The Panther

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT


Brenner was maintaining a good speed, and we were passing slow-moving vehicles, which is always interesting on a two-lane road with large trucks coming at you.

After a particularly close encounter, Mike remarked, “These armored SUVs don’t respond well to the gas pedal.”

“You’re doing great,” I assured him. I asked Clare, “You carrying anything aside from that medical bag?”

“You mean… like a gun?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“No. Well… yes.” She informed us, “It’s in my medical bag.”

“What is it?”

“A gun.”

“Right. Can I see it?”

She opened her medical bag and produced an unholstered 9mm Glock.

I unfastened my seat belt, leaned between the seats, and took the gun from her. I checked it out—full magazine, no round in the chamber. I gave her a one-minute lesson on how to chamber a round, how to change magazines, and reminded her that the Glock had no safety.

She said, “Paul Brenner showed me all this.”

“Good. Did he also tell you how to aim and fire?”

“He said to hold it with both hands, arms outstretched, look down the barrel, and squeeze the trigger.”

“That’s about it.” I reminded her, “Aim for the center mass of the target. Heart is on the right.”

“Left.”

“His left, your right, Doctor.”

She nodded.

I turned and refastened my seat belt.

The traffic had gotten lighter, and we were picking up speed. Winter is the dry season here, and the high rolling plateau was brown. I saw fields of what looked like newly planted grain, and scattered fruit trees. But mostly I saw what I knew was the cash crop—khat shrubs with dark green leaves and pretty white flowers. The goats seemed to like the khat. Happy goats.

I mentioned the khat cultivation to my driving companions, and Dr. Nolan gave us a medical analysis of Catha edulis, a.k.a. khat. She made no moral judgment, but her medical opinion was that you shouldn’t operate machinery under the influence. Probably you shouldn’t fire a submachine gun, either.

Our radios crackled to life now and then, mostly negative sit-reps from our leader, and from our trail vehicle. Indeed, this looked like a milk run, but it could turn on a dime.

I noticed that when there was no oncoming traffic, Brenner moved the convoy into the left lane. He was either practicing for an assignment in the U.K., or he was keeping away from possible roadside bombs whenever he could. Good thinking.

About fifty miles south of Sana’a, Mike pointed out an oil pipeline that he said came from Marib and went to the Red Sea port city of As-Salif. He informed us, “The hill tribes to the east of here blow up the pipeline about once a month.”

“For fun?”

“Fun and profit. They make the government and the American oil company pay them protection money.”

“Protection money is supposed to stop them from blowing up the pipeline,” I pointed out.

“Yeah, but this is Yemen.”

Right. Case closed.

The radio said, “Ma’bar, two K.”

Mike and the other drivers acknowledged, and we started to slow down. Mike said to us, “Small town.”

I was remembering this road a little, and I recalled that there weren’t many towns along the way, and Ma’bar, about sixty miles from Sana’a, was the first.

What I also remembered about my trip between Sana’a and Aden was that the road wasn’t considered too dangerous two and a half years ago. I mean, it wasn’t totally safe, but it wasn’t ambush alley either. Things, however, had changed, and not for the better, as Buck mentioned in New York, and the embassy website said.

The convoy slowed down, and Mike said, “Expect a checkpoint.”

We entered the small town of Ma’bar, which I sort of remembered, a collection of two-story mud brick buildings, goats, children, and chickens.

There was indeed an army checkpoint in the center of town, and we stopped. I saw Buck get out of the second vehicle and walk up to the soldiers. He shook hands with the honcho, said something that made the soldiers laugh, then got face-to-face with the boss, Arab style, and had a serious conversation with him. And while he was at it, he slipped the guy some baksheesh, which made everyone happy.

Buck got back in the Land Cruiser. Piece of cake.

As we passed the checkpoint, the Yemeni soldiers looked into the dark-tinted windows, and though they couldn’t see inside, Mike flipped them the bird anyway, saying, “They should be paying us.”

Brenner’s voice on the radio said, “Dhamar, thirty K. Expect another stop.”

Within twenty minutes we were in the larger town of Dhamar. I recalled that an earthquake had pretty much leveled this place back in the eighties, and it was still half in ruins. This country can’t catch a break.

Clare asked, “What happened here?”

“It wasn’t a battle,” I assured her. “Every two years the residents smash up the town with sledgehammers. It’s called the Festival of Al-Smash.”

Silence from the rear. But Mike laughed.

Clare said, “This is going to be a long day.”

My wife says that. Every day.

Anyway, we were stopped again in the center of town, and Buck again got out, but this time Brenner accompanied him and they had a conversation with the soldiers.

Mike said to us, “They’re talking about road security.”

“And why do we trust these clowns to give us good information?”

“We don’t, but if you talk to all of them, like Brenner is doing, you can get a feel for the situation. Like, if they’re bullshitting.”

“Right.” The other thing to consider, of course, was what the surveillance drones had seen—or not seen—and what to make of those video images that were being transmitted to some ground control station somewhere. I mean, in a country where everyone carries an AK-47, how does an analyst determine who’s up to no good? Right?

I looked out the rear, and I could see that Zamo and another DSS agent had lowered the windows of the Bondmobile and were covering our rear with their M4s.

Buck and Brenner were now heading toward their SUVs. The radio crackled, and Brenner’s voice said, “Continue on the main road to Yarim.”

And off we went, through the ruined town of Dhamar.

The road from Dhamar to Yarim was mostly uphill and I saw that the plateau was rising. There was a map in the glove compartment and I looked at it.

Mike said, “When we get to Yarim, we can pick up the new road that goes to Aden, or we can stay on this road—the old caravan road—to Ta’iz, then to Aden.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to share the road with camels, so I asked, “What’s the difference?”

Mike replied, “The new road is good, and more traveled, but there are more mountains, and better places for ambushes and IEDs.”

“Okay. And the camel road?”

He replied, “Less traveled, so it’s easier to avoid suicide trucks. Also, it’s mostly low hills, except for about sixty miles of mountain.”

Clare asked, “Which is the safest road?”

The answer, of course, was neither, but Mike said, “Depends.”

Anyway, we got to the small decrepit town of Yarim, which Mike informed us was a hot springs resort town with old Turkish bathhouses—sort of like Saratoga Springs, except this place sucked. I mean, I wouldn’t wash my socks here.

Anyway, we stopped again at a military checkpoint, and Buck and Brenner got out to talk to the soldiers.

Mike said, “Whichever road we take will be radioed in by the military to some headquarters, and that info can get to the wrong people.” He added, “In either case, we’re passing through territory where Al Qaeda has a presence.” He further informed us, “That territory starts here in Yarim.”

I suggested, “They should have a road sign: Al Qaeda, Next 100 Kilometers.” But seriously, this sucks.

I watched Brenner and Buck talking to the soldiers, and I imagined the conversation. “So, guys, which road should we take to avoid ambushes and roadside bombs?”

And the soldiers laughed and replied, “You should take the Long Island Expressway.”

Anyway, Buck and Brenner got back in their SUVs. The radios came alive and Brenner said, “We will head toward the new highway, but then double back around this checkpoint and take the old road to Ta’iz.”

Everyone acknowledged and we moved past the checkpoint.

Buck came on the radio with some good news. “Predator reports no suspicious activity on the Ta’iz road.”

That’s because the bad guys didn’t know yet what road we were taking.

In fact, Mike had the same thought and said, “There are a thousand eyes and five hundred cell phones along either route. So it really doesn’t matter what road we take.”

“Right.”

He further added, “We just need to be fast and try to keep ahead of anything that Al Qaeda tries to put together for us.”

Clare said, “This is scary.”

What was your first clue?

Anyway, we did the old, “I’m going this way, fellas,” then the switcheroo and the double-back, and within ten minutes we were south of Yarim on the old caravan road to Ta’iz.

Mike said, “I think this is a smart move.”

That depended on whether or not we actually wanted to make contact with Al Qaeda.

Clare asked, “Is this really Al Qaeda territory?”

Mike replied, “According to what’s called the CIA Areas of Influence map.” He added, “But you can’t always go by the map.” He assured her, “The CIA likes to overstate the danger. Keeps them in business.”

Overstating the danger is also called covering your ass, as in, “Hey, we said the roads were dangerous. Sorry about what happened to that convoy.”