The Panther

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO


The eight Bedouin again invited us to dine with them, which was a good sign that we were still their honored guests, because Bedouin hospitality demands that you don’t kill your guests. I mean, from their perspective this was all a big pain in the ass. Not only did the Bedouin have to share their daily goat with us, but they’d also had to deal with the five Al Qaeda a*sholes who, in some existential way, were a threat to their ancient way of life.

We dressed for dinner—Kevlar and guns for the gentlemen; balto, hijab, Kevlar, and guns for the lady.

Buck said he’d be along shortly, after he made a sat-phone call. I, too, excused myself, saying I needed to visit the excrement shaft, so Kate, Brenner, and Chet went down to the courtyard. Zamo ordered goat takeout and went up to the mafraj.

Before Buck made his call and before I hit the shaft, I asked him, out of curiosity, “How many tribesmen live around here?”

Buck replied, “There hasn’t been a census since the Queen of Sheba, but I’d guess there are about thirty thousand Bedouin in and around Marib province, and they make up about ninety percent of the population.” He added, “Musa’s tribe—men, women, and children—number maybe ten thousand.”

I did the math and said, “Five million dollars is about five hundred bucks for every man, woman, and child.” I added, “That’s about a year’s pay.”

Buck informed me, “Musa will actually take the lion’s share, and he will also share some of that with the other tribal sheiks as a traditional courtesy.”

Actually, Musa will be dead, but I asked, “How about bribes to government officials?”

“A few.” Buck asked me, “Why does this interest you, John?”

“Because five million is a lot of money and it’s a good motivator, but big bounties attract other people.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

“Well, Colonel Hakim comes to mind.”

Buck said, “I doubt if the U.S. government would pay Colonel Hakim if he killed The Panther.”

“If they’ll pay Musa for The Panther’s head, they’ll pay anyone for that head.” Except us. We get a paycheck. I asked Buck, “Is the Yemeni government offering a reward for the death or capture of The Panther?”

“Yes, but it’s our money they’re offering.” He reminded me, “Al Qaeda is our problem.”

“How about a Yemeni government reward for the death or capture of Sheik Musa?”

“Definitely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because if the Yemeni government put a price on the head of any tribal sheik, no matter how much they wanted him dead, that would cause a tribal uprising all over the country.”

“So that’s why the Americans are whacking Sheik Musa, as a favor to the Yemeni government. Musa is President Saleh’s problem, but our job.”

“Correct.” He looked at me and asked, “What is it that you don’t understand about this?”

“I don’t understand how we can help a corrupt, brutal, and treacherous dictator and his government kill a tribal sheik who has done nothing to us, and who is helping us in a very important matter.”

“We’ve been through this, John.” He informed me, “I’ve done worse during the Cold War.” He let me know, “The ends justify the means.”

I didn’t reply, but on a related subject of people getting whacked, I inquired, “Did you know that Kate killed a CIA officer?”

He nodded.

I asked him, “Do you think that’s one of the reasons that Kate and I are here?”

“I’m not following you.”

“Of course you are.”

He didn’t reply directly but said, “I believe you and Chet have discussed that.”

“Correct. And he assured me there was no problem.”

“Then there is no problem.”

“I’m relieved.”

“Good.” He asked, “Anything else on your mind?”

“Yes…” I confessed to him, “I want to be a warlord.”

He forced a smile and informed me, “The Panther is a type of warlord, but he can never be a sheik, and neither can you.”

“Warlord is okay.”

“Good. I have a class on that.”

I smiled. Buck was easy to like. But not easy to trust.

The smell of dinner wafted through the window and I said, “Smells like Italian sausage at the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy.”

“Goat.”

“Again?”

I didn’t really have to answer a call of nature, but Buck really did have to make a call in private, so I went down to the courtyard where a fresh, whole goat was roasting on a spit. Good. I hate leftover goat.

Buck joined us a bit later, and Kate said she’d dine in the van and monitor the electronics. I think she felt awkward at a stag dinner. Also, the van was running and the generator was powering the small air-conditioning unit, so Kate shut the doors, saying, “It’s hot in this balto. Enjoy the fresh air, gentlemen.”

Right. A dozen gamey guys and a roasting goat. Does life get any better?

Anyway, after a simple and simply awful dinner, we joined Kate in the van and watched a little TV—Channel One was showing a rerun of the infrared night view of the Crow Fortress, and Channel Two was showing our immediate area of concern, meaning a wider view of the plateaus and the surrounding flatlands. Nothing seemed to be moving out there, except a diminishing herd of goats.

Chet announced that he was going to sleep in the van—which could be locked from the inside—so he could be near the screens, and in case he got a radio or sat-phone call from the Predator pilots, who remained vigilant through the night. Sounded like a good idea. Sleep light, Chet.

The rest of us went up to the diwan and posted our guard—Kate and I took the first shift, Buck and Brenner the second, and Zamo pulled the last shift alone.

During our guard duty, Kate said to me, “I have to be honest with you, John, those Al Qaeda men and those photos shook me up.”

“That’s what they wanted. But you should also be angry.”

“I am… but… I want to get this over with.”

I told her, “You can actually leave. If you think about it, we’re not needed here anymore. Al Qaeda saw the bait, and they won’t see us again. The next thing they and The Panther will see is Sheik Musa, followed by Hellfire missiles.”

She thought about that and nodded, but said, “I’m not going anywhere without you, and I know you’re staying, so I’m staying.” She looked at me. “We need to see this through to the end.”

We actually didn’t, but we did. I said, “If you change your mind, I’m sure we can get you to the Marib airstrip, then to Sana’a Airport, or back to the embassy.”

“This subject is closed.”

“Okay.” We separated and looked out different windows—north and west for me, south and east for Kate.

Right. We could actually leave now. So could Buck, Brenner, and Zamo for that matter. Only Chet had to stay behind to direct the Predators and the Hellfire missiles, and then, if all went well, he could go alone to collect pieces of the garbage. And even that wasn’t completely necessary for a successful mission.

But I, and the rest of us, couldn’t leave Chet here by himself. I mean, our differences and egos aside, we’d sort of bonded as a team. Right? We’d come a long way and all of us wanted to be here to see this through together. Also, I wanted to see what Chet was up to.

And to be honest, we all wanted to see the blasted corpses of The Panther and his jihadists—to smell the burnt flesh and bone—to see what we had done by remote control that we would have liked to have done up close and personal. And, like warriors since the beginning of time, we wanted to take mortal evidence of our victory back to our camp—in this case, a forensic lab. Warfare has changed, but the heart of the warrior remains the same; it remains primitive.