What did Kalisa Harris have? Her .45 and the go-ahead to use it — if she saw an opening. She’d been field-tested plenty and found to be superb in critical situations. She’d already played out a deadly gamble in a hostage rescue in Cleveland two years ago. Four dead. Not the kids.
“You’re gold-plated,” the director himself once told her.
She preferred Kevlar, for all the good it would do if those boys on the bus decided to end the world as they knew it. Her weapon of choice was strapped to her calf under the billowy Carhartts, chosen for that very reason. She was a crack shot. Turned down a spot on the Olympic team to serve her country in the aftermath of 9/11. No regrets.
But Kalisa Harris was sweating. It was “a hot New Jersey night.” She knew that line from some song somewhere. Plenty humid, too, which wasn’t part of any verse that she’d ever heard. The drive had taken much longer than she’d expected, even with a tow truck clearing away abandoned cars that would have stopped her rig. The added pressure of running late bore down on her like a pile driver.
She used the signal code for a guy named Hamza.
“I’m the driver. I’m about to pull in. This Hamza?” The lion. Which made her think that he’d watched one too many Disney movies growing up.
“This is he.”
“Please tell me if you want me to put the diesel in the underground tank or deliver it directly to the bus.”
If he wanted it pumped from an underground tank, because he feared having the tanker truck close enough for a direct fill, then the Geiger counter in the truck wouldn’t work.
“Pump directly from your truck. It will be quicker,” Hamza replied.
Relieved, she said, “Okay, will do. Can you see me?”
“Are you a woman?”
“That would be a big ten-four. Last time I checked, anyway.”
When he didn’t respond, she clicked again. “Yes, I’m a woman.”
She would have bet that gave him a moment of relief.
“How long is the hose?” he asked.
“I’ve got fifteen feet of it.”
“Use all of it. Get no closer. Whom do you work for?”
Whom? This is he? Son of a bitch speaks without an accent and uses perfect English. Not just brought up here, but probably went to a pricey private school. And this is his payback? His manner would have incensed her, if she’d let it. But of course she nipped that dark bud before it could bloom.
She rolled to a stop, answering him, “Richfield Oil. Garden City, Long Island.”
“I don’t believe you. Stay as far away as you can, or I will shoot two girls. The one who could be your sister, and the white one who’s the daughter of the spy.”
Kill either one and I’m going to want a drop to load of hate on your sorry head.
Kalisa left the engine running and opened the door, pausing when she saw that her headlights were shining on the faces of frightened children on the bus. She had no difficulty reading the rich full lips of a young girl pleading, “Help. Please help.”
I’m here for you, little sister. I’m here.
A second later the first click-click from the Geiger counter sounded, loud as a cathedral bell in the silence of that station.
CHAPTER 21
Lana and the SEALs sighted little more than glimmers of light as they neared Sana in the Black Hawk, hinting that the capital might be suffering one of its chronic power outages. No more equipped for final hours of night than a medieval city.
The chopper was the quietest bird Lana had ever flown in. Specially designed blades reduced the whup-whup-whup to a mere whisper. They were to sound what the dark, radar-absorbent material that coated the copter was to electronic detection.
Not that Yemen had a military of note, much less an air force or sophisticated antiaircraft weaponry, though the lack of arms or service personnel trained to use them was not for want of U.S. funding. The last time Lana had checked, the Department of Defense had channeled hundreds of millions of dollars into the dying desert kingdom — for all the good it had done.
Look at us, she said to herself. Trying to chase down the worst attack on the U.S. ever—here. So counterintuitive that she felt certain it would flummox historians for generations to come. Of all places. It was almost as if the Pentagon’s millions for Yemen had actually produced the enemy, rather than softened or eliminated it.
“We’re not going into the city,” Travis reminded her over the headset. He had made no effort to hide his relief at avoiding what he called the “Sana cesspool.”
She nodded, but also gazed out the windows as the high-tech helicopter carved a wide arc of airspace and headed west of Sana’s sprawl. She saw the day’s first light on the ocher-colored mountains and terraced farms, doubting the latter would survive much longer with Sana sucking up the last drops of groundwater.
The Black Hawk eased toward a landing zone far from any dwellings. The pilot set the bird down so softly he might have been laying a newborn in a bassinet. Maternal memories for a mother who could do nothing to save her child.
No, not nothing, she forced herself to remember. Just nothing that you can do directly.
When the dust cleared, she saw another hangar and assumed that she was at a second black site, undoubtedly where some of those millions had ended up. But they had no plans for a stopover, no time for a nap or a satellite hookup to view video of the bus on which her daughter was held captive.
Travis led a quick exit from the chopper into a desert camo — painted Humvee. They were joined by almost half the team, including Gabe from New York. The rest rode in the hulking vehicle’s twin.
The drivers raced side by side, low beams blazing across the flatlands, never taking a road.
“We’re heading for an underground bunker,” Travis informed her. “Without GPS, you could drive right over it and never know it was there. But it has electronics. Crude stuff compared to what you’re used to, but by Yemeni standards, they’re absolutely deluxe.”
“What about Mancur? Where is he?”
“He’s in the city at another location. You’ll be linked up in minutes.”
Ruhi turned on his computer, satisfied when it fired up properly. That gave him great hope in the dim confines of the small room he shared with Lennon, the other four Mabahith officers, and his cousin Ahmed.
Ruhi nodded approvingly as documents appeared on the desktop and opened readily. He looked up as a candle fluttered on the lone windowsill, marveling over the strange juxtaposition: perhaps the world’s most sophisticated laptop, powered by the building’s generator, but a lone candle because the light fixture didn’t work and sunrise was only beginning to brighten the horizon.
But now he found himself waiting… and waiting… and waiting to link to the network established for Lana and him. He clicked on it again… and again… and again, to no avail.
He scratched his head. A familiar impatience overcame him, as it often did whenever a computer failed at what it was supposed to do.
“What’s wrong?” Lennon asked.
“It’s not connecting.” Ruhi had to unclench his jaw to respond.
“She might not be in Yemen yet.”
“This should work if she’s anywhere outside the U.S.” He didn’t need to say why: the decimated grid. “I should be able to reach her, even if she were at Amundsen-Scott.”