Whiplash (11 page)

Hera pushed her feet against the seat back, trying to keep her muscles from going into spasm.

“Hey Chief—when we are we moving?” she asked.

“Soon as Colonel Freah says we’re good to go.”

“When’s that going to be?”

“It’ll be when it is,” said Boston.

“That’s a line of Plato, isn’t it?” said McGowan.

“Who’s Plato?” asked Boston.

“Plato’s that guy in the Popeye cartoons who ate all the hamburgers,” said Flash.

“No, you’re thinking of Pluto.”

“I know who Plato is, asshole,” snapped Boston, but no one heard him—they were too busy trying to remember the cast of the ancient cartoons.

B
ECAUSE THEY’D HAD TO SCRAMBLE TO PULL THE OPERATION
together, Flash, McGowan, Hera, and Sugar had joined Whiplash as provisional members. There was no question
that they were qualified; all had proven themselves in covert operations in the past.

But impressive résumés didn’t make a good team great. Boston knew all too well that the opposite could be true. The success or failure of a group depended very much on the chemistry between them, whether they were trying for a pennant in baseball or sneaking behind enemy lines in battle. Even if he had personally vetted everyone in the group, he still wouldn’t have been sure how they would all work together in the field.

What he’d seen so far didn’t encourage him. They’d pitched in to help secure the gear well enough. But he could tell they were still checking each other out, deciding whether they wanted to trust each other.

“B
RUTUS WAS THE GUY
P
OPEYE BEAT UP,” SAID
B
OSTON
, in a tone that suggested the conversation should end. “Wally was the hamburger guy.”

“You’re wrong,” said Flash. “It was Bluto.”

“It’s amazing how grown men can argue about cartoons,” said Hera.

“We aren’t arguing. We’re discussing,” said McGowan.

“This is about as intellectual a discussion as those jawbonis can have,” said Sugar.

“Who are you calling a jawboni?” said McGowan. “I’m Scots—I don’t do jawboni.”

“All right,” said Boston. Sensing the animosity level starting to rise behind the joking, he decided it was time to act less like a chief and more like a kindergarten teacher. “Who wants ice cream?”

D
ANNY WORKED OUT A PLAN IN HIS HEAD TO AMBUSH THE
men in the Jeep if they went into the camp. But it wasn’t necessary. The Jeeps continued up the road without turning off, moving through the hills.

They brought the bus into camp twenty minutes later and began unpacking. The gear seemed to have gained about a
thousand pounds in the five miles from the drop. The process dragged as they sorted, stored, and installed. Even Danny grew tired. He kept himself going the last hour or so thinking about Reid’s ice cream.

With everything finally squared away a half hour before sunrise, he divided up the watch, then headed to the house and its makeshift kitchen for a prebedtime snack.

Only to find the ice cream gone.

“You always said the troops were the first priority,” Boston said when Danny asked for an explanation.

“From now on, they’re the first priority on everything
but
ice cream.”

Sudan desert

T
HE
J
EEPS THAT
D
ANNY HAD SEEN DID NOT BELONG TO ONE
of the rebel factions. They were actually carrying Bani Aberhadji south to a small village about forty-five miles southeast of the base camp.

The Iranian Guard official was visiting the village, located in the shadow of the hills, as part of his inspection tour. The village was under the control of a Sudan rebel and former regular army officer known as Colonel Zsar. Zsar was a comparatively modest man—he’d been a captain when he deserted the army, and a promotion of only two ranks showed considerable restraint. He couldn’t be called humble—a humble man would not have survived here—but he was a devout Shiite Muslim, a minority, if not quite a rarity, in this part of Africa.

Colonel Zsar’s force of fighters totaled over five hundred, and when his loose allies farther east were counted, over
a thousand. Just as importantly, he was well-armed, with several pickup trucks and even a pair of armored cars supplementing a small-arms arsenal rich in automatic rifles, grenade launchers, and heavy machine guns. Colonel Zsar had a half-dozen light artillery pieces and several heavy mortars. Rumors of these weapons were widespread and one reason the Sudanese army had never attempted even a token appearance in his area of control.

There were several reasons for Colonel Zsar’s success. Though not a charismatic leader, he was able to influence followers with a calm and reassuring personal style. Though confident in battle, he did not overreach, choosing battles carefully and, like most of the successful rebels, he avoided major confrontations with regular army soldiers on anything less than overwhelmingly favorable terms.

He also had a strong defensive base to work from, protected by the hills and close to the border. Not only was he far enough from the main centers of government control to make it difficult for them to launch a large attack, he was isolated from most of the other rebels as well.

Like other successful rebels, Colonel Zsar had a steady source of income to pay for his army. But his was unique—the village he controlled was a modest manufacturing center, turning out small wooden and clay bowls, miscellaneous pottery, and wooden shovels. Zsar charged the owners a small tax in exchange for keeping order. Lately he had taken over one of the pottery factories himself, and added two others, both related to agriculture. One skinned cows and occasionally other animals, selling the meat and tanning the hides for use elsewhere. The other processed milk—collecting it and pasteurizing it. By Western standards, the operations were small and primitive. But here they were major sources of employment and veritable economic powerhouses.

It was the economic base that had brought Colonel Zsar to Bani Aberhadji’s notice some two years before. And when his emissary in Sudan, Arash Tarid, reported that Zsar was a fellow Shiite, Aberhadji knew he had found the perfect situation.

Tarid was at the wheel of the lead Jeep, driving Bani Aberhadji to the village below Colonel Zsar’s fortress headquarters. Colonel Zsar’s foray into entrepreneurship had been made possible by Aberhadji’s generosity, and he was coming specifically to visit his milk factory.

The colonel had not been notified of the visit. Undoubtedly he would see the Jeeps, realize they belonged to Tarid, and rush to meet them. Aberhadji did wish to see him—the personal touch was important, after all—but first he wanted to see the plant.

“There are no guards?” said the Iranian as they came near the village. It was well-off for Africa, but the ragtag collection of shacklike houses, old huts, and battered trailers and prefabs would have been considered a poor slum in Iran.

“No, they’ve seen us and recognized the Jeeps,” said Tarid. “If they didn’t, they would have fired at us by now.”

“You’re sure of this.”

“Yes.”

Tarid was not himself comfortable with the level of security, but it was typical among the rebels, even extensive. The lookouts might not even have been awake. But even the most alert would know that two Western-style vehicles did not pose an immediate threat, and intercepting them was far more likely to cause problems than merely watching.

“We have to go through the cow yard,” Tarid added. He’d been born and raised in Tehran and had little tolerance for the beasts. “Your boots will be dirty.”

“A minor inconvenience.”

“Yes, Imam.”

Tarid sped up as they neared the village. Here the security was much better, and the lookouts far less likely to be sleeping. Hidden in the rocks above were two watchmen armed with the latest rocket-propelled grenades available from China. Tarid had not only supplied the rockets, but had figured out where they should be placed to provide maximum coverage. They were the first line of defense for the village, meant to give the
machine guns nearby ample targets to fire at. Aware of how easy a target he was, he had no desire to linger.

Tarid was roughly the same age as Aberhadji, but anyone looking at the two men would think him a full generation older. Like Aberhadji, he had fought as a teenager in the Iran-Iraq War in the 1980s. But he had been in many more battles, fighting from the very beginning of the conflict to its inconclusive yet bitter end. So many of his friends had died by his side that he often asked Allah, blessed be His name, why he had been spared. Even now he was not sure whether he had been chosen or simply overlooked.

Past the initial lookout points, Tarid hit the brakes and turned into the yard in front of the milk factory, driving past the small sheds toward the barn and processing building at the rear. The two biggest problems for industry anywhere in Africa were power and clean water. Water for the factory, and the rest of the village, came from an underground aquifer at the base of the hills. It was plentiful year-round, and unlike the streams, disease-free.

The village’s electricity was not as dependable. It came from two sources: the regional grid, which had power lines running through the area, and a series of diesel engines, scavenged from train locomotives, adapted and used as generators. These were located at the southeastern end of town, near the highway in a fenced lot protected around the clock by Colonel Zsar’s best troops. But those sources were not enough for the milk factory; it used two large generators of its own to supplement power. A three-month backup supply of diesel oil from Kenya, paid for by Bani Aberhadji, was stored in a lot behind the farm yard.

A guard peered out from the barn door as the Jeeps drove into the yard.

“Why is he hiding?” said Aberhadji. His voice was soft but his tone reproachful.

“It would be unusual to have a guard watching over the plant,” said Tarid. “He is trying to be discreet.”

“If that is his goal, he has achieved the opposite. Better to show himself. This makes it look as if he has something to hide.”

Tarid avoided arguing with Aberhadji, saying instead that they would have to go through a door at the rear of the building.

“No one challenges us?” Aberhadji asked as they got out of the vehicle.

“The men above and the man here recognize the Jeeps,” Tarid repeated. “There are not many vehicles like them in this part of Sudan. They know who I am. To challenge their benefactor would be a great insult.”

“They should challenge us,” insisted Aberhadji. “For form’s sake if nothing else.”

Tarid led him around the back of the building. It was difficult for foreigners, especially those who knew the country’s history of war, to understand the mores here. Tarid had practically had to install locks on the doors himself. The burglar alarm and closed-circuit video were real novelties.

He put his key in the door, though he knew from experience there was only a fifty percent chance the door was actually locked. Inside, he led Aberhadji down a long corridor toward what looked like a storage area. He paused in front of the restroom, then entered. The light flicked on automatically, powered by a sensor.

At the far end of the bathroom, he opened a closet, revealing an inner door. Tarid pushed it open and stepped inside a narrow hallway that sloped gently downward for about twenty feet. A guard stood at the end of the hall, an AK-47 in his hands.

Tarid nodded at the man, whom he recognized from previous visits. The man stepped back, allowing the two Iranians to pass through a thick metal door anchored in the stone of the hill above.

“Careful of the steps,” said Tarid. “The way is not well lit.”

The stairs, cut from the rock, ended at a steel mesh walkway, which extended through a natural cave for a good ten
yards. Another guard stood on the metal deck near the end of the walk. He, too, was armed with an AK-47, and he too made way for the Iranians.

Beyond the guard was a Sheetrock wall framed with steel studs. The wall was little more than a year old, but already the dampness had eaten into the plaster and lines of mold were starting to appear, black streaks and freckles that popped through the whitewashed surface.

A doorway opened into the room at the right. To gain entrance, Tarid had to ring a bell at the side. A buzzer sounded, and the lock flew back. He pulled the door open, holding it so Aberhadji could enter.

Six men were working at the far side of the room. They were clad in white lab coats. One wore a lead apron and thick rubber gloves. He was using a large set of prongs to remove a small jar from what looked like an oversized metal oven.

The oven was part of a centrifuge assembly. Aberhadji had arrived at an opportune time—the plant had just received a piece of yellowcake uranium and begun processing it. Ordinarily the facility would be empty at this time of day.

“We should not get much closer,” said Tarid, holding Aberhadji back. “The material is highly toxic. If there is an accident, breathing it would be dangerous.”

In its present state, the refined uranium was not nearly as dangerous as Tarid believed. Nor was it quite pure enough for its ultimate purpose. That would be completed at the next stage of its processing, in a factory in lower Kenya also funded and controlled by Aberhadji. But Aberhadji had no need to go any farther. He had seen all that he wanted to see.

“They work as soon as a shipment comes,” said Tarid. “The work is done in a few days now. Then they relax, until the next one.”

Aberhadji nodded. He was extremely pleased.

“Let us say hello to Colonel Zsar,” he told Tarid. “Then we must go. I have much to do.”

Base Camp Alpha
Sudan

T
HE FIRST ORDER OF BUSINESS FOR
D
ANNY AND THE OTHERS
at the fake dinosaur dig was to prepare in case Red Henri or the Sudanese army decided to pay another visit. To do that, defense and intelligence had to be strengthened.

The first was accomplished by mounting several automated weapons around the perimeter. Bullet panels and mines were deployed along the road and hooked to a central control station at the house, a small laptop computer. The bullet panels, first developed by the Dreamland weapons team a decade before, were literally that—panels with projectiles that could be individually fired, or launched en masse at an enemy. As originally conceived, the weapon was nonlethal, intended for crowd control. These panels, however, fired the equivalent of magnum rounds, each capable of stopping a 300 pound man and piercing all but the newest body armor. Boston described them to Sugar as “claymores on steroids.”

The mines were meant to make it harder for anyone to launch a flank attack. They were fused to miniature motion detectors, which could be focused by command on specific areas, providing wide or narrow field protection. They could be detonated by radio as well, and included a fail-safe protection circuit “tuned” to the rings the Whiplash members wore. This prevented a Whiplash team member from setting off the mines accidentally—though no one wanted to personally test the circuitry. The mines could also be turned off and on from the central command station.

The rest of the team’s firepower was more traditional. They had a half-dozen AK-47s, common weapons in the area, and indeed the world, despite their age. But they also had two heavy machine guns: XM-312s, which fired .50 caliber rounds. The 312s had recently replaced the M2, a machine gun that had
seen service in the U.S. Army longer than any of its operators had been alive. Among the newer weapon’s advantages was its weight; at forty-two pounds it was about a third as heavy as a “Ma Two,” far easier for a single man to lug.

Each member of the team was also equipped with SCAR-H/ MK 17 assault rifles, originally developed by the U.S. Special Operations Command. There were two versions of the SCAR, one “light,” one “heavy.” The MK-17 was the heavy version, firing a 7.62mm round rather than a 5.56. Most of the team members, like many soldiers in the field, preferred the stopping power of the heavier round, though that limited the guns to magazines that contained twenty rounds, ten less than the lighter caliber. The difference didn’t sound like much, until the middle of a firefight.

The Global Hawk that had been detailed to the team the night before had gone on to other assignments. In its place, Danny launched a pair of small hydrogen blimps outfitted with LED technology that made them almost invisible to the naked eye. These were the direct descendants of much larger stationary radar ships developed at Dreamland. They had to be tethered to the ground and could not be maneuvered, but together they provided a view that extended roughly fifty miles around the post.

As a side benefit, the blimps also lofted radio antennas connected to radio scanners, identifying transmissions in the area. The frequencies were then transmitted to a National Security Agency network, making it easier for the cyber spies to sift through the literally billions of satellite transmissions it monitored and identify the rebels’ for decrypting. While the NSA had started a program to pick off transmissions in the region a week before, the rebels were sophisticated enough to change satcoms, frequencies, and encryption methods often enough to make tagging them a laborious process. The scanners didn’t make it instantaneous or foolproof, but the difference was significant.

Short-term reconnaissance of areas far from the camp could be provided by “Owl” UAVs. These aircraft, with a
wingspan the size of Boston’s thick hand, had low-noise engines powered by a bank of batteries and solar electric panels on the top wing. They had two drawbacks: their bodies were black, making them nearly invisible at night, but not during the day, and a relatively limited flight time; in general they could be depended on to stay aloft for roughly four hours. The actual time depended on the wind and other conditions, and in practice most tended to last twice as long, especially when the sun could help provide the charge.

T
HERE WERE THREE REBEL CAMPS IN THE REGION THAT HAD
had dealings with Jasmine. Nuri had scouted them all but not yet bugged them. With the defenses shaping up, it was time to start. He chose as his first target the village controlled by a rebel named Tura Dpap, sixty-two miles southwest of Base Camp Alpha. He saw it as a relatively straightforward job.

Danny wasn’t so sure. The village straddled a highway, the only road in or out. Both the northern and southern sides were watched by men in sandbagged positions who stopped any vehicle coming or going, demanding a small “tribute” or tax. They were heavily armed. The satellite photo showed two RPG launchers in the northern post, and it was reasonable to guess that the southern post would have the same.

“There’s no way we can get enough firepower down past these guys if there’s a problem,” said Danny as they reviewed the photos on the table in the “kitchen” and command center they’d established in the roofless building. “That open plain on the north and the hills to the south make it impossible to flank them.”

“It’s not a military operation, Colonel,” said Nuri. He chafed at Danny’s objections even more than his mind-set. He’d been on his own long enough now that explaining what he was going to do felt like rolling a heavy rock up a hill. “This isn’t an attack. It’s the opposite. We’re trying to find someone and follow him. If we have to fight, we’ve already failed.”

“I appreciate that. I’m just worried about you getting in trouble. Like the other night.”

“That worked out fine, didn’t it? That’s the way it goes sometimes. You gotta take risks. That’s the game.”

Nuri got up to refill his coffee cup from the pot on the camp stove at the side. The coffee was bitter and burnt.

“Someone should go in with you to help cover your back,” said Danny.

Nuri didn’t think that was necessary, but it wasn’t worth arguing about. “I’ll take Hera,” he said. He didn’t know her well at all, but she was fellow CIA, could speak Arabic, and most important, was good-looking. “We’ll go looking for supplies. It should only take us a few hours.”

“Fine,” said Danny.

“Don’t forget we’re supposed to be setting up a dig here,” said Nuri. “That has to be laid out as soon as possible.”

“I didn’t forget.” Danny didn’t like the edge in Nuri’s voice, but he let it pass.

N
URI DECIDED IT WAS WISER TO TAKE THE BUS INTO THE
village, since it would be more in keeping with the cover story of scientists bumbling their way through unfamiliar territory. This was just fine with Abul, who was chafing at the way Danny and the others were treating him. Even though Nuri had vouched for him, Danny insisted on keeping Abul away from the high-tech gear. With the monitoring station set up in the house, it meant he couldn’t go inside to eat.

Hera dressed in a pair of very baggy pants and a pair of man-style shirts, along with hiking boots and a black cap whose peak hid much of her face. Her intent was to appear drab and boring, but Nuri thought she looked like the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

The only problem with her outfit was her unusual accessory—a SCAR rifle. Nuri had his hideaway strapped to his calf, hidden by his long pants. It was the only weapon he planned on bringing.

Hera had other plans.

“You can’t bring the rifle,” he told her as she slung the SCAR over her shoulder.

“Why not?”

“Because they may inspect the bus. How many paleontologists go around with military rifles?”

“At least one,” said Hera. “Me.”

“You can bring an AK.”

“That’s an old piece of garbage.”

“It works.”

“Excuse me,” said Abul, “but if you want my opinion—”

“We don’t,” snapped Hera.

“I do,” said Nuri.

“It’s more dangerous to be armed,” said the bus driver. “The movement has been pretty benign toward westerners.”

“Benign?” said Hera. “Like Red Henri?”

“I’ve carried the rifle with me on the bike the whole week,” said Nuri.

“I would wager that it has attracted much attention. When people see it, they immediately are on their guard.”

“We can’t go without protection,” said Hera. “That’d be nuts.”

“You can hide the guns inside the seats,” suggested Flash, who was nearby, listening to the conversation. “Cut holes in them.”

“You cannot cut into my seats,” protested Abul.

Nuri thought this was just a bargaining position, but the bus driver/owner turned out to be almost fanatically dedicated to preserving the interior of his bus; the most he would allow were slits in the underside big enough to hide ammunition. Looking over the interior, Nuri realized he could hide two SCAR rifles in the space beneath the dashboard, as long as the guts of the blower were removed. This meant doing without the air-conditioning, which hadn’t worked all that well to begin with.

“This is a driving inferno,” complained Hera as they drove south. “A slow one, too.”

Nuri shrugged. He was beginning to regret choosing her to come along.

“The breeze is very pleasant,” said Abul. “Imagine if we were in the desert instead of the hills.”

“There’s plenty of desert around.”

“No, no, no. This isn’t desert. This is the very nice part of the Sudan.”

“It’s lovely.”

“There is much water the further south we go. Swamps.”

“Just like New Jersey.”

She meant it as an insult, but since Abul had never been to New Jersey—and in fact didn’t know where it was—he took it as a compliment.

The rebel soldiers who guarded the village approach during the day flagged down the bus with the professional boredom of conductors taking tickets on a morning commuter train. One came aboard, glanced at Nuri and Hera, then told Abul that the tax was ten dollars American to pass.

“Ten dollars?” said Nuri in Arabic. “Why so much?”

The soldier glanced at him, reassessing his appearance. He was dressed like a European. More than likely he was one, but if he wasn’t, he should be taxed like one for trying to ape them.

And the woman was also foreign.

“Ten,” the soldier told Abul.

“Ten dollars is five times what most vehicles pay,” insisted Nuri.

At fifteen years old, the soldier had been with the rebels for nearly eight years. This made him a veteran and, by seniority, an NCO. He did not like to be questioned.

Abul, starting to get nervous, asked diplomatically if the tax had recently been raised.

“That is always what it is,” said the soldier.

“It was less a week ago,” said Nuri. “You think we are rich, so you can charge what you want.”

“You are to pay or turn around,” the soldier told Abul.

“Tell him if we pay ten dollars, we expect that to cover our return trip,” Nuri told Abul in English.

Doubtful that the deal would be accepted, Abul nonetheless made the offer. The soldier surprised him, saying that was acceptable.

“I doubt they’ll keep the deal,” said Abul.

“They’ll keep it,” said Nuri.

He pulled the bill from his pocket, held it up, then tore it in half.

“You will get the other half when we come back,” he said, passing the bill to Abul.

Abul took it and held it out toward the soldier the way a man might hold a steak out to a tiger. The soldier’s eyes flashed with anger, but then he smiled.

“You are very clever,” he told Nuri. “Very clever.”

“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.