out, it was too late to stop it.”
LB whirled on the wounded Yemeni.
“You a spook?”
Khalil fought to lift his face. He showed no shame, just the pain of his own bullet.
“Yes.”
“We’re Guardian Angels. We don’t do kidnappings. Personnel recovery, search and rescue. Period. Son of a bitch, I can’t believe we’re involved in this. No wonder the guy’s got so many guns out there.”
The rest of the team tensed at the rebuke. Khalil paid no more attention. LB glanced around the hut, adding up the new circumstances.
“You’re right. I do not like knowing this. Shit.”
“Told you.”
“All right. What do we do, just invite the guy in?”
“He’s negotiating.”
“He’s not negotiating. He’s al-Qaeda. And you stole his wife.”
“Let go of my arm, Sergeant.”
Outside, Arif waited in the spill of headlights, inside the ring of weapons he commanded. Josh kneeled beside the princess. From the stretcher, she blinked up at him while Jamie plugged her into another unit of blood. Her face, arm, and leg were all laid bare from the folds of the damp, reeking burqa. She lay quietly; her agony showed only in a throbbing squint of her eyes. Josh bent close.
“Should I cover your face?”
“No.”
“Do you want to see him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear?”
“Yes.”
“What can I tell him?”
“Sorry.”
“Is that all?”
“Wait.”
She licked her lips. Carefully, the young PJ Jamie lifted her head to pour
bottled water across her lips. The princess swallowed, gasping when she was done. Jamie eased her head down to the litter.
“Sorry I left him.”
Josh nodded. He began to rise off his knees, uncertain this would satisfy Arif. He pulled away. Feebly, Nadya reached for him and missed.
“Yes?”
“Left him.”
She coughed, an awful strain. A vein swelled in her forehead, a sign of returning blood pressure.
Before Josh could stand, she strengthened her voice.
“Left him a beggar’s breakfast.”
* * *
17 top secret clearance.
Chapter 31
Arif set his Makarov in the dirt, as he was told to. Approaching the hut, he did not raise his hands. He was not surrendering.
The diplomat came outside to usher Arif in. He’d put down his own pistol and kept himself in full view as an act of trust.
Inside the mud hut were four armed Americans in camouflage uniforms. One, small with a bandaged ear, did little more than turn his head from his rifle aimed out a window. Another, squat and burly, watched Arif with a fighter’s eyes. A large man, the one who’d kept his muzzle trained on Arif outside, stepped up beside the diplomat. In a corner, a lean and dark-faced Arab curled, silent and obviously wounded.
None of the Americans moved until the sergeant spoke to the big officer.
“Introduce yourself, lieutenant.”
This one, with a young face and an athlete’s build, stepped forward to offer a handshake.
“I’m Lieutenant Berkowitz. US Air Force. You speak English?”
Arif accepted the hand. “Yes.”
“This is Sergeant DiNardo.”
Arif shook again.
“My wife.”
The lieutenant led Arif, the sergeant, and the diplomat to the opposite wall. The Ba-Jalal’s surrounding trucks had chased every shadow from the ancient hut. Nadya lay partly naked, pale, and deathly in so much light.
The Empty Quarter Page 26