The Panther

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE


The straw bed was predictably uncomfortable, and the wool blankets smelled like camels or something.

And now a few words about the excrement shaft; it was basically a six-story indoor outhouse, with a hole in each floor. A squatter. So you had to look up, and if you saw someone’s ass above you… well, too much information. More importantly, the shit shaft could be a means of escape. Always look for an escape.

Buck was kind enough to share a roll of TP he’d thought to steal from the Sheraton. A man who thinks of TP is a man who thinks of everything.

We heard noises in the courtyard and I looked out the window. The eight Bedouin were kneeling and prostrating themselves on their rug, facing Mecca, which around here is northwest.

Buck informed us, “They are performing the noonday salat—the call to prayer.”

I looked at my watch. Right on time.

Buck also informed us that we were invited for lunch with our Bedouin hosts, but unfortunately the invite did not extend to Ms. Mayfield, who though she dressed like a man was still a woman. Kate took that well—she didn’t give a shit and she didn’t want to wear her balto anyway—and she took some bread and water up to the mafraj to keep an eye on our surroundings. Good thinking.

So the men of the A-team went down to the courtyard, and the Bedouin, who pride themselves on their hospitality to travelers, had hot tea for us and bowls of hot oats or groats, or some weird glutinous cereal product.

They also gave us plastic spoons, and Buck commented, “They eat almost everything with their fingers, but they’ve discovered spoons for certain foods.”

There’s progress. Next, napkins.

So we sat cross-legged on the rug with our eight new Bedouin buddies and we ate this glop, which was at least hot. The tea was herbal and did nothing for my cognac headache.

It was a little cooler here in the highlands than it was in Aden at this time of year, and on that subject my calendar watch showed that we’d rolled into March. You lose track of time when you travel back a few centuries.

The stone wall around the courtyard was about ten feet high, and the wooden gate was closed, so no one could see us, but neither could we see anyone approaching. There were, however, a few stone platforms around the walls for observation and shooting. I glanced up at the mafraj and saw Kate standing in one of the open arches with her M4 slung across her chest, enjoying the view through a pair of binoculars.

The Bedouin seemed very interested in our M4s, and Buck, against all regulations and common sense, allowed them to examine his weapon, which they passed around, fully loaded. They seemed amused by the compact size, small caliber, and light weight of the automatic carbine, and they passed around one of their AK-47s to show us what a real rifle felt and looked like. Yours may be bigger than mine, Abdul, but I can paint you red in a heartbeat with my little rapid-fire plastic toy.

The Bedouin also seemed interested in Zamo’s sniper rifle, but Zamo wouldn’t let them touch it and they seemed to respect him for that. But they did want to know about it, and Brenner said it was okay to let them know what this rifle could do.

So Zamo, through Buck, explained that he was carrying an M24 Sniper Weapon System, and it fired a 7.62mm NATO cartridge, which he said could blow their heads off at a thousand meters, though I don’t think Buck translated all of that.

Zamo also said that the U.S. supplied this rifle to the IDF—the Israel Defense Forces—and again I was sure Buck did not translate that provocative fact to these Muslim gentlemen.

They were fascinated by the telescopic sight, and Zamo explained that the magnification was adjustable from three-power to nine-power, meaning that at its highest power, an object that is nine hundred meters away looks like it’s only a hundred meters away.

The Bedouin seemed impressed, and since I can’t keep my mouth shut, I said to Buck, “Tell them that Zamo has killed fifty men with this rifle.”

Buck hesitated, then translated, and the Bedouin all looked at Zamo like he was a rock star. That’s worth another bowl of glop.

Anyway, I wasn’t sure this was a good strategy. I mean, on the one hand, it was good for Musa’s men to know that Zamo could put a bullet through someone’s head from a kilometer away. On the other hand, why advertise what you can do? People should find out the hard way.

Bottom line, though, there was a warrior thing going on here, and the Bedouin wanted to make sure they weren’t being overly nice to a bunch of girly men. You know, like guys who dragged a woman along to do a man’s job.

I mean, we weren’t even on the same planet with these people, but in some strange way I was getting to like them. I thought about bringing two or three of them back to 26 Federal Plaza to show some of the suits what real men looked like.

Maybe I was getting a little carried away with the moment.

Brenner, though, said to the team, “They remind me of the Montagnard tribesmen in ’Nam—basic, no bullshit, brass balls, and ready to kill without hesitation.”

Zamo, who also fit that description, and who’d fought men like this in the mountains of Afghanistan, said, “Guys like these are hard to the core. They live, eat, and breathe war.”

Right. This must be what the world looked like a thousand years ago. But the tribesmen did have modern weapons and vehicles and also cell phones. Things to make killing easier and more efficient. Nice to see, though, that they still carried their jambiyahs and dressed weird. Good for tourism.

Regarding the warrior thing, I’d worn my jambiyah for the occasion and the Bedouin thought that was funny. Unfortunately, by custom, none of us could draw our daggers to pass around—only to cut someone’s throat—but the Bedouin next to me, a guy named Yasir, examined my sheathed jambiyah, and Buck told me, “He says it seems of excellent quality,” making me feel better about the hundred bucks it cost me.

Our hosts insisted we have more tea and they pushed some khat on us that Buck took “for later.” Chet, of course, had his own stash, but he said, “Shuqran.” Thanks.

So I liked the Bedouin. Too bad we were going to whack their sheik. Hey, Abdul, it’s nothing personal. Just business.

Or for all I knew, Chet intended to whack these guys, too, on our way out of here. It would be nice if Chet told us what the hell was going on. But he probably figured that unpleasant information should be rationed out, like shit in a spoon.

Anyway, the picnic lunch was finished and it was time to examine the van.

Buck thanked our hosts for the meal and conversation, and Brenner told Zamo to keep Kate company. I asked Zamo how his arm was and he said it was fine, but it wasn’t. I also asked him to bring Kate some tea and gruel in case she was tired of tawwa bread. I am a great husband.

Chet, Buck, Brenner, and I moved across the courtyard to the twenty-first century.

The thirty-foot windowless box van sat on the chassis of a Mitsubishi truck, and the van didn’t open into the driver’s compartment.

I asked Buck, “What does this say?”

Buck read the Arabic on the van. “ ‘Musa’—which means Moses—‘purveyor of fine fish.’ ” He also translated, “ ‘Fresh to market from the Red Sea.’ ” Buck smiled and said, “Someone in Washington had fun with this.”

Right. A real knee-slapper. Musa—Moses—Red Sea. Get it?

Anyway, Chet did the honors and unlocked the padlock, opened one of the rear doors, and jumped inside. We all followed.

The interior of the van was high enough for us to stand, and the walls, floor, and ceiling were lined with Kevlar and, I assumed, lead. Unsurprisingly, there was no fish inside. Instead there was a large electronic console in the front of the van, similar to a pilot’s cockpit array. In front of the console and the twin monitors were two swivel chairs.

Chet took a seat in the left chair and he invited Buck, the oldest gentleman, to take the other seat. Brenner, ever vigilant, stood against a wall where he could divide his attention between the courtyard and the van.

There were a few more electronic devices mounted on the long walls of the van, and on the floor were metal boxes marked with the names of the replacement parts that they contained. More importantly, there were three cardboard boxes of canned food on the floor and I read the American brand labels—mixed fruit, mixed vegetables, and, maybe as a joke, canned tuna. Who’s supposed to eat this shit? Where’s the chili? Is this the best those bastards in Washington could do?

Chet said, “The electronics are low-powered so that everything can be run from our onboard generator.” He hit a switch on the console, and a few seconds later I could feel the vibration and hear the steady hum of the generator from somewhere under the floor. Chet also informed us, “There are electrical outlets in here so we can recharge our sat-phones, cell phones, and hand-held radios.”

Chet glanced up at a gauge on the panel. “Voltage is steady,” he announced as he hit another switch and the dark console suddenly lit up. “We’re in business.”

Chet played with a few dials, then switched on the two monitors and we immediately saw moving images on the screens—aerial shots in full color of two different landscapes gliding by.

Chet read some electronic info on his screen and said, “The right-hand monitor is the view from a Predator drone that is, at this moment, running autonomously—meaning without an active ground pilot. The drone is executing a reconnaissance flight over this area using a pre-programmed computer plan.”

The screen showed the rugged and unpopulated terrain west of here that we’d flown over last night. It was easy to see how guerrilla forces could disappear in those hills. And easy to imagine The Panther making those hills his home. It might not be so easy to draw him out of there. But with the right bait—Mr. and Mrs. Corey and company—The Panther might come out to eat his former American compatriots.

Chet said to us, “The images from both these Predators are transmitted by Ku-Band satellite link to this van and also to a ground control station where one or two pilots and aerial image specialists are sitting at a console similar to this one—in a van or in a room.”

I asked, “Where is the ground control station?”

Chet gave me a CIA reply. “It doesn’t matter. Could be in Saudi Arabia, could be an Air Force base in the States, and it could even be at Langley.” He also had a Zen reply. “With satellites and advanced electronics, real time is more important than real place. The only real place that matters is the target.”

Whatever. Thanks. I also asked, “Where are the Predator drones based?”

Chet replied, “I really don’t know or care to know.” He added, “And neither do you.”

Actually, I do, a*shole. But I let it go.

Chet continued, “The pilots have a flight control stick like this one, but my stick is deactivated.”

Have you tried Viagra? Maybe less khat.

Chet confessed, “I’m not a pilot. But I can speak directly to the pilots and instruct and guide them regarding what I want or need.” He reminded us, “I am the one who has operational control of the Predator drones and the Hellfire missiles during the execution stage of the mission.” To make sure we understood, he also said, “I, along with the aerial image specialists, identify who or what is the target and I give the order to the pilots to launch the Hellfires.”

Right. That’s why it’s called the execution stage.

Chet, on a little power high, also said, “This is what we call SAA—stealthy aerial assassination.” He concluded, “Awesome.”

Indeed. But not as awesome as me blowing The Panther’s head off with my Colt .45.

And then there was our sometime friend Sheik Musa, who was a full-time enemy of our sometime friend President Saleh. Some genius in Washington had figured out how to make this plan work for everyone. The idiots in Sana’a feared the tribes more than they feared Al Qaeda, but the Americans were obsessed with wiping out Al Qaeda. So if we put those two obsessions together, then Washington and Sana’a, the so-called allies, could solve their different problems in the same way—a thunderbolt out of the blue. It actually was a smart idea, and even Sheik Musa, who knew a few things about double-dealing, would appreciate it. Probably The Panther would, too. They could both talk about it in Paradise.

Chet directed us to the screen in front of him and said, “That’s us.”

And sure enough, there was a nice overhead image of the Crow Fortress on the screen. The slow-flying Predator drone was flying a tight circle over the plateau and we could see a few hundred meters in all directions, including the road we’d taken here, and also the better road that came from Marib in the north.

Chet punched in a command on the keypad and the Predator’s camera enlarged the view of the fortress. I could see the Bedouin in the courtyard, sitting around, chatting and chewing.

Chet said, “The Predator is about ten thousand feet, but with the fifteen-hundred-millimeter computer-enhanced zoom lens, the view looks like it’s from about fifty feet.”

In fact, one of the Bedouin was taking a leak against the stone wall and I could see he wasn’t circumcised. Okay, maybe I assumed that.

Chet put his headphones on and made radio satellite contact with the ground control station. “Clean Sweep zero-zero, this is Clean Sweep six-six. Commo check.”

A few seconds later, a voice with a nice Down South accent came over the speaker. “Sweep six-six, loud and clear.”

Six-six said to zero-zero, “I called in a sat-phone sit-rep at five hundred hours, and I repeat, all okay.”

“Roger, six-six.” Zero-zero inquired, “Whacha’all have for lunch down there? Looked like grits.” Zero-zero laughed.

Hey, were we having fun or what?

Chet, a.k.a. six-six, and zero-zero, whoever and wherever he was, exchanged some technical information, then Chet said to zero-zero, “I’ll give you a heads-up when Clean Sweep is mobile—two small white SUV Hiluxes that you see here, plus the three white larger SUV Land Cruisers containing local escorts. Destination, Bilqis Hotel, Marib. Details to follow.”

“Roger. Predator Two will follow. Predator One remains on station above you.” He added, “Both heavy.” Meaning armed.

Chet also told him, “I’ll be away from this station until the team goes mobile, so if you see anything in the area that we should know about, call my sat-phone. If I’m not able to receive, you have the five other sat-phone numbers.”

“Roger.” Zero-zero asked, “Anything further?”

“Negative.”

Zero-zero said, “Good luck.”

Chet signed off and said to us, “I wanted you to see and hear that everything is in place, and that we are covered by the Predators.”

Wonderful, Chet. But can the Predators predict if our Bedouin buddies are going to smell a double cross and whack us? Or worse, turn us over to The Panther? No. We have to figure that out ourselves.

Chet explained a few other features of the Predator monitoring equipment and informed us, “As I said in Aden, during the execution stage of the operation we’ll have four Predators. Two over the target, and two over this location for security, each armed with two Hellfires.” He further explained, “I can split these two screens and watch all four images.”

I asked Chet, “How do we get this million-dollar van out of here?”

“We don’t. We can’t.”

“So the Predators take care of it?”

“Correct.”

That’s why my taxes are so high. I said jokingly, “I assume we will be out of the van when the Hellfire hits it.”

“That would be a good idea.”

The show-and-tell seemed to be finished, so Chet, Brenner, and I each took a case of canned food and we exited Moses’ fish van and Buck locked it up.

Buck said we should share our bounty with our hosts, to reciprocate for their hospitality—thanks for the glop, here’s a can of tuna—so we did that and made our way back to the second floor of the tower.

Chet seemed upbeat, and I imagined he saw the end in sight—the end of all his work and his frustration, and the end of his time here in Yemen.

All we had to do now was go check into the hotel, go see the stupid ruins, then get kidnapped.

And then wait for The Panther.