Buck slowed down, and so did we. It’s times like this when you fully appreciate fully armored vehicles. Beats the hell out of a Kevlar vest.
I took my M4 off safety and told Kate to do the same. Brenner drew his Colt.45.
Buck stopped about fifty meters from the men and they waved their arms to continue on. Like, “Come on, people. Haven’t you ever seen four guys in robes with assault rifles?”
The cell phone wasn’t ringing, so I guess Chet and the Predator pilot were okay with these guys-or the pilot was about to put a Hellfire on them.
Our trail vehicle caught up to us, then our hand-held radios all crackled and Buck’s voice said, “They’re Musa’s tribesmen.”
Buck continued on and we followed. I reminded Kate, “Scarf. Don’t make eye contact unless you’re firing at them.”
Brenner thought that was funny.
As Buck drew abreast of the Bedouin, he lowered his window and did his peace greeting-As-salaam alaikum-which they returned. So I lowered my window and called out, “Shalom! Aleichem!”
Kate said, “That’s Hebrew, John.”
“Sounds the same.”
We continued on, and our trail escort dropped back.
We came down into the flatlands and followed the rutted track north through a sparsely populated area of small irrigated fields and brown pastureland where skinny goats wandered around looking for something they might have missed. Life here is tough. And short.
Brenner, Kate, and I made small talk, because to keep talking about the mission sounds like you’re a little jumpy. And that was not cool.
Brenner informed us, “I once flew to the Marib airstrip from Sana’a-about a year ago, before things started to go downhill here.” He explained, “Some VIPs from Capitol Hill wanted to see the ruins, and I led an advance team from the embassy to check out the security situation.”
“And?”
“And I strongly suggested they not come here.” He added, “It was okay for tourists… until the Belgians disappeared last summer. But I couldn’t guarantee the safety of congressmen and their staffs.”
I said to him sternly, “Are you telling me that you missed an opportunity to get rid of some congressmen?”
That got a laugh. I’m way funnier than Paul Brenner.
Anyway, we intersected a paved road, and Brenner followed Buck, who turned right-east toward Marib.
Brenner said, “This is probably the Sana’a-Marib road. The one we saw the sign for in Sana’a.”
Right. And I thought Sana’a wasn’t safe. Sana’a was looking like Geneva about now.
Bottom line about third-world travel is this-there’s always someplace more dangerous and fucked up than where you are. In this case, however, we had reached the very pinnacle of Places You Don’t Want to Visit.
We continued east, toward Marib. I was looking forward to a cold beer and a hot shower in the hotel before I got kidnapped.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
As we approached Marib, Brenner suggested to Kate that she rewrap, and I assured her that the black scarf made her look more mysterious-and thinner.
We entered Marib, which was a ramshackle but bustling town-the provincial capital, according to Brenner, and the only market town for many miles.
The main street was a collection of open-front shops and stalls, government offices, and a few gas stations, but not a single saloon. But to make the town lively, nearly every male was carrying an automatic rifle. I also noticed there was nothing ancient about the place, and Brenner explained, “This is New Marib. Old Marib is a few kilometers from here and it’s mostly abandoned.”
“Why?”
“The Egyptian Air Force bombed it in 1967.”
“Why?”
“Marib was royalist during the civil wars, and the Egyptians were allied with the republican government in Sana’a.”
These people went to war the way kids choose up sides for a football game. And we’re getting involved in Yemen, why? They don’t need us to help them kill each other.
The town smelled of diesel exhaust and dung, but I also caught the aroma of the outdoor grills in front of the food shops and my stomach growled. Maybe I should eat that tuna.
I asked Brenner, “Where exactly is the Hunt Oil installation?”
He replied, “About sixty miles north and east of here. At the edge of Ar Rub al Khali-the Empty Quarter.” He told us, “It’s a hundred twenty degrees Fahrenheit in the summer.”
“How come oil is always located in shitty places?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that geologists think the oil fields are huge and extend into Saudi Arabia. We thought we could control this oil because Yemen is weak. But then Al Qaeda showed up.” He also told us, “This installation is heavily fortified, but the oil wells can’t be expanded until the threat from Al Qaeda is eliminated.”
“Right.” I asked, “Who the hell would want to work there?”
“There are only about a dozen Americans there. The rest are foreign workers and Yemenis. And mercenaries for security.”
“How much do the mercenaries get?”
“I hear about two thousand a week.”
I said to Kate, “Honey, I just found us a better job.”
“Send me a postcard,” said Mrs. Corey through her scarf.
Anyway, we continued to move slowly along the dusty, vehicle-choked main drag, and I asked Brenner, “Where is this hotel?”
“The Bilqis is just outside of town.”
“Did you stay there?”
“No. I was just here for the day. But I checked it out for the VIPs. It’s not bad.”
“Is there a bar?”
“No. Strictly forbidden in Marib province.”
The cold beer in my head evaporated like a mirage. I hate this place.
Buck made a right turn and we followed.
Brenner informed us, “The other guests at the Bilqis are foreign aid workers, oil company visitors, the occasional American intelligence officer, and other shady characters.” He thought that was funny, and added, “The passports of arriving guests are faxed to the National Security Bureau and the Political Security Organization, and photocopies are also sold to Al Qaeda. Or maybe they get them for free.”
“Probably free.”
The town thinned out after a few hundred yards, and up ahead on the right I could see a long white wall with two open gates, which Brenner said was the Bilqis Hotel.
Buck pulled over before we got to the gates and so did Brenner.
We had to get our rifles out of sight, which was why we had Chet’s duffel bag.
I noticed that the two Bedouin Land Cruisers in front of us had continued on, and the trail SUV now passed us and kept going.
Buck and Zamo were out of the Hilux and we got out, leaving our M4s in the vehicle.
Zamo was carrying the duffel bag, which was long enough to hold his rifle and big enough to hold our four compact M4s.
Zamo threw the duffel in the backseat, then got in the Hilux and gathered up our weapons and magazines, putting them in the bag and wrapping them in what looked like Chet’s underwear.
Buck asked us, “Did you enjoy the ride?”
Why does he always say things like that?
No one replied, which was his answer. Buck briefed us, “We check in, go to our rooms, and meet in the lobby in, say, thirty minutes.” He assured us, “That’s enough time to enjoy a quick shower.”
Buck had new passports for us-same names, same photos, but different passport numbers, and these passports had standard blue covers, i.e., not diplomatic. Now we were tourists.
I asked Buck, “Where did our escort go?”
“I don’t know, but I know we’ll see them again later.”
“Will they be kidnapping us?”
“Correct.”
“Good.” I wouldn’t want to be kidnapped by strangers.
Zamo had finished wrapping our hardware in Chet’s underwear, and we all got back in our vehicles.
Buck drove up to the big double gates and we turned in.
At the end of a long drive was an unexpectedly large hotel of white stucco, consisting of two three-story wings that flanked a single-story entrance structure. The hotel grounds were landscaped and irrigated and it was almost jarring to see green.