The Panther

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX


Buck, Brenner, Kate, and I walked back to our luggage, which was still under the watchful eyes of Mike and Zamo.

Brenner informed Mike, “You’re all staying here tonight on full alert. Secure the vehicles, then get some sleep.” To Zamo he said, “You can return to Sana’a with the convoy tomorrow. We’ll ask for a SWAT sniper for the team.”

Zamo, of course, replied, “I’m staying.”

“Okay. But see Dr. Nolan ASAP.”

Bellhops were not permitted on the American floors, so we gathered our bags and walked toward the elevators.

Buck said to us, “Everyone is free until seven. I’m going to the pool in an hour.”

I’m going to get laid in ten minutes. Getting shot at makes me horny.

But Kate said to Buck, “We’ll see you there.”

Sitting at a desk near the elevators was a Marine with an M-16 rifle and a hand-held radio. He stood and we made the acquaintance of Lance Corporal Brad Schiller, who asked to see our passports and creds. Schiller checked our names against his list, then handed each of us a red-and-white plastic ID card on a chain that said, “American Embassy—Sana’a Yemen.” On the other side of the card was a bull’s-eye. Just kidding.

Corporal Schiller said, “I’ll call upstairs.” He added, “Welcome to Paradise.”

Everyone’s a comedian.

We rode up to the third floor, which I recalled was reserved for the FBI Evidence Response Team, the FBI SWAT Team, the Diplomatic Security Service, the FBI doctor, and transient guests, mostly from the embassy, and rarely from Washington. There was also a common room on the floor where we used to sit, drink, play cards, and complain.

On the fourth floor were the twenty Marines, two to a room, plus our offices and our equipment and supply rooms. At the end of the fourth-floor corridor were rooms for our CIA colleagues and Defense Intelligence Agency officers, who mostly kept to themselves, which made everyone happy. Also on the fourth floor was the CIA’s lead-lined SCIF in a cleared bedroom.

These two floors constituted the American outpost in Aden. The camel’s nose under the tent. But if people like Colonel Kent had their way, we’d soon be building an Arabian Guantanamo down the coast. Call bin Laden Construction.

We stopped at the third floor, and Buck said, “I’m on four. See you at the pool.”

Kate, Brenner, and I got off, and there was a Marine in the hallway standing behind his desk, on which was his M-16 rifle and radio.

We introduced ourselves to Lance Corporal Wayne Peeples. He directed us to the right, and as we walked I checked my room number again to be sure Kate and Paul weren’t sharing a room.

Actually, Brenner’s room was next to ours, and we all said, “See you later,” and entered our rooms.

We had a room overlooking the Gulf of Aden, as I’d had last time. Same room? Are those my socks on the floor?

Kate said, “This is nice.”

“Nothing is too good for Christian Crusaders.”

We threw our luggage and weapons on one of the two king-size beds, and I suggested we throw ourselves on the other.

Kate thought that was a swell idea.


Afterwards, we stood on the balcony and looked out at the turquoise water. This was the view I’d had for forty days of living in this hotel, and it brought back some memories.

The bay, called Gold Mohur Bay, was formed by two ridges of bare volcanic rock that ran down into the water.

Kate spotted the lonely white tent on the south ridge and asked, “What’s that?”

“That’s the tent that Captain Mac was referring to.” I explained, “It’s either a Yemeni Army observation post, or a PSO eavesdropping facility. In either case, the men inside the tent are not there to help us.”

Kate nodded, then looked to the right at Elephant Rock, which indeed looked almost exactly like the head of an elephant, complete with a long trunk which formed a stone arch that ended on the rocks below.

At the risk of stating the obvious, I said, “That’s Elephant Rock.”

“I wonder why they call it that.”

Kate noticed the pickup truck farther down the elephant’s back with the .50 caliber machine gun pointed our way. “What’s that?”

“That’s our Yemeni Army security.”

“Why is the gun pointed at the hotel?”

“They’re sending us a subtle message.”

She had no comment on that, and she looked down at the stone terrace below, where we used to have barbecues at night and pretend we were in Hawaii waiting for the hula dancers.

Beyond the terrace was the pool where about a dozen tourists were sitting or swimming, and beyond the pool was a white-sand beach where the volleyball net was still strung, but there was no game at the moment.

There was also no one sunning on the beach or swimming in the bay, but I did see four Marines in full gear at either end of the beach.

The hotel had planted small palm trees all over, but the climate here was so hot that even the palms had trouble staying alive.

Kate said, “Now I can picture where you were.”

“Right.” I hadn’t taken many photos, and the ones I’d taken were designed to show the port city of Aden as the shithole it was—mostly dilapidated buildings, barefoot urchins, women in black baltos, and men with guns. I mean, I didn’t want anyone thinking I was having a good time here.

Kate said to me, “My forty days in Dar es Salaam were no treat, but it wasn’t Yemen.”

“There is only one Yemen,” I assured her.

I pointed toward Elephant Rock and said, “On the other side of that peninsula is Aden Harbor, where the Cole was anchored on October 12, 2000.”

Kate nodded.

Seventeen American dead and thirty-nine wounded, some disabled for life. And that suicide boat should never have gotten anywhere near an American warship.

So, what have we learned from the Cole and from 9/11 and from all the terrorist attacks before and since? Two things that we’d forgotten over the years: Kill them before they kill you, and if they kill you, hunt them down and deliver lethal justice. That’s why I was here.