The Panther

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE


Buck had a key for the locked door and we entered.

A black tent filled most of the emptied guest room, and we ducked inside through a flap. The dim interior of the SCIF tent was about fifteen feet by twenty, crammed with electronic equipment, desks, and file cabinets, lit only by a few desk lamps and the glow from the computer screens.

Sitting at the shortwave radio was a young man in a T-shirt and shorts, wearing headphones. He noticed us and said, “Chet’s on the balcony.”

Good. I hope he jumped. But probably he was smoking; a slower form of suicide.

We left the tent and went around to the balcony, where, sure enough, Chet stood at the rail with a butt in his mouth, contemplating the moonlit sea. He was still wearing his white ducks and silly Hawaiian shirt, and he was still barefoot. Time for home leave, Chet.

Without turning around, he said to us, “Yemen was known to the Romans as Arabia Felix—Happy Arabia.” He added, “No one has called it that since then.”

Right. Now it’s called Shithole.

Chet continued, “If Afghanistan is the graveyard of empires, then Yemen is the slaughterhouse of imperial ambitions.”

God save me from a nutcase with an Ivy League education. Right?

Chet informed us, “Alexander the Great sent a colony of Greeks to Socotra, an island off the coast here, but it didn’t last long, and the Romans invaded from the north and got as far as Marib before their army was decimated by battle, hardship, and disease.”

Marib? Isn’t that where we’re going? Don’t forget the Cipro.

Chet continued, “Yemen has seen a succession of conquerors and would-be conquerors—Egyptians, Persians, Romans, Ethiopians, Turks, the British, and the recently departed Russians. But no one has ever controlled all of Yemen. Not even the Yemenis.” Chet concluded, “I wouldn’t want to see us in a land war here, which is why these surgical operations need to succeed.”

I suggested, “Nuke ’em.”

Chet assured me, “I have no problem with that.”

Maybe he really wasn’t crazy after all. I mean, he agreed with me. And I’m not crazy. Right?

Anyway, Chet dropped his cigarette into a pail of water that had been put there for that purpose—and maybe as a khat spittoon—and he turned toward us.

The light was bad, so it was hard for me to tell if he had been chewing, or where he was in the rising and falling arc of a khat trip. But if I had to guess, I’d say he was on the upgrade of the roller coaster, about twenty feet from the top. Coming down is a bitch.

Chet said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t join you tonight, but I heard you had an interesting conversation at dinner.” He looked at me.

Well, first off, you weren’t invited, and second, I guess someone told him I’d commented on his mental health. But I didn’t think that Betsy, Doug, Lyle, or Captain Mac would give Chet Morgan a call about that. And Buck didn’t have the opportunity to speak to Chet. Probably Chet just assumed, from past experience, that someone called him a nut job, and he further assumed it was me. Good deduction, Chet. Or… he had a directional listening device and he heard us down on the patio. That’s really not nice. But I guess that’s why they’re called spies.

Anyway, Chet led the way into the tent.

There was a small map table in the corner, and Chet invited us to sit.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw taped to a wall the official photo of President Ali Abdullah Saleh, but this one was captioned A*shole of Arabia. Funny.

I also noticed a few steel-cut axes, burn boxes, and paper shredders, all necessary office equipment in a sensitive facility that was located in hostile territory. I pictured Chet high on khat, swinging an ax at the computers, and someone shouting to him, “I said there were tourists in the hallway—not terrorists.” Whoops.

Anyway, the young man at the radio couldn’t hear us with his headphones on, and Chet said, “There are no recording devices activated for this discussion.” He added, “Operation Clean Sweep is top secret, of course, and you will never divulge or reveal what was said here, or what happens here.”

Right. Just like a bachelor party in Vegas. What annoys me is that the CIA thinks they have to re-pledge you to secrecy. Like no one but them gets the concept of keeping your mouth shut.

Bottom line, the CIA doesn’t like joint operations, and they see them as babysitting jobs. On the plus side, if something went wrong, they had someone else to blame.

To get something straight, I asked Chet, “Who is running this operation?”

Chet replied, “Buck is the team leader.”

“I mean, who in Washington is running this? Who do you report to?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Then why did I ask? But obviously this was a CIA operation, directed from the highest level. If it was FBI, they’d make everyone wear blue windbreakers with big white letters that said “FBI.” They like to advertise. The CIA does not.

I asked Chet, “What is your job on this team?”

He reminded us, “I have operational control of the Predators.”

“Right. So we’re going to vaporize this guy?”

He also reminded us, “Predators are used primarily for aerial observation.”

Then why are they called Predators? Why not Doves with good eyesight?

Chet added, “I’ll get to the goal of this mission later.”

You usually start with the goal, then outline the plan. But Black Ops jobs were a little different, mostly because the goal—like whacking someone—was not always legal and therefore not spelled out; it was understood.

Chet began, “First, our intelligence sources—human and electronic—put The Panther in the vicinity of Marib.”

Brenner informed him, “This is what John and I heard from the prisoner in Ghumdan.”

“Right.”

I added, “And your colleagues in Sana’a also questioned the prisoner—or you did.”

No reply.

I asked, “Do you have a transcript of that interrogation?”

“Not yet.” He added, “Translation problems.” He inquired, “May I move on?”

“Sure.”

He continued, “Second, I have to tell you that we’ll be leaving here about midnight and flying to Marib, and we may not be coming back.”

Brenner asked, “Can you phrase that a bit differently?”

Chet actually smiled, then clarified, “If the mission is a success, we will not return here.” He advised us, “Pack only what you absolutely need, and leave everything else in your rooms, to be forwarded on.”

To where? Next of kin?

Brenner inquired, “And if the mission is not a success?”

“Then we may return here to continue the operation.” He added, “Unless we’re dead.”

Got it.

I informed Chet, “Just to let you know, Kate and I need to hear and approve of the operational plan before we go anywhere. That was the deal.”

Chet didn’t seem to know there was a deal and said, “I think you’ve passed the point of no return on that, Mr. Corey.”

Buck interjected, “John and Kate have volunteered to be bait, so they can suggest some changes to the plan as it relates to their roles.” He then said to Kate and me, “But I must tell you, this may be our only chance to apprehend The Panther before he disappears again.”

Kate replied, “We understand that.”

Chet continued, “We are flying out of Aden Airport on a DHC-6 Twin Otter.” He explained, “This is a two-engine short takeoff and landing plane, with reinforced fixed landing gear, capable of putting down on a road, which we will do.”

Say again?

He also informed us, “The Otter is registered in Kuwait as a regional charter craft, but it will be flown by two American pilots.”

Thank God. The Otter, of course, was actually owned by a CIA front company, and the pilots were CIA employees, though both those facts would be difficult for anyone to prove. The Company has excellent air resources all over the world, known in the trade as Spook Air. If anyone was ever able to count all the aircraft owned by the CIA, Spook Air would probably be bigger than American Airlines.

“Flight time,” said Chet, “will be under three hours.”

On that subject, Spook Air could have gotten us safely from Sana’a to Aden in under three hours without an ambush. But some idiot had decided to see what Al Qaeda knew, and what they could do. And also to see what the Hellfire missiles could do to Al Qaeda. I don’t remember volunteering for that, but if we’d blown up The Panther, I’d be patting Chet on the back now and getting ready to fly to New York instead of Marib.

Brenner asked, “Will there be a pathfinder on the ground?” Meaning a guy with a flashlight or at least a cigarette lighter.

Chet replied, “Yes, a trusted local.”

Brenner informed him, “No such thing.” He flashed back to some jungle clearing in Southeast Asia and said, “It has to be an American.”

“That’s not possible here.” Chet assured Brenner and the rest of us, “We’ve used this man before. He is well paid.” Chet added, “And he has family in the States whom he’d like to see again.”

Me, too. Well… not my in-laws.

Chet continued, “This man, who is code-named Tariq—which means ‘night visitor’—has a hand-held radio that will work on the frequency that the Twin Otter will monitor.” He said, “To mark the runway portion of the road, Tariq has a backpack full of small, self-contained electronic transponders that he’ll place as instructed along the road, and also at the beginning and end of the runway portion of the road to mark the thresholds.” He further explained, “The pilots will be able to see the signals from these transponders on the GPS flight panel display in the cockpit.” Chet assured us, “Tariq has done this dozens of times and so have the pilots.”

“And you?”

“Many times.” Chet continued, “All the transponders will be turned on when Tariq sets them on the road, but just before our arrival, Tariq will consider wind conditions and other factors, then turn off the threshold transponders at one end of the runway—the end he doesn’t want us to approach from. The pilots will now know the direction of their landing, but more importantly, if all the transponders are still on at both ends of the road—or if none of them are on—that would mean that Tariq, for some reason, is out of action.”

“Or sleeping like those schmucks who were supposed to videotape the Cole explosion.”

Chet forced a polite smile and continued, “That will be our first indication that we need to pull up and keep going.” He went on, “If the transponders are all set properly, then the pilot will ask Tariq by radio a single question—‘Any dust?’ Tariq will say ‘Yes’ if there are unfriendlies in the area, or if he has a gun pressed to his head. If Tariq says, ‘No dust tonight,’ then it’s all clear. And he will double verify that he is not under duress by also saying ‘Safe landing’ as we approach the runway.” Chet added, unnecessarily, “If he doesn’t say those words, or if the threshold transponders are not properly set, then we fly directly back to Aden.”

I saw this in a World War II movie once, but the pathfinder got captured by the Nazis, who tortured him and made him give them the sign and countersign for all clear. Everyone on the incoming aircraft was captured or killed. War is hell.

Buck told us, “I’ve made a few night landings around the country under similar circumstances, and it’s always gone well.”

Obviously, or you wouldn’t be here to say that.

Chet added, “Al Qaeda is too stupid to have identified Tariq as working for us, but even if they did, they’re too stupid to follow him, and too stupid to turn him around. They’d just kill him.” He added, “They’re not Germans.”

He must have seen that movie. But Al Qaeda was not that stupid.

Chet also assured us, “Predators will be watching our approach and landing.”

Kate said, “I’m okay with this. Let’s move on.”

Chet continued, “After we land, we will be met by a local sheik. Sheik Musa.” He explained, “No operation in the tribal lands can succeed without the cooperation and armed security of at least one local sheik. Musa’s tribesmen will take us by car to a remote safe house and his men will provide security for us.”

Really? What are you chewing, Chet? I mean, letting Tariq in on this was risky enough—but letting a whole tribe of crazy Bedouin in on it was suicidal.

No one had anything positive to say about the travel arrangements, and I sensed that Chet was losing the confidence of the team. Chet understood that, too, and continued matter-of-factly, “Sheik Musa has provided us with assistance in the past, and he is well compensated for his help.”

Silence.

So Chet further informed us, “Musa’s tribal lands encompass the ancient ruins of Marib, and he provides security and protection to tour groups, scholars, archaeologists, and others who visit the ruins. This is a very lucrative arrangement for him,” he assured us, “and on that basis alone he can be trusted to do what he’s paid to do and what’s best for him, which is to keep the peace.”

I guess. Money talks. But didn’t I just hear that nine Belgian tourists disappeared at the Marib ruins? And weren’t their guide and driver found with their throats cut? Maybe that was another Marib.

I waited for Chet to mention this, but he went on, “Sheik Musa is not happy with Al Qaeda, most of whom are not Yemenis and not royalists as he is—”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “I seem to remember that nine Belgian tourists went missing at the Marib ruins last summer.”

Chet looked at me and I could see his icy blue eyes narrowing in the dim light. Finally, he said, “I was about to get to that.”

“Sorry. I thought you forgot about that.”

He informed us, “No one knows who was involved in that incident, but it certainly wasn’t Sheik Musa.”

“Right. But Sheik Musa, protector of Western tourists and scholars, fell down on the job. No?”

I could see that Chet was annoyed, Kate was concerned, and Brenner, who had to know about this incident, was quiet.

Buck, who’d forgotten to mention this to me and Kate, explained, “Sheik Musa took full responsibility for his failure to protect these tourists, and he’s provided Yemeni and Western authorities with some leads.” He added, “The sheik was embarrassed and angry, and he has vowed to avenge this insult to his honor and his reputation.” Reminding me and Kate of his classroom lecture, Buck said, “When a Yemeni extends his hospitality, and someone else violates that hospitality, that violator becomes the subject of a blood feud.”

Chet added, “And for that reason, Sheik Musa can be trusted.”

Right. Lots of reasons to trust Sheik Musa. And for all I know, he’s looking for a visa to open a deli in Brooklyn. Still, I had some doubts. Also, it seemed to me that Buck, who had denied detailed knowledge of the operational plan, knew more than he’d let on. But I already knew that.

Chet said, “Al Qaeda are the primary suspects in this incident, but it could also have been a tribal kidnapping that went badly.” He added, “Not Musa’s tribe, obviously.”

I informed Chet, “The Belgian authorities were told by a captured Al Qaeda operative in Brussels that it was Al Qaeda, and that the Belgians are probably dead.”

Chet wanted to ask me where I got my information, but he didn’t. He said, “Point is, Sheik Musa works for us. Not Al Qaeda, and not the Yemeni government.”

Buck also informed us, “The sheik owes his loyalty to the Saudi royal family, who have him on retainer.” He further advised us, “A Saudi prince has had a letter delivered to Sheik Musa, a copy of which I have, asking him to provide us with hospitality, safe passage, and any assistance we may need.” Buck let us know, “That letter to the sheik from the Saudi prince is worth more than all the gold, money, or weapons we could give him.”

I inquired, “Is there anyone you forgot to tell that we’re going to Marib?”

Buck did not reply, but Chet said, “We have no choice but to reach out to people who are… situational allies.”

I asked, “Do our Yemeni government allies know we are going to Marib?”

Chet replied, “Not from me.”

“Can they guess?”

“Maybe.”

I thought of Colonel Hakim, but I didn’t ask.

Chet inquired, “Can we move on?”

Everyone nodded and Chet continued, “Sheik Musa will have two SUVs at the safe house for us to use. We will stay in the safe house overnight, then at about one or two P.M. we’ll drive to Marib town, as though we’ve just arrived from Sana’a, and we’ll check into the Bilqis Hotel where we have reservations under our own names. Then we drive to the ruins, to see and be seen. We’re trying to pass as tourists, but virtually no one will believe that. The word will be out that we’re on an Al Qaeda hunt—a Panther hunt.” He continued, “Sheik Musa will provide protection for this trip, though it’s only about ten kilometers between the safe house, the town, and the ruins. At the ruins, there may also be National Security police for protection.”

Brenner said, “I hope we’re not there on the day they’re working for Al Qaeda.”

Funny. Unless you were going there.

Brenner inquired, “Can we carry our M4s at the ruins?”

“No,” replied Chet. “As I said, we’re going as tourists.”

I thought tourists carried automatic rifles in Yemen. If they didn’t, they should. There’d be fewer dead tourists and more dead terrorists.

Chet assured us, however, “We will wear Kevlar and carry our handguns, concealed.”

Brenner asked, “How about Zamo?”

“He will stay with our vehicles close to the ruins with his sniper rifle. Also, our M4s will be in the vehicles.”

Brenner didn’t seem keen on this, but he said nothing.

I really wanted to ask if Dr. Clare was going with us, but Kate might misconstrue my question. Maybe I should cough, then ask.

As if reading my mind, Kate asked, “Is Dr. Nolan coming with us?”

“No,” replied Chet.

Why not?

Chet told us, “It’s too dangerous.”

That’s why we need a doctor, Chet.

Well, no one had anything to say about that, but Chet’s statement certainly put things into perspective.

I said, “I hope we’re taking Howard along to advise us if we’re doing anything illegal.”

Chet replied, “If this was an FBI operation, we’d need six lawyers.”

Touché.

Chet continued, “On our way back from the ruins to the Bilqis Hotel, about dusk, our two vehicles will be stopped by tribesmen in vehicles, and we will offer no resistance as we’re kidnapped.”

Huh?

Chet continued, “We will be taken back to the safe house to await developments.”

Developments? Like what? Having our throats cut?

But Buck assured us, “It’s all a sham, of course. The kidnappers are Sheik Musa’s men. We’ll have our weapons, and we’ll be under the watchful eye of Predator drones armed with Hellfire missiles.”

Great. And who controls the Predators? Chet. And he’s been kidnapped.

Chet clarified that and said, “At the safe house is a van, which is a mobile Predator ground monitoring station, so I won’t actually be with you when you check into the Bilqis Hotel, or at the Marib ruins, or when you’re kidnapped. I’ll be at the safe house, watching the live camera feeds from the drone that is watching you, and the other drone that is watching the safe house.” He added assuringly, “If something happened to me, or to the ground monitoring station at the safe house, then the Predators will pass under the control of the distant ground control station where the pilots maintain satellite radio control of the drones.” He added, “They will, if necessary, use the Hellfires.” He asked us, “Understand? Any questions?”

Lots of questions, but Chet was on a roll so we shook our heads.

Chet continued, “Once we’re all assembled back at the safe house, ostensibly as the kidnapped guests of Sheik Musa, the sheik will get the word to the Al Qaeda operatives in the area that the sheik has a present for them—a team of American intelligence operatives, including Mr. John Corey and Ms. Kate Mayfield, both of whom work for the Anti-Terrorist Task Force, and who are both on Al Qaeda’s kill list.” He added, “Buckminster Harris is also known to Al Qaeda, and they would like to question him. Mr. Brenner, I’m sorry to say, is not that important to them, though they’d like to question and kill him as well. And your sniper, Zamo, would make a nice trophy, and they’d like to have his sniper rifle.” He paused, smiled, then said, “As for me, Al Qaeda has never killed a CIA officer, so cutting my head off will make them look good.”

And it might make the rest of us feel good. Sorry. That was not nice. Actually, I was developing some real respect for Chet Morgan. He had balls. He was also crazy, and probably a liar. But very cool, very smart, and apparently fearless.

Chet added, however, “Since I won’t be with you when you all check into the Bilqis Hotel, or go to the ruins and get kidnapped, then I’m not known to be in Marib, and I won’t be offered to Al Qaeda.” He further explained, “Al Qaeda in Yemen equates CIA officers with Predators and Hellfire missiles, and we don’t want to put that into their heads.”

Right. That’s why they’re called spooks. They’re there, but no one can see them. But I was okay with this, and Kate and Brenner seemed to be, too. Buck, of course, already knew this plan.

Regarding the plan, I had a few problems with it, and I asked, “Why would The Panther or Al Qaeda think that Sheik Musa would kidnap Americans if he’s paid to protect Westerners and if he wants Marib to remain a must-see tourist destination?”

“Good question,” replied Chet. He explained, “The sheik has promised Al Qaeda that his tribal lands will be neutral. Tourists and scholars are welcome, but American intelligence operatives are not. They—we—are fair game.”

“Okay. Sounds plausible. But why would Sheik Musa go to Al Qaeda with the six—sorry, five—kidnapped Americans if the sheik is not on good terms with Al Qaeda?”

Chet nodded as though he expected the question and replied, “Money.” He expanded on that. “Al Qaeda believes they have established an accommodation with Sheik Musa, based on money.” He informed us, “Al Qaeda and the sheik negotiated a deal for Al Qaeda to set up their training camp in one of the sheik’s Bedouin camps, so while Al Qaeda doesn’t trust Sheik Musa, they think he can be bought.”

I pointed out, “Sounds like he was bought.”

Chet shook his head and explained to me patiently, “That was our idea, Mr. Corey. Now we know where the training camp is.”

Right. Clever. If true. I asked, “Why don’t we take out the camp?”

“It’s better to watch it.” Chet also let us know, “It appears from Predator observation and from local sources that The Panther never goes to the camp, but if he did, and if we could establish that, we’d have put a Hellfire up his ass a long time ago.”

“Got it.”

“As part of Musa’s neutrality deal with Al Qaeda,” Chet continued, “Al Qaeda is not allowed to carry out any armed operations within Sheik Musa’s tribal territory. But when Al Qaeda kidnapped—and murdered—the Belgians, and made it look like a tribal kidnapping, Musa told Al Qaeda he was pissed off. Al Qaeda denied any involvement in the disappearance of the Belgians, but they gave Musa some money and weapons and smoothed it over. But Musa didn’t believe them, so when he got word of the planned Al Qaeda attack on the Hunt Oil installation, he tipped us off—for ten thousand dollars—and we sent observation drones into the area and relayed the info to the Hunt security forces, who, as you know, were ready for the attack. But Al Qaeda can never be sure who, if anyone, ratted them out—though Sheik Musa told Al Qaeda he was looking into it.”

It was hard to follow the lies and the liars without a scorecard. In the world I lived in, a lie was a deal-breaker—or got you some jail time. In this world, getting caught in a lie meant you needed a bigger and better lie, or at least a nice gift for the guy who caught you in a lie.

Chet said to me, “So to answer your question, Al Qaeda believes that Sheik Musa will make a deal with them, when it is in the sheik’s best interest to do so.” He also added, “The sheik has not canceled the lease on the Al Qaeda training camp—at our request—and Al Qaeda sees that as a positive sign that the sheik is in business to make money.” On that subject, he informed us, “For five kidnapped American intelligence operatives, Al Qaeda will pay the sheik… maybe a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Each?” I inquired.

“No. Together.” He smiled. “Don’t overestimate your worth.”

Right. Life here is cheap.

Chet also told us, “The National Security police were paid about four hundred dollars to do a disappearing act on the Belgians.”

Very cheap.

So, to recap, Sheik Musa was a double-dealing, double-crossing rat fink who was collecting bribes, rent, and retainers all over the place. He’d make a good New York City landlord. And was I supposed to believe that the Al Qaeda attack on the Belgian tourists was a complete surprise to him? Chet believed that. Or said he did. Buck, too. Sheik Musa’s stated goal to make his tribal lands the Switzerland of Yemen—or Arabia Felix—seemed to have some inconsistencies and problems of the sheik’s own making. But this was the Mideast, where nothing made any sense.

Chet, who could guess what I and everyone was thinking, said, “In the end, Sheik Musa knows that he’s staying alive only as long as we don’t let the Hellfires loose on him. He can play a lucrative double game now and then, but we control the endgame.” He looked at us and said, “Hellfire missiles. The deus ex machina of this war. God shooting thunderbolts out of the sky. If you f*ck with God, you’re dead.”

Okay. A little Latin is very convincing. But Chet wouldn’t be the first Westerner who was hustled by the East.

I spent twenty years as a cop dealing with snitches, rat finks, stoolpigeons, and scam artists. And I always made sure they understood that if they double-crossed me, they’d be dead. Or wish they were. When you’re dealing with people who have no moral center, no loyalty to anyone but themselves, you don’t always get the logical results you expect, or the truth that you paid for.

And on that subject, I wondered about Chet’s moral center and his devotion to the truth. Yemen was indeed the land of lies, a place where bullshit was a commodity and deception was the norm. In that respect, Yemeni culture and the CIA culture were not too far apart, despite the CIA’s motto that the truth will set you free. And Chet, I suspected, had himself been corrupted by this culture of lying, and he thought he was better at it than the Yemenis, who he thought were stupid. I don’t know if they’re stupid, but I know they’re cunning. That’s how they’ve survived for three thousand years. And they’ll be here long after we’re gone, which could be soon.

“Mr. Corey?”

I looked at Chet.

“Don’t overthink this.”

I didn’t reply.

Chet continued, “Musa will invite three or four Al Qaeda representatives to come to the safe house, under guard and, of course, blindfolded, to view the kidnapped Americans and to verify who they are.” He reminded us, “Bring your passports. Then Musa will insist, as a matter of honor, respect, and trust, that The Panther himself negotiate the deal to buy the five Americans. Both sides will be allowed a fixed number of armed men, which the sheik will suggest should be ten or twelve, and that meeting will take place outside a goat herder’s hut a few kilometers from the safe house. The sheik assures us that he knows what The Panther looks like, and to be doubly sure, we’ve shown him photos of Bulus ibn al-Darwish, with and without a beard.”

Buck, who as I said knew a thing or two about this plan and this place, informed us, “This type of meeting between equal warlords is traditional in this culture, and a certain amount of good faith is expected on both sides. Nevertheless, both sides are armed, to ensure good behavior, but also to ensure that a third party does not take advantage of the meeting of the important leaders.” He added, “It’s a very medieval protocol, but in this case, the third party, the Americans, are not waiting in ambush behind rocks. We’re watching from five thousand feet, and we can put a missile into The Panther’s teacup.”

Chet said, “If this meeting is to take place, I will call in two more Predators to be on station.” Chet also assured us, “You will not actually be inside the goat herder’s hut, of course. That’s too close to what’s going to happen. You’ll still be in the safe house where I’ll be in the Predator control van, talking to the four Predator pilots and watching what’s going on at the hut, and what’s going on around the safe house.” Chet continued, “Back at the goat herder’s hut, when Sheik Musa recognizes The Panther, he will greet him cordially and give him the traditional embrace and hand kiss.”

Also known as the Kiss of Death.

But to be doubly sure I understood this, I said, “So we’re not going to make an attempt to apprehend the suspect.”

Chet replied, “No, we’re going to kill the terrorist with a Hellfire missile.”

“So I don’t have to read him his rights?”

“He has no rights.”

That’s what I’ve been saying. But it sounded a little harsh coming from Chet. On the other hand… it was a breath of fresh air.

Also, I was a little disappointed that I wasn’t going to whack The Panther myself—or at least be there when a Hellfire turned him into protoplasm. I love the smell of high explosives and burning flesh. But modern war is impersonal. At least I could watch the action on the video monitor from the Predator van at the safe house. Would it be in color?

Chet went on, “After everyone greets everyone, Sheik Musa, as host, will invite The Panther and a few of his lieutenants to sit on a carpet for tea. But before the negotiations begin for the Americans, Musa and his close lieutenants will excuse themselves for a moment and go into the stone goat herder’s hut—maybe on the pretense of retrieving the Americans. When I see this on the monitor at the safe house, I will direct the Predator pilots to fire their Hellfires—two at al-Darwish and his nearby retinue on the carpet, and two at the other Al Qaeda men and their vehicles.” He assured us, “The surviving Al Qaeda guys will be totally stunned, and Musa’s tribesmen will finish them off.” He also let us know, “About the time this is happening, American Air Force fighter-bombers, operating out of a base in Saudi Arabia, will level the Al Qaeda training camp.”

There was a silence in the tent while we all formed a mental picture of what Chet had just outlined. It sounded good… but there were some potential problems with the scenario. Like, people don’t always do what you want them to do, or sit or stand where you want them to sit or stand. Right?

I asked, “What if it’s raining on the outdoor tea party?”

Chet assured me, “It hasn’t rained in Marib in two hundred years.”

That might be an exaggeration, but it sounded like zero percent chance of precipitation.

Chet also informed us, “The second pair of Predators is our security at the safe house, and they will cover us as we drive to the scene to collect some bits and pieces of Mr. al-Darwish and the men around him for DNA and fingerprint ID.” He added, “Some photos, too, though I don’t think there will be any recognizable faces.”

Chet was enjoying this. Hey, you earned it, Chet. Now you can go home and get your head tuned up.

Brenner had a thought and asked, “Won’t this assassination and massacre put a little strain on Sheik Musa’s relationship with Al Qaeda?”

Chet replied, “Sheik Musa, of course, will say he had no clue that the Americans were watching him, and he’ll claim casualties of his own.” He added, “There won’t be any Al Qaeda witnesses alive to contradict his version of the attack. Also, after this, Al Qaeda won’t be much of a problem in Marib province.”

I asked Chet, “Does Musa get the five-million-dollar reward?”

“I think he earned it.”

Right. Better than a hundred thousand from Al Qaeda. I inquired, “How much do we get?”

“The satisfaction of a job well done and the thanks of a grateful government.”

“Same as last time.”

Kate had a good question: “How do we get out of there?”

Chet replied, “As I said, we’ll be covered by two Predators on our way to the scene. The Twin Otter will land on a nearby road and take us across the border into Saudi Arabia to a secret forward base in the Arabian Desert. We turn over the goo bags, the cameras, and our weapons, then the Otter will fly us to Riyadh Airport, where we will hop commercial airliners and fly home, wherever that is.”

No one spoke as we all sat there in the dim, quiet tent, thinking about the plan, or about flying home first class or flying home in a box.

Well, I thought, this plan was based on a lot of past history, some of it true, some of it made up, and some of it not fully evaluated. The plan also depended on a lot of assumptions. The CIA, as usual, had come up with an operational plan that seemed clever, but was actually too clever by half. Keep it simple, stupid. But it might work.

Chet let the silence drag on, then asked, “Questions?”

Kate asked, “Don’t you think The Panther will smell a trap?”

Chet replied, “The Panther, as a devout Muslim, would not believe that the sheik, also a devout Muslim, would betray him to the Americans, who are, of course, infidels.”

I commented, “That’s a good assumption, making me wonder why Musa would set up a fellow Muslim to be whacked by the infidels.”

Chet replied, “The short answer is the five million bucks. But also Musa and al-Darwish don’t have much else in common beyond their religion. Musa is a royalist and Al Qaeda is anti-royalist. Musa is a Bedouin, and the non-Bedouin Arabs, like al-Darwish, look down on the tribesmen. Plus, most of the tribes in Yemen want Al Qaeda out of their tribal lands.” Chet added, “Also, I think Sheik Musa may not consider Mr. al-Darwish a true Yemeni. In fact, he probably thinks of him as an American intruder.”

Everyone in this room is an American intruder.

Brenner observed, “You’re making a good case for why Musa would betray The Panther, but not a good case for why The Panther would trust Musa and come to this meeting.”

Chet nodded, then said, “The Panther needs a win after the Hunt Oil fiasco, and the recent failed ambush of our convoy, so the opportunity to get five Americans—not tourists, but intelligence operatives, including Mr. and Mrs. Corey, who are on Al Qaeda’s kill list—will be so tempting that he’ll talk himself into taking the risk.” Chet added, “The Panther may not trust Musa, but he won’t want to appear fearful and not go to the meeting.” He also told us, “We have a psychological profile on al-Darwish that I’ll show you on the way to Marib. Bottom line on Bulus ibn al-Darwish is that he’s a megalomaniac.” He looked at us and said, “Delusions of grandeur. Extreme egotism and narcissism.”

Like everyone else in this room. Well… the guys. Kate was mostly normal.

Chet continued, “We can discuss this analysis on the plane. But to answer Mr. Brenner’s question and Ms. Mayfield’s concern, the worst-case scenario would be that The Panther just refuses to show up at the meeting to negotiate, buy, pay for, and take custody of the Americans.”

Actually, I could think of a few even worse scenarios, but I saw Chet’s point. If The Panther didn’t show, then we’d just fly back to Aden and try another approach.

Brenner said to Chet, “The plan sounds okay in theory, and I see it’s been well thought out and that you’ve done a lot of groundwork with Sheik Musa. But I don’t trust the Yemenis, and this plan depends entirely on the assumption that everyone from Tariq to Musa is on our side.” He added, “Our lives and this mission are in their hands, and not in our own hands.” Brenner continued, “The only operations that really work are those that are completely run and executed by Americans—or by trusted Western allies. Not paid allies.”

Spoken like a true soldier. And he was right.

Chet replied, “I agree, but that’s not possible in Yemen.” He added, “Ironically, this plan should work precisely because it depends on including some Yemenis in the operation. We’ve never done that before, so The Panther will not think we’re now trusting a Yemeni to help us kill him.”

Chet seemed to have an answer for everything. And they were good answers. And to give Chet some credit, he was putting his own ass out there on the front line. So I guess he believed in this plan.

Buck spoke up. “The plan is not foolproof, but it’s not as dangerous as it sounds.”

“Sure it is,” I assured him.

Buck explained, “The downside for Sheik Musa if he betrays us is so severe—Hellfires and the wrath of the Saudi royal family—that I’m very confident of his loyalty.” He added, “The sheik may switch loyalties next week or next year, but for now the deal is made and he will live up to his end of the bargain.”

Chet agreed and added, “If Musa has changed his mind, he will just tell Tariq to wave us off, and we return to Aden.”

I observed, “Musa may be trustworthy, but all it would take to get us killed is for one of his tribesmen to be working for Al Qaeda.”

Neither Chet nor Buck responded to that, and Chet seemed a bit impatient and got down to the question of our participation in this plan. He looked at me, then at Kate and asked, “Are you all right with this?”

I glanced at Kate, who nodded. I said to Chet, “If you like it, Chet, then we love it.”

“I love it,” Chet assured us. “In fact, I conceived of it.”

Wonderful. It takes an egotist to catch an egotist.

Chet looked at Brenner.

Brenner had probably been betrayed by the natives here and in Southeast Asia one time too many. Nevertheless, he was going to give it another shot and he said, “I’m in.”

“Good,” said Chet. “The A-team is ready to kill The Panther.” He added, “And about a dozen of his jihadists.”

As I said, the bait never likes the plan, but at least Kate and I weren’t the only ones with skin in the game.

Chet, to further incentivize us, said, “I believe, based on what we know of the structure of Al Qaeda in Yemen, that if we kill The Panther and his top lieutenants, and destroy their training camp, then the Al Qaeda attack on the Sheraton won’t happen.”

Buck seconded that and said, “If the Marib operation is successful, Al Qaeda in Yemen will be in disarray and they won’t risk an attack on the Sheraton, which could end in another failure.” He added, “And that is also true for the suspected attack on the embassy.”

Okay. I got it. Captain Mac would be disappointed if he couldn’t kill jihadists attacking the hotel. Same for the Marines in the embassy. But for everyone else in the embassy and the hotel, they would be happy if the attacks didn’t happen—or were at least postponed.

Chet said to us, “We’ll meet in the lobby at midnight. Two DSS vehicles will take us to the airport, where the Otter will be waiting to fly us to Marib.”

This is where the coach gives the team the pep talk, and Buck, our leader and life coach, said to us, “I believe we have assembled an excellent team for this mission, and I thank you for volunteering. There may not be any public glory in this, but somewhere your names will be recorded and known to future generations. You are risking your lives for a cause greater than yourselves, knowing that the success of this mission will make America safer and bring us closer to victory over those who wish us harm.”

Sounds good. Buck had lived long enough to see the end of the Cold War—but none of us would live long enough to see the end of this war.

Chet Morgan got down to specifics and said, “Bulus ibn al-Darwish, al-Numair, The Panther, head of Al Qaeda in Yemen, is a traitor to his country of birth, a mass murderer of innocent civilians and seventeen American seamen, and a sworn enemy of America.” He assured us, “We should have no moral qualms about ending his life and the lives of his jihadists on the field of battle.”

That’s much better than me trying to read him his rights in Arabic.

Chet concluded, “I know someone is watching over us to ensure our success and our safe return home.”

Correct. The Predator drones.

We all stood, shook hands, and left the SCIF tent. Chet went to the balcony to fuel up on whatever, and the rest of us went into the bright light of the hallway.

Buck, obviously not wanting to engage in a post-coital chat, said, “See you later in the lobby,” and walked toward his room.

Kate, Brenner, and I went to the elevator and rode down to our rooms on the third floor.

As I was taught, and as I’d learned over the years, if the goal is simple—like whacking someone—the plan should be simple. When the plan is complex, then something else is going on.