The Panther

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE


It was time to join Chet and Buck in Moses’ Red Sea Fish van so Kate, Brenner, and I went down into the courtyard.

The sinking sun cast a shadow along the west wall, and the thirteen Bedouin sat or squatted in the shade, drinking herbal tea and chatting. Little piles of green leaves sat on the ground between them. It was the happy hour.

Kate, Brenner, and I went into the van where Chet was sitting in the left-hand chair, staring intently at the video monitor. Buck was in the right-hand chair doing the same.

Chet’s screen showed the aerial view of the sheik’s goat herder’s hut, with a very close resolution of maybe a few hundred feet.

Buck’s screen had a higher and wider image of the area around the hut, showing a two- or three-kilometer radius. I saw five white Land Cruisers heading for the hut from the east. The Bedouin? Or Al Qaeda? Probably the sheik and his men, who as hosts needed to get there early to make tea.

As we all knew, each of the two Predator drones over the hut had, in addition to video cameras, two laser-guided Hellfire missiles, each with a high-explosive warhead, ready to launch, then seek and destroy whatever was in the crosshairs of the monitors. Awesome.

Chet came out of his electronic trance and said to us, “Look. The sheik is arriving.”

We looked closely at his screen and saw the five Land Cruisers pulling up about thirty yards from the hut, which was farther away than they had been when we’d arrived from the Otter to meet the sheik. In fact, the vehicles were far enough away from the kill zone to avoid winding up in an auto body shop.

As we all watched, the Bedouin began piling out of the five Land Cruisers, and I counted a total of fifteen, all carrying AK-47s, except one—the sheik.

Sheik Musa was distinguishable in his clean white robes and his regal shiwal. I couldn’t see his face, but from this computer-enhanced height of a few hundred feet, I could actually see his awesome proboscis. I mean, that thing cast a two-foot shadow, and probably had its own zip code.

The Bedouin were unloading the SUVs—three carpets, and what were probably crates of bottled water, plus burlap bags of what was maybe bread and tea. They were carrying other things that could have been camp stoves and pots to boil water—but no khat for their Al Qaeda guests. Other than that, they had everything they needed for a Yemeni picnic, even ants in case someone had malaria. And, of course, they had their AK-47s, because later, in a gross breach of Bedouin hospitality, they’d kill any of their guests who hadn’t been killed by the American Hellfires.

Sheik Musa ducked into the hut with a few of his men, and the rest of the Bedouin began setting up for the powwow.

Chet said to us, “The Panther and his men will arrive in about an hour or more. It’s okay to be late, but never early.”

If they had a woman with them, they wouldn’t have to worry about being early. Sorry. That just slipped out.

Chet hit a button on his console and said, “The video is on record. So we can play the final few seconds of Mr. al-Darwish’s life over and over again.”

There was still the question of friendly fire casualties, and Brenner asked Chet about that.

Chet had a ready answer and replied, “The two sides don’t mix. Al Qaeda is on their carpet or around their own vehicles, and the Bedouin do the same. Only the sheik and The Panther sit together on their own carpet and speak privately, and when the sheik excuses himself to go into the stone hut with a few of his men to drag out the Americans, that’s the signal for the Bedouin to take cover.” He added, “I then give the order to fire, and about four seconds later, it’s all over for Mr. al-Darwish and maybe half his men. The Bedouin will finish off the survivors.” He reminded us, “We discussed this in Aden.”

We did, but maybe Chet was still full of shit and everyone down there was going to die. Or at least lose a body part. And then we had to get out of here. Quickly.

Chet split his screen and the left half now showed a wide view of the Crow Fortress taken from one of the second pair of Predators on station over the plateau. Chet said, “There’s no one out there.”

Right. No Al Qaeda army ready to storm the Crow Fortress. So that was one indication that things were going as planned and that The Panther was going to show up at the goat herder’s hut.

Chet said to us, almost matter-of-factly, “There’s been a change of plans.”

A little buzzer went off in my head.

He swiveled his seat toward us, looked at me, Kate, and Brenner, and said, “But a good change.”

The buzzer got louder. Also, I noticed, Buck had been uncharacteristically quiet since we’d entered the van. Was he thinking about something? Or worried about something?

Chet continued, “It has been decided at the highest level that you three will leave here. Now.”

Neither I nor Kate nor Brenner asked why. That was coming.

Chet said to us, “Your role in this mission is finished, and in fact it’s been finished since the Al Qaeda delegation saw you.”

We all knew that, but this was the first time Chet had mentioned it.

He answered the unasked question. “The thinking in Washington was that you would stay around for a few days after these Al Qaeda guys saw you, in case they figured out where they were taken, and in case Al Qaeda was watching the Crow Fortress to attack it or to see if anyone left.” He went on, “But now that everything is in place and moving toward a conclusion, the mission planners want to split the team to ensure that we don’t have all our eggs in one basket.”

Again, the three eggs who were going to be put into another basket didn’t raise any questions. Best to let Chet talk.

And he did, saying, “Buck and I will stay here until the Hellfires do their job. We’ll keep Zamo here for security. And we will also have a Predator overhead for observation and security—the other Predator follows you.” He looked at us again and said, “You will take one of these Land Cruisers and drive it down the north slope, pick up the Sana’a–Marib road, and drive to the Marib airstrip, where you will meet a chartered aircraft—a Company plane—that will take you to a location in Saudi Arabia, and then to Riyadh International Airport and home.” He informed us, “If you push it, you can be at the airstrip in less than an hour.”

Thirty minutes, if I was driving. Wow. This sounded too good to be true.

Chet asked, “Any questions? Any problems?”

It was Kate who said, “We intend to stay here until it’s over. We are going to the scene of the attack with you and we are flying out of there together on the Otter.”

Chet informed her, “That’s not going to happen, Kate.” He reminded us, “These are orders from the top.” He added, nicely, “But I appreciate your dedication.”

Brenner asked, “What’s the purpose of us leaving now? I’m not understanding why we’re splitting up.”

Chet explained, “Something could go wrong as we drive between here and the scene of the attack, or at the scene, or something could go wrong with our rendezvous with the Otter.” He further explained in a paternalistic tone of voice, “There is no reason for all of us to take that risk, and there is every reason to split up so as to ensure that… well, some of us get out of here.”

Right. But who?

Chet added, “We don’t want a situation where the mission is successful but the whole team is lost.”

Like, the operation was a success, but the patient died. Got it.

Kate asked Chet, “Do you think it’s safe for a single vehicle to drive from here to the Marib airstrip?”

Chet assured her and us, “The roads are safe enough in the daylight, and you don’t have to worry about a Bedouin guest kidnapping in Sheik Musa’s territory, and you don’t even have to worry about Al Qaeda, who rarely leave these highlands in the daylight.” He reminded us, “If you move fast, you’ll be at the airstrip before anyone even knows you’re on the road, or even knows who you are. These Land Cruisers are generally recognized as Bedouin vehicles, and as you know, the windows are tinted, but Kate should wear her balto and sit in the rear.” He again assured us, “You’ll have a Predator covering you just in case, and we have sat-phone contact with each other. The drive to the airstrip should be a piece of cake.” He inquired, “Any worries?”

I, like Buck, had remained uncharacteristically silent, but I now asked, “Any reason we won’t have a Bedouin escort?”

Chet replied, “You don’t need that, and quite frankly, if something goes wrong at the scene of the attack, the last thing you want is a carload of Bedouin near you talking to other Bedouin on their cell phones.”

Chet, it seemed, was concerned about our safety and our survival. And he and Buck would do the dangerous job of driving to the scene of the carnage, then they’d do the dirty work of collecting, bagging, and labeling the mortal remains of The Panther and his men, and maybe they’d also take some photos of the dead—as The Panther had done at the ruins. As for Sheik Musa, I was sure he and his Bedouin would be long gone from the scene, either in their Land Cruisers—or on their way to Paradise. So either way, Chet and Buck didn’t have to deal with them. Check’s in the mail, sheik.

And did Brenner, Kate, or I need to be here for any of that? Not really, but I was going to miss the blood and guts, and the smoking bones and flesh. That’s not fair.

Chet asked us, “Any other worries?”

“Worries” was a word designed to make us look and feel like nervous troops who needed to man up and follow orders. Chet, like most crazy people, thought he was the smartest man in the room—or in the fish van. Well, he wasn’t. That would be me.

Anyway, I looked at Kate, then at Brenner, and we exchanged glances of, I guess, acceptance of the situation.

I said to Chet, “Okay. No worries.”

Kate said, “I’m not okay with this, but I understand.”

Brenner said, “I also understand the reasoning. But Zamo will make his own decision about coming with us or staying here.”

Chet said, “His orders are to stay here and provide security.”

Brenner replied, “I don’t care what his orders are. He’s not under your control. He’s under the control of the DSS and me.”

Chet didn’t reply, and Buck didn’t explain to Chet about embassy procedures and protocols.

Finally, Chet conceded, “All right. It’s his decision.”

But we—Kate, Brenner, and me—had no decision to make. We had been ordered to get out. Not by Chet, but by someone at the top. To be honest, I was more than a little ambivalent about this. Getting a head start on the trip home was good, and the road trip to Marib airstrip was a much smaller danger than sticking around here for the fireworks. Still, this was a big disappointment, and I’m sure Kate and Brenner felt the same. But Chet and the mission planners were right—if we split up, there was a better chance of someone getting back to make a full report, and Washington needed a few people alive to congratulate.

Chet said to us, “Take only what you need and be on the road in ten minutes. When you land in Saudi Arabia, you’ll turn in your weapons, Kevlar, and commo, and you’ll be flying up to Riyadh Airport within fifteen minutes.” He further instructed us, “Burn the passports that Buck gave you and take your dip passports for the international flight to the U.S.”

Chet kept mentioning that flight home as though us hearing it would make us believe it was going to happen. And maybe it was. And maybe it wasn’t.

Chet also reminded us, “Stick your head in here before you leave.”

I promised him, “We wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye, Chet.”

He smiled.

I said to Buck, “See you later.”

He nodded, sort of smiled, and said to us, “See you later.”

The now-unemployed members of the A-team left the fish van, mission completed.