The Panther

PART V


Death Highway,

Yemen





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE


At 7 A.M., everyone who was going to Aden had assembled with weapons and baggage in the small parking lot at the side of the chancery building.

It was a nice morning, dry and cool, with a clear sky for the Predator drones.

Standing around the five black Land Cruisers were about fifteen people, all men, except for Kate and a woman in tan cargo pants and a white T-shirt. She was, according to Buck, our doctor, and her name was Clare Nolan. She looked very young, and I asked Buck, “Is she old enough to use alcohol swabs?”

“She’s very competent,” Buck assured me. “She worked in an inner-city hospital trauma unit for six months. Gunshot wounds and all that.”

“Can she treat a hangover?”

“You look fine, my boy.” His satellite phone rang and he excused himself and went off to speak to someone in private.

I was actually feeling not too bad, considering I’d had a few glasses of wine with dinner, after the martinis and before the bottle of vodka.

Kate also looked good, but that may have been the makeup. I hoped she remembered that she’d saved the last dance for me.

On that subject, Mrs. Corey and Mr. Brenner seemed to have little to say to each other this morning. Ah, yes. Been there myself.

Anyway, Kate and I had chosen desert boots and jeans for Death Highway and she wore a black pullover, under which was her Kevlar vest. Over my vest I wore a khaki shirt that I’d worn last time I was in Yemen—my good-luck shirt. And since we were going through Indian Territory, we had our .45s unconcealed, strapped on our hips.

The uniform of the day for the DSS guys was cargo pants and sleeveless bush jackets over black T-shirts, and that’s what Mr. Brenner was wearing along with his heart on his sleeve.

Howard Fensterman had decided to show up, and he looked ready for adventure in his bush shirt with his Glock slung low at his side. All FBI Special Agents are trained and qualified on a variety of weapons, but some are more qualified than others. Still, I’d been surprised before by who was a good gunslinger. It’s all in the head.

Howard also carried the most lethal of lawyers’ weapons: his briefcase. In the briefcase, he informed Kate and me, was all the paperwork we needed to make a lawful arrest of one Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a.k.a. al-Numair, a.k.a. The Panther.

Mr. Fensterman also informed us, “I have copies of everything for both of you and for Buck.”

I was tired of giving Howard a hard time so I said, “Thank you.”

“I also have copies of the suspect’s fingerprints, and three color snapshots of him taken in the U.S. about twelve years ago, plus his last driver’s license and U.S. passport photo.”

“Good.” If you look like your passport photo, you’re already dead.

Anyway, I thought we’d get all this in Aden, but it was good to have it now in case we ran into the suspect on the road.

Mr. Fensterman continued, “He’s clean-shaven in these photos, but we know from various sources that he’s grown a beard.”

That’s what Rahim said at Ghumdan.

Howard further informed us, “He’s also wanted by a number of foreign governments for attacks against their citizens.”

“Right. The Saudis want him for killing some of their border guards.”

“Correct. And the Belgians for a possible kidnapping and suspected murder.”

I’d just heard about this from Colonel Kent, but I hadn’t mentioned it to Kate, who asked, “What was that about?”

Howard replied, “Back last August, nine Belgian tourists disappeared at the ruins near Marib.”

Kate said, “I remember reading something about that in the Times.”

She may have read it in the Post, but she always cites the Times. I do the opposite.

Howard continued, “It looked like a tribal kidnapping, but there was no ransom demand, and there was blood found at the ruins.” He added, “The Yemeni tour guide and bus driver were found… dead.” He added, “Throats slit.”

Didn’t sound good for those tourists. I asked, “Why does the Belgian government think it was The Panther?”

Howard replied, “The Belgians arrested an Al Qaeda suspect in Brussels on an unrelated charge, and apparently this information came out during the interrogation.”

Right. That’s how we get half our information; bad guys know lots of bad things.

Howard said to us, “So, aside from the Yemenis, other governments, including the Saudis, will want to be notified if we make an arrest, and they may ask for extradition. So we need to make a strong case for our Cole-related charge.”

“Right.” The Saudis could be a problem if we did snatch The Panther and had to beat feet with him across the Saudi border. Therefore, we were probably not taking The Panther to Saudi Arabia, and certainly not handing him over to the Yemenis. It occurred to me that there was more going on here than I knew. I’m shocked.

Bottom line here: A bullet in the brain settles all extradition requests, jurisdictional disputes, and silly lawsuits.

Howard also informed us, “I’m going to stay on with you in Aden.”

Shit. But I said, “Great.” I felt obligated, however, to advise him, “We have intel that the Sheraton in Aden might be the subject of an Al Qaeda attack.”

“Really?”

“With luck, this will happen before we get there and the cocktail lounge won’t be damaged.”

Kate suggested to Howard, “You might want to return to Sana’a today.”

Howard thought about that—Death Highway back to Sana’a this afternoon, or Ground Zero in Aden tonight? Personally, I’d head inside for a muffin. But Howard said, “No, I’ll stay in Aden until a convoy heads north again.” He added, “I want to be close to this.”

“Your call.”

Zamo came over and asked us to join him at his Land Cruiser for a quick course on the M4 carbine.

He handed each of us a weapon and said, “This is the Model A1, a shorter and lighter version of the standard military M-16 assault rifle, which I’m sure you’re all familiar with.”

I hefted the carbine in my hands. It felt good. It felt bad.

Zamo, warming to his favorite subject, said, “It has a telescoping stock, and this model fires fully automatic.” He continued, “It takes the standard 5.56mm cartridge, and has a thirty-round magazine. The cyclic rate of fire is seven hundred to nine hundred and fifty rounds a minute.”

Kate asked, “Effective range?”

“You’ll get good accuracy at three hundred yards.” He further explained, “The short barrel reduces the effective range, but we have day and night scopes that I’ll give you.”

I inquired, “Do you have your sniper rifle with you?”

“Does the Pope leave home without his cross?” Zamo continued, “This gun is built for close-in defense and medium-range offensive use. So if we get into a situation where the bad guys are firing from a distance with AK-47s, then you have to compensate by laying down full automatic suppressing fire to keep their heads down.” He assured us, “What the M4 lacks in long-range capability, it more than makes up for in its high cyclic rate of fire.”

Howard asked a good question. “Any jamming problems when it gets hot?”

Zamo replied, “Theoretically yes, but no one has reported a combat jam.”

Maybe because they were dead.

Zamo continued, “The small size makes it easy to transport and conceal. Easy to carry it in and out of tight and confined spaces like vehicles or caves.”

Caves?

Zamo looked at Kate and said to her, “Its size, weight, and low recoil makes it popular with the ladies.”

I asked Zamo, “Will it chip her nails?”

Zamo laughed and Kate said, “F*ck you.” Which made Zamo laugh even more. This was fun.

So Zamo went on a bit about the M4, using more words than I’d heard him use all day yesterday.

All in all, the M4 seemed like an excellent weapon. I hoped I never had to use it, but if I did, I knew I’d have a blast.

On that subject, Zamo said, “I’m sorry we never got a chance to test fire, but we’ll go out in the Badlands tomorrow and give it a rip.” He added, “We might even find live targets.”

I reminded him, “We might find those on the road this morning.”

“Right.” Zamo asked, “Any questions?”

Howard asked, “Which thing is the trigger?”

Funny.

Okay, so deadly force course completed, Kate and I and Howard slung our M4s over our shoulders, and Zamo gave us each a black satchel stuffed with loaded magazines and telescopic sights. He said to us, “Good luck and good hunting.”

Mr. Brenner, the caravan master, had gathered the DSS drivers, and he was now speaking to them, reading from a sheet of paper that outlined the route and the order of march. I wondered if by chance Mr. Brenner and Mrs. Corey were riding in the same vehicle. Would he do something so stupidly obvious? Why not? I would.

Ed Peters had come out of the chancery building, though I didn’t think he was going to Aden with us. Maybe he was here to bless the caravan.

Kate and I were standing with Buck now, and Peters came over to us and said to Buck, “I’ve got only two fully armored vehicles left, and I have to pick up the new ambassador next week, so don’t get ambushed.”

Buck assured him, “You can get five new vehicles on a C-17.”

Peters replied, “That can take over a week.” He said to me, “I hate these trips to Aden.”

“You’re not going,” I reminded him.

“My vehicles are.”

“Sorry. Is there a bus I can take?”

Clearly Mr. Peters was worried about his vehicles. And, of course, his DSS agents. As for his passengers, they were the cause of his worries. A larger issue was the lack of American helicopters in this dangerous and inaccessible country. Without them, we had to drive through Indian Territory, and basically we were no more mobile than Al Qaeda in their Toyotas.

On the plus side, we had Predator drone surveillance—and maybe Hellfire missiles—but I didn’t know if Peters knew that, or if he knew we were taking his men and vehicles on the road to see if we could get into a fight with Al Qaeda.

Mr. Peters thought he might be causing the newbies some anxiety, so he said to me and Kate, “We’ve never gotten hit on the Sana’a–Aden road.”

Buck, too, assured us, “The most dangerous thing about the trip is the Yemeni truck drivers.”

Kate asked Buck and Peters, “Aren’t the National Security police supposed to provide road security?”

Peters replied, “Sometimes the police themselves are the problem.”

Right. In Yemen, even the good guys are bad. This place sucked. Did I already say that?

Bottom line here was three possible outcomes of this trip: a nice drive in the country, a successful encounter with the enemy, or headlines in tomorrow’s newspapers. American Convoy Wiped Out in Yemen; Thirteen Dead.

Public reaction would be total bewilderment—Where’s Yemen?

Good question.