The Panther

PART VII


Aden,

Yemen





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR


The Land Cruiser’s outside temperature gauge read 102 degrees Fahrenheit, so I wasn’t too shocked when I opened my door and got hit by a blast furnace.

Clare and I left our flak jackets in the SUV and I told Clare to go ahead inside.

I took the binoculars and looked up at the hills that rose above the hotel. Last time I was here, there was no Yemeni Army security up there, and I didn’t see any now.

The perimeter security seemed to consist of the dozen Yemeni soldiers I saw along the entrance road, sitting on their asses in their white plastic chairs under sun umbrellas, chatting on their cell phones. Ice coolers completed the picture of intense vigilance. Did anyone tell these guys that Al Qaeda was heading this way?

Also, as I recalled, there was a white tent pitched on a ridge that ran down to the beach on the south side of the hotel, which the Yemenis said was an army observation post. But our commo people said it was a PSO listening post to intercept our radio and sat-phone communications—which was one reason we had the lead-lined tent on the fourth floor. The other reason was Al Qaeda, who also had some commo intercept capabilities.

I focused the binoculars on Elephant Rock on the north side of the hotel. There was still a Yemeni Army pickup truck on the rock, and on the flatbed of the truck was a .50 caliber machine gun manned by four Yemeni Army a*sholes who liked to keep the gun pointed at the hotel instead of at the surrounding hills. They probably thought this was funny; we did not.

The National Security Bureau, whose job it was to guard hotels, didn’t exist when I was here last time, and I was happy not to see their blue cammies here this time, even though I’d developed a special relationship with Captain Dammaj.

As for our own security, we had the Marines and FBI SWAT Team, and I recalled that there were always four Marine snipers on the roof, and four or five Marines with M-16s on the beach. At night, that figure doubled.

I shifted my attention to the convoy. Everyone was out of the Land Cruisers—all thirteen of us—and one of the DSS agents was overseeing the transfer of luggage and equipment into the hotel lobby, while the others were keeping an eye on things out here.

A few Arab guests, who looked like rich Saudis, in full robes and headgear, exited the lobby doors and spoke to the doorman about the shot-up vehicles.

It’s not often that you have armed military and para-military groups staying in a hotel where civilian guests are also staying. But this was Yemen, and the guests didn’t seem to mind our presence as much as we minded theirs. In a way, though, we provided protection for each other—Al Qaeda probably wouldn’t shoot up a hotel full of their co-religionists. Right? I recalled Buck saying not to worry unless the Arabs started checking out.

I also recalled that this Sheraton franchise was owned by a Saudi prince, but I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing in regard to the hotel getting blown up by Al Qaeda. Probably depended on who the prince was paying off or pissing off.

Anyway, all the luggage was inside, so I slung my M4 and moved into the cool lobby.

A few DSS agents, including Mike and Zamo, were keeping an eye on the luggage cart, and Brenner was at the front desk checking us in without showing passports or giving names, which was none of the hotel’s business. The Americans owned floors three and four, forever, and the Saudi prince had a great cash cow going here, compliments of the American taxpayers.

The lobby had just been remodeled when I was last here, and it wasn’t bad—lots of mahogany woodwork and wicker furniture; sort of British tropical colonial, like hotels I’d been to in the Caribbean. And there the similarities ended.

I noticed the ubiquitous photo of Ali Abdullah Saleh, President for Life—until someone killed him—hanging on a wall. Big Ali is watching you.

I also noticed a few Western guests, probably clueless Europeans who got a good deal on a winter getaway. American tourists had the big advantage of never having heard of Yemen or Aden, and neither had their travel agents, and if they had, they didn’t want to go anyplace where Americans were not welcome—which was just about everywhere these days. Europeans thought they were welcome all over, which was another kind of ignorance or arrogance.

Also in the lobby were two Yemeni soldiers with AK-47s, and two U.S. Marines with M-16s. What must those European tourists be thinking by now? Great beach, cheap rates—but what’s with all these people carrying assault rifles? They must be shooting a movie.

I saw that a welcome committee of our colleagues had arrived, and Buck was speaking to three men and one woman in the sitting area of the lobby. Buck seemed to know them, and none of them looked like they could be our CIA guy, who I was sure would reveal himself in a more dramatic way—like maybe paragliding onto the beach. Or a more clandestine way, like if that potted palm over there started whispering to me. “Psst. Corey. Over here. The palm tree. Don’t look at me. Just listen.”

My wife, who’d gone off to freshen up, came up to me and said, “This isn’t a bad place.” She asked, “Did you have a good time here?”

That question was more loaded than a sailor on shore leave, and I replied, “Without you, darling, there are no good times.”

She seemed to doubt my sincerity, then moved on to, “How did Dr. Nolan handle the problem back there?”

That wasn’t the real question, but I replied, “Shook her up a bit.”

“Were you able to calm her down?”

“I was too busy fighting her for her tranquilizers.”

Kate suppressed a smile, then informed me, for the record, “I’m still annoyed at you for that police stop.”

“Well, try to get over it.” I reminded her, “Life is short.”

She softened and said, “You’re a brave man, John, but reckless and arrogant.”

“Thank you. Hey, the bar here is not bad. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Paul says drinking alcohol is on hold until further notice.”

“Yeah? Then how about a beer?”

Howard, who had also gone off to freshen up, came up to us and said, “Not a bad place. But is it safe?”

“No,” I assured him. I suggested, “You may want to return to Sana’a.”

“I think I’ve had enough car travel for one day.”

“I’d hate to see you miss the return-trip ambush.”

He actually laughed. Howard was now a combat vet who laughed at death.

He informed us, “I live on Long Island. I love the beach and I’m a competitive swimmer.”

“Good. The sharks love competitive swimmers.”

Clare, too, joined us and said to Kate, “Your husband is a very brave man.”

Kate replied, “He’s my hero.” Actually, she said… well, nothing.

Clare continued, “I’ve never been so frightened in my life. But John—and Mike—were totally cool and calm, and John made sure I stayed below the windows.”

“And,” I added, “I covered her with my body.” No, I didn’t say that. I’m not that brave.

Kate had no comment.

Brenner was finished at the front desk, and he came up to us and handed out key cards in envelopes with our room numbers on them. Brenner had remembered to put me in the same room as my wife, so I think he was over Kate.

Brenner suggested, “Let’s meet our Aden colleagues.”

I asked him, “Where is our Company man?”

“I don’t know.”

Okay. But if I had to guess, I’d say our missing teammate was in the commo room speaking by radio to his station chief in Sana’a, asking if there was any intel about the Hellfires vaporizing The Panther. Wouldn’t that be nice? Or did I really want to whack this guy myself? It’s been a while since anyone from the New York Task Force personally whacked a bad guy, and I think I had the last kill. The Lion. Which was why I was here for an encore performance. Also, maybe Kate whacking a CIA guy was the other reason we were here.

In any case, I was on a roll with killing big cats, and I hoped to continue my winning streak.





CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE


We moved to where Buck was chatting with the welcome committee, and Buck did the honors and said to the four people, “You all know Paul Brenner. And this is FBI Special Agent Kate Mayfield, our new assistant legal attaché in Sana’a, just arrived from the ATTF in New York. And this is Kate’s husband, also known as Detective John Corey of the FBI Evidence Response Team, also from the New York ATTF.” Buck added, “John, as I told you, has been here before and he was homesick for Aden.”

That got a laugh, but not from me.

Buck also introduced Dr. Clare Nolan, and FBI Agent Howard Fensterman, the new legat, adding, “Howard volunteered to come along for the ride.”

Did I hear someone say, “Schmuck”?

We shook hands all around, and each person introduced himself and herself.

The lady was Betsy Collins, Supervisory Special Agent and Team Leader of the five-person FBI Evidence Response Team. She seemed pleasant and welcoming, and assuming my reputation had preceded me, she was probably thrilled to have learned from Buck that she didn’t actually have to work with me.

Brenner’s Aden counterpart in the Diplomatic Security Service was Doug Reynolds, whose title was Regional Security Officer, and who looked like ex-military.

I took the opportunity to tell him, “The DSS did a hell of a job getting us here.”

He nodded and said, of course, “That’s what they get paid for.”

The second guy was Lyle Manning, Supervisory Special Agent of the ten-man FBI SWAT Team. He was a young guy, obviously in great physical shape, and like most FBI Special Agents, he wasn’t sure if an ex-cop was his peer. He was okay with Kate and Howard, though, who were in the club. FBI, by the way, means Fabulously Boring Individual. Just kidding.

The third guy was easy to identify—he wore desert cammies, a Marine cap with globe-and-anchor insignia, captain bars on his collar, and a nametag that said “McAndrews,” though he said, “Call me Mac.”

We all pulled up wicker chairs, and we stacked our rifles neatly against the cocktail table. A hovering waiter put menus on the table and said, “Welcome, new sirs and new ladies, and already honored guests to the Sheraton Aden. I am Masud. Please to inform me of your wishes.”

“Water for me and a scotch for my rifle.”

Anyway, we all ordered soft drinks, and Masud floated off to the lobby lounge.

Captain McAndrews said to the Sana’a contingent, “So you had a little excitement on the road.”

Brenner replied, “Five hours of boredom, two minutes of pure terror.” He added, “Predators did a great job.” He further added, “Road security is going downhill fast.”

Doug Reynolds, the DSS guy, said to Brenner, “I spoke to Ed Peters and he’s okay with your men staying here overnight—not happy, but okay. Meanwhile, I’ve put in a request through channels for a Yemeni Army escort back to Sana’a.”

Brenner replied, “Normally I wouldn’t want that, but I’ll take it if we can get it.” He added, “If we get offered a National Security police escort—for hire or for free—the answer is no.”

I interjected, “Especially if it’s Captain Dammaj.”

Buck and Brenner both laughed. See? They weren’t pissed at me.

Doug asked, “Who’s Captain Dammaj?”

Buck replied, “An NSB officer we met on the road. I sat-phoned that in.” He further explained, “John told him to go f*ck himself.” Buck apologized to the three ladies for my language and added, “Unfortunately, we didn’t know that Captain Dammaj spoke English.”

Everyone got a good laugh at that.

Buck told our colleagues, in case they didn’t know, “This country is close to dysfunctional.”

Betsy Collins said, “Dysfunctional would be an improvement.”

As I said, and as I saw the last time I was here, our relations with our Yemeni allies were not good. The Americans saw the Yemenis as corrupt, devious, and inept, and the Yemenis knew what we thought of them. I had no idea what they thought of us, but it was easy to guess.

And to make matters worse, we were stretched so thin here that we were barely able to accomplish our mission, and barely able to protect ourselves from our enemies, not to mention our Yemeni allies.

The soft drinks came, and Doug proposed a toast. “Welcome to our guests, and here’s to much success on your mission.” He added, “Whatever it is.”

That got a few conspiratorial chuckles. Plausible deniability is important with Black Ops jobs.

I didn’t think we’d have much to do with these Aden people once we left here to find The Panther, and as with most Black Ops missions, we’d be mostly on our own. Also, though we might never see them again, they might see us if they were assigned to a body identification and recovery detail. But think happy thoughts.

Doug asked Clare, “How’s your patient?”

Clare replied, “He’ll be fine. But I’ll have to see if he needs sutures, and he needs to keep it clean.”

Captain Mac offered, “Infections are rampant here.” He added, “This whole place is a petri dish.”

Shithole.

Lyle Manning, the FBI SWAT Team Leader, changed the subject and said, “We’re a little concerned about this reported threat of an Al Qaeda attack on this installation.”

Actually, it wasn’t an installation; it was a hotel with plate glass windows. I reported, “Paul and I heard this firsthand from an Al Qaeda prisoner at Ghumdan, and the prisoner seemed credible.”

My buddy Paul agreed and added, “Al Qaeda has lost the element of surprise, so I’m sure we can deal with anything Al Qaeda tries here.”

Captain Mac added, “If, as reported, it’s only forty or so enemy combatants, it won’t be a problem. In fact, it’s an opportunity.”

Why was I not seeing these Al Qaeda attacks as opportunities? What is wrong with me?

I glanced at Clare, who looked like she wasn’t hearing this correctly. This hotel is an Al Qaeda target? Did I miss that memo?

More importantly, Howard, as an attorney and an employee of the Department of Justice and an honest man, did not need to be hearing things he didn’t need to hear. We hadn’t gone there yet, but we would, so I suggested, “If it’s all the same to Mr. Fensterman and Dr. Nolan, and the rest of us, I think Howard and Clare might want to recon the hotel and the beach.” I said that nice. Right?

Howard and Clare got it, stood, and excused themselves.

Brenner inquired of one and all, “What are the Yemenis providing or promising in the way of extra security?”

Lyle Manning replied, “To be honest, we haven’t requested anything.”

Say again?

Lyle looked at Buck, who informed us, “It was I who suggested that we not ask the Yemeni government for a large show of force.”

What were you thinking, Buck? I reminded him, “You said back at the embassy that you were going to notify the Yemeni government at the highest levels that we needed extra security here.”

“Yes, I did say that.” He explained, however, “If I asked the Yemenis for extra security, that would alert Al Qaeda that we knew this hotel is a target.” Buck continued his reasoning. “If Al Qaeda thought we had information about an attack on the Sheraton, they would also think that we had information from the same source—the prisoner in Ghumdan—about the last known location of The Panther.”

No one had anything to say about that, and I had the feeling that the Aden contingent agreed with the old Cold Warrior’s crafty thinking—though they were sitting in the bull’s-eye.

More interesting, Buck seemed to have the power of life-and-death decisions. Buck was a big man.

Captain Mac also reminded us, “The fewer Yemeni Army people we have around here, the better I like it.” He smiled and confided to us, “The first targets we take out are the Yemeni Army’s .50 caliber along with the Yemeni commo tent.”

Don’t forget the guys under the sun umbrellas.

On the subject of tipping off Al Qaeda, no one was suggesting that we evacuate the European or Arab guests. I guess the attitude was “F*ck them.” There’s a reason for cheap high-season rates. If you don’t know the reason, that’s your problem. Indeed, we had become a bit callous. Except when it came to American lives. Everyone else was expendable. Well, maybe our European and Arab allies needed a deeper appreciation of what the Americans were up against. They could stand on the sidelines if they wanted, but they could get killed there, too.

Lyle Manning let us know, “The entire SWAT Team will be pulling all-nighters until further notice.”

Doug Reynolds added, “We also now have the DSS men from Sana’a.”

Brenner reminded him, “Only for tonight, Doug.” He let us know, “There’s a new and credible threat to the embassy, and they need to get back.”

The safest place in Yemen might be swimming in the gulf with the sharks.

My other thought was that any attack on Americans would trigger the Cole response. Within two weeks of the Cole attack, there were close to two hundred American military, intelligence, and anti-terrorist people in this hotel and on ships out in the harbor. The Yemenis had made us scale down since then, but there were people in Washington who wanted to ratchet it up. All we needed was an excuse. And a few more dead Americans.

Kate, who hadn’t said anything so far, now said, “I understand the decision not to increase security here. But I also don’t want to risk any of our team being… becoming casualties here.” She added, “We need to depart this location as soon as possible and go to where we think we will make contact with the suspect.”

Buck replied to Kate, “We understand that.” He let our colleagues know, “We hope to be out of here—and out of your hair—as soon as we get the intel we need.”

This brought us to the subject of our missing team member, but I wasn’t sure any of the Aden people had any info on that, so I didn’t bring it up. That was up to Buck, and he wasn’t saying anything about the CIA.

But I did want to know about the evacuation plan, though I think I already knew the answer to that. Nevertheless, I said to Doug Reynolds, “Ed Peters said you’d brief us on an evacuation plan.”

Doug smiled, which was not what I wanted to see. He said, “Ed tells everyone coming here to ask me about that.” He confided to us, “It’s called the Alamo plan.” He asked me, “Any questions?”

I guess not.

Betsy Collins did say, however, “If we have advance warning from our sources, and if we could get to the airport, we have air resources in the area that could evacuate us.” She added, “Or, if we could get to the harbor, we can rendezvous with or commandeer a ship.”

I pointed out, “I think we actually have advance warning of an impending attack.” Remember?

Captain Mac ignored my sarcasm and cautioned, “The worst thing we could do would be to destroy all our equipment here, then evacuate and find out there was no imminent attack.” He added, “That would make us look bad.”

Looking bad is not as bad as looking dead, but to be a team player, I responded, “Sounds good.”

Betsy Collins asked me, “What was the evacuation plan when you were here, John?”

“The backstroke.”

Good laughs. I was being accepted by the inmates.

I did ask, however, “What about the civilian guests here? And the hotel staff?”

After a long silence, Captain Mac replied, “You should ask Al Qaeda that question.”

Right.

Buck did have some good news and informed us, “We now have two Predators on station twenty-four-seven, reconning the area.”

I asked, “With Hellfires?”

Buck nodded.

Good. I had recently become a big fan of Hellfire missiles.

We also spoke about the ongoing Cole investigation—slow progress—then we discussed recent developments in Aden and the surrounding area. The big concern was that Al Qaeda was becoming politically stronger around Aden, though not yet a military threat—notwithstanding the forty jihadists on their way from Marib. The CIA and Defense Intelligence were closely monitoring the situation and keeping everyone here informed. Glad to hear that.

We seemed to have covered all topics and Buck said, “We’ll let you all get back to your jobs, and we can meet again tonight in the cocktail lounge if you don’t have other plans.”

Betsy Collins said, “We do have a full social calendar here, but if we’re not in a firefight with Al Qaeda, we’ll be in the bar.”

Funny.

We all stood, shook hands, and set the time for cocktails at 7 P.M. At least something important had been decided here.