Whiplash (35 page)

Especially given that the council had decided to back the president and his treacherous acts.

They were the more serious problem. He would have to increase his influence before the president could be dealt with.

Aberhadji felt a headache coming on. It had been months since he’d had one.

He bent to pray, asking forgiveness for his sins, and requesting that the pain be lightened.

Allah was merciful. The metal prongs that had begun to tighten around his skull receded.

So he would lay low. That was the best direction now. He would dismantle everything, starting here. The tools would be moved to the mines. The material and the warhead would be relocated.

He’d need a crew here immediately. And more security as well. Even if it attracted attention.

He picked up his sat phone and started to dial, then stopped. The Americans were very good at stealing transmissions and breaking encryptions. He would have to assume, for the time being, that they would be able to listen into any conversation he had.

It meant inevitable delay, but it couldn’t be helped.

He took the radio out again.

“I am going into town,” he told the lone watchman. “We will need reinforcements. I will arrange for them to arrive as soon as possible. In the meantime, shoot anyone you find on the property.”

“It will be done, Imam.”

Eastern Sudan, near the border with Ethiopia

B
OSTON
, S
UGAR, AND
A
BUL SPENT A DIFFICULT NIGHT SLEEPING
in the bus, taking turns on watch. It wasn’t just the threat of the mercenaries’ revenge that kept them awake; their dead colleague’s body affected each to some degree. None would have admitted it to the others, but each kept his or her own distance from the body bag at the back aisle of the bus.

Abul remembered a childhood story involving a lion that preyed not on the dead, but the mourners who watched over the bodies. The story haunted him so badly that every shadow outside the bus took a lion’s shape, until he could neither look at the windows nor close his eyes, certain that they were about to be attacked. He sweated profusely as he lay across the seats, the moisture creeping like acidic slime across his body, eating away at his skin. His breathing became shallower, and quicker, until he gulped the air without absorbing the oxygen. Not even the idea of the money he would get from enduring this horror calmed him. Instead, he thought only of the many ways it could be wrested away.

Sugar had not heard any similar stories, but she felt uneasy nonetheless. She hadn’t known McGowan very well, but working with someone during an operation compressed time greatly. And it was impossible not to wonder why he had died, and not her.

For Boston, McGowan was a reminder of his responsibility to the others, and the fact that even the best commander might lose people, no matter how hard he fought or tried to protect them.

The dawn offered little solace. The battery in the UAV they’d launched during the night ran down shortly before sunup, and Boston launched a replacement. But its battery failed prema
turely less than a half hour later, and it took nearly twenty minutes to get another aircraft ready to fly. Sugar and Abul hunkered over their rifles as Boston prepared the tiny planes, his fingers turning klutzy just when he needed them calm and precise. By the time he had the plane up, the sky was bright blue and the temperature was rising quite high.

The mercenaries were not within the five-mile radius the Owl patrolled. On the Ethiopian side of the border, however, a hundred more troops had just arrived. Boston stared at the screen, mentally counting the force and trying to guess its intentions.

“Maybe they’re coming to party,” said Sugar, joining him.

When Boston didn’t laugh, she asked what he thought they were going to do.

“That many troops, without a threat—I’d say they were going to push the refugees away from the border,” said Boston. “It’ll be a massacre if they do.”

“Maybe they won’t use force,” said Sugar.

On screen, the men were jumping from their trucks, rifles in hand.

“I don’t think you can count on them not using force,” said Boston. “Those aren’t aid workers.”

Abul, his eyes burning with fatigue, came over and squinted at the screen.

“There are no UN people there?” he asked, looking around the screen.

“No,” said Boston. “Why?”

“The agency that deals with refugees. They’re not there.”

“Why’s that important?” asked Sugar.

Abul shook his head. “There are many different attitudes here. Mostly, the Ethiopians are a good people. But sometimes…it is possible that they would see the refugees as members of a different tribe.”

“They’re going to just shoot them?” asked Sugar.

“No, no. Not at first. But, if they didn’t move or, worse, if they resisted.”

Abul made a face.

“What will they do?” asked Sugar.

“Tear down their tents. Push them to disperse,” Abul said. “Get them away from the border. The camps—they consider them a breeding ground for political dissension. And they are not related to the people.”

“They push those people away, they’re just going to die,” said Sugar.

“Maybe your boss on the phone can help,” said Abul. “Washington.”

Washington hadn’t even been able to get permission to let them cross, but Boston decided it was worth a try.

“W
E’RE ANOTHER HOUR FROM TOUCHDOWN AT THE CAPITAL
,” Breanna told Boston when he called on the sat phone. The MC-17 was over Egypt, legging south toward Addis Ababa. “The ambassador is going to meet me at the airport, and we’re going to go over to the prime minister’s residence and have him work out something. The bureaucracy has just been throwing up roadblocks.”

“There’s another problem.”

Boston explained the situation. Breanna punched up a detailed map of the area, then opened a window to connect with the Air Force’s frontline intelligence network. Ethiopia was not an area of prime concern, and all of the bulletins were generic, warning of tensions along the border with Sudan, but containing no current information about troop movements or the like. The number of soldiers involved were simply too small and the area too isolated to generate an alarm.

“Boston, what’s your situation now?” said Breanna.

“We’re about half a mile from the refugees, up on the side of a small hill. We can see what’s going on down there,” he added. “There ain’t much.”

“How many civilians?”

“A hundred, around there.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

Breanna used the aircraft’s satellite communications system to call the embassy in Addis Ababa. By now she was
on first-name basis not only with the operator, but with the ambassador’s personal assistant, Adam Clapsuch, who took most of his calls.

“Adam, it’s Breanna again. Any word from the Ethiopian government?”

“No, ma’am. Ambassador’s right here.”

He handed over the phone.

“This is John, Breanna. I’m sorry. I have nothing new. They’re stalling for some reason that’s unclear.”

“A few hundred more troops just arrived at the border near where our people are,” said Breanna. “There’s a small refugee group there. The troops may be thinking about attacking the refugees.”

“Which side of the border are they on?”

“The Sudan side. But they want to get over.”

“The Ethiopians have had a lot of trouble with refugees. It wouldn’t surprise if they wanted them to disperse. But I don’t think they would attack.”

“Is there some sort of protest, or anything we can do to stop them from hurting these people?”

“If they’re not willing to speak to us about moving our own people across, Breanna, I’m not sure what we can do.”

“Has Washington spoken to their ambassador?”

“He’s been called to the State Department for an urgent message this morning. That’s all I know.”

With Washington several hours behind Africa, the meeting would be several hours away. Even if it went well, the civilians—and the Whiplash team members—might be overrun by then.

“I’ll keep trying the president. And I’ll talk to Washington immediately,” said the ambassador. “I’ll update them with this. In the meantime, if I hear anything, obviously, I’ll let you know. Otherwise I’ll see you when you land.”

“All right,” said Breanna, though she had already decided she wasn’t waiting for the Ethiopians anymore. As soon as she ended the communication, she punched the information display to double-check the map.

“Pete, we’re going to land at Dire Dawa,” she told the pilot, Captain Dominick. “It has an 8,800-foot runway. Can you get us in and out?”

“Not a problem. We can land and take off on three.”

“Good. We’ll have to declare some sort of emergency going in.”

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Engine out or something like that. OK?”

“As long as I don’t really have to screw up my engines, that’s fine.” The pilot laughed. The long flight had twisted his sense of humor.

Breanna pulled off her headset and got out of her seat. Greasy Hands was snoring behind the pilot, his head folded down to his chest.

“Greasy Hands, wake up,” said Breanna, shaking him. “Wake up.”

“Huh? We’re here?”

“We have a ways to go. About an hour.”

“Oh, OK.”

“Do you think you and the loadmaster could get the Ospreys out of the cargo bay?”

Greasy Hands rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes, then shot a glance across the aisle at the seat where the loadmaster was sleeping.

“Probably,” he said. “I mean, sure. Of course. Why?”

“How long will it take to get them ready to fly?”

“Jeez, I don’t know, Bree. They should be ready to go right out of the box.”

“What if they’re not?”

“I don’t know. Depends.” Greasy Hands pulled himself upright in his seat, trying to think. “It’s all automated. I mean—with this system, it’s going to work or it’s not. Nothing in between.”

“They have to be fueled?”

“If you want to go anywhere.”

The aircraft carried a minimal amount of fuel in their tanks, but not enough for a mission.

“How long will that take?” Breanna asked. “An hour?”

“Depends. Could be a lot longer. Might be less. Though that I wouldn’t count on,” he added. Greasy Hands unbuckled his seat belt. “I’ll go down there and take a look at ’em. Let me know what I’m up against.”

CIA headquarters

J
ONATHON
R
EID HAD JUST BEGUN TO PORE OVER THE LATEST
situation report out of Sudan when Breanna’s call came through. He immediately punched it into his handset, resting his chin in his hand.

“Reid.”

“Jonathon, the Ethiopians are being unresponsive. They’ve sent troops to the border—we think they’re planning on pushing the refugees there back. Or maybe just killing them. Our people are right nearby.”

“We’re just getting information from the embassy to the same effect,” said Reid.

He’d also seen an opinion from one of the analysts within the past fifteen minutes speculating that the Ethiopians, under pressure from the Egyptians, would not only refuse to open their borders to refugees, but would seek to actively dissuade anyone from crossing over into the country. They needed little encouragement: Sudanese refugee camps were a notorious breeding ground for terrorists and other “disruptive influences,” as the report put it.

“I’m going to land in Dire Dawa and get our people out,” said Breanna. “We can’t wait for the Ethiopians.”

“I think you’re taking—” Reid stopped short. “I don’t want you risking your own life, Breanna. It’s not your job.”

“Jonathon, I’m here. I have the tools. I’m going to get it done.”

Reid had made similar decisions himself, many times. He knew from experience that the lines looked very clear and bright when your people were in danger and you were nearby.

From the distance, though, they were hazy and complicated. She was suggesting interfering in another country’s affairs, a country with whom they had decent relations, because of a corpse.

And a few hundred refugees. Some of whom might or might not be terrorists, and none of whom were likely to be grateful.

“We’re going to have to tell the White House what’s going on,” said Reid.

“Go ahead.”

“State may object. Among others.”

“I’m not leaving our people.”

“I wouldn’t, either.”

A
S SOON AS
R
EID HUNG UP, HE CHECKED
B
REANNA’S
position on the map. She was forty-five minutes from Dire Dawa. If he waited until dawn to call the White House, the operation would be over before anyone objected.

That was the coward’s way.

Let them object. If they gave an order directing her not to proceed, he would simply neglect to call her back. He’d take full responsibility—as soon as the operation was over.

He picked up the phone and called the White House operator.

White House

C
HRISTINE
M
ARY
T
ODD HAD BEEN A NIGHT OWL FOR MUCH
of her adult life. In college, she used the early morning hours to hit the books; when her children were born, she found rising for their nightly feedings somewhat less onerous. As a governor, she’d loved to use the early morning hours to catch up on her reading—not of the newspapers and political blogs, but old-fashioned cozy mysteries, which she was famously addicted to.

But in those days, she’d always been able to grab a nap during the day. Now naps were out of the question.

Still, she stayed up late. Sometimes she had work to do, and other times she simply couldn’t sleep. Her mind refused to shut off. She would lie in bed next to her husband for an hour and sometimes more, occasionally falling asleep, but more often getting up and going down the hall to the room she’d converted into her private study. Her staff knew her habits, and when there was an important call, would try her there before deciding whether to try the bedroom.

Tonight she answered the phone on the first ring.

“This is the President.”

“Mrs. President, I’m sorry to wake you,” said Jonathon Reid. “I expected I would be connected to one of your staff people.”

“You didn’t wake me, Mr. Reid. Please explain why you called.”

“There is a situation in Ethiopia…”

The President listened as he laid it out.

“I will call the Ethiopian prime minister myself,” said Todd before he finished. “That should solve the problem, don’t you agree?”

“Absolutely.”

“Very well. Let’s see what we can do. Please stay on the line in case they need some background. I trust you can speak to them without giving away any critical secrets.”