“Yeah, I’m looking at them on the laptop.”
“Who are they? Do you know?”
“No idea. I’d guess rebels, but that’s pretty obvious.”
“Maybe you oughta hide up in the rocks.”
“Maybe. Let’s see what happens.”
BACK AT THE BUS, THE WHIPLASH TEAM MEMBERS WERE developing a shared case of cabin fever. They had spent the better part of the last three days traveling, first to report for the assignment and then to get into position to make the jump. None of them, Boston included, liked the idea that they were sitting and waiting in the desert, as if afraid of a couple of locals in old Jeeps.
Hera pushed her feet against the seat back, trying to keep her muscles from going into spasm.
“Hey Chief—when we are we moving?” she asked.
“Soon as Colonel Freah says we’re good to go.”
“When’s that going to be?”
“It’ll be when it is,” said Boston.
“That’s a line of Plato, isn’t it?” said McGowan.
“Who’s Plato?” asked Boston.
“Plato’s that guy in the Popeye cartoons who ate all the hamburgers,” said Flash.
“No, you’re thinking of Pluto.”
“I know who Plato is, asshole,” snapped Boston, but no one heard him—they were too busy trying to remember the cast of the ancient cartoons.
BECAUSE THEY’D HAD TO SCRAMBLE TO PULL THE OPERATION together, Flash, McGowan, Hera, and Sugar had joined Whiplash as provisional members. There was no question that they were qualified; all had proven themselves in covert operations in the past.
But impressive résumés didn’t make a good team great. Boston knew all too well that the opposite could be true. The success or failure of a group depended very much on the chemistry between them, whether they were trying for a pennant in baseball or sneaking behind enemy lines in battle. Even if he had personally vetted everyone in the group, he still wouldn’t have been sure how they would all work together in the field.
What he’d seen so far didn’t encourage him. They’d pitched in to help secure the gear well enough. But he could tell they were still checking each other out, deciding whether they wanted to trust each other.
“BRUTUS WAS THE GUY POPEYE BEAT UP,” SAID BOSTON, in a tone that suggested the conversation should end. “Wally was the hamburger guy.”
“You’re wrong,” said Flash. “It was Bluto.”
“It’s amazing how grown men can argue about cartoons,” said Hera.
“We aren’t arguing. We’re discussing,” said McGowan.
“This is about as intellectual a discussion as those jawbonis can have,” said Sugar.
“Who are you calling a jawboni?” said McGowan. “I’m Scots—I don’t do jawboni.”
“All right,” said Boston. Sensing the animosity level starting to rise behind the joking, he decided it was time to act less like a chief and more like a kindergarten teacher. “Who wants ice cream?”
DANNY WORKED OUT A PLAN IN HIS HEAD TO AMBUSH THE men in the Jeep if they went into the camp. But it wasn’t necessary. The Jeeps continued up the road without turning off, moving through the hills.
They brought the bus into camp twenty minutes later and began unpacking. The gear seemed to have gained about a thousand pounds in the five miles from the drop. The process dragged as they sorted, stored, and installed. Even Danny grew tired. He kept himself going the last hour or so thinking about Reid’s ice cream.
With everything finally squared away a half hour before sunrise, he divided up the watch, then headed to the house and its makeshift kitchen for a prebedtime snack.
Only to find the ice cream gone.
“You always said the troops were the first priority,” Boston said when Danny asked for an explanation.
“From now on, they’re the first priority on everything but ice cream.”
13
Sudan desert
THE JEEPS THAT DANNY HAD SEEN DID NOT BELONG TO ONE of the rebel factions. They were actually carrying Bani Aberhadji south to a small village about forty-five miles southeast of the base camp.
The Iranian Guard official was visiting the village, located in the shadow of the hills, as part of his inspection tour. The village was under the control of a Sudan rebel and former regular army officer known as Colonel Zsar. Zsar was a comparatively modest man—he’d been a captain when he deserted the army, and a promotion of only two ranks showed considerable restraint. He couldn’t be called humble—a humble man would not have survived here—but he was a devout Shiite Muslim, a minority, if not quite a rarity, in this part of Africa.
Colonel Zsar’s force of fighters totaled over five hundred, and when his loose allies farther east were counted, over a thousand. Just as importantly, he was well-armed, with several pickup trucks and even a pair of armored cars supplementing a small-arms arsenal rich in automatic rifles, grenade launchers, and heavy machine guns. Colonel Zsar had a half-dozen light artillery pieces and several heavy mortars. Rumors of these weapons were widespread and one reason the Sudanese army had never attempted even a token appearance in his area of control.
There were several reasons for Colonel Zsar’s success. Though not a charismatic leader, he was able to influence followers with a calm and reassuring personal style. Though confident in battle, he did not overreach, choosing battles carefully and, like most of the successful rebels, he avoided major confrontations with regular army soldiers on anything less than overwhelmingly favorable terms.
He also had a strong defensive base to work from, protected by the hills and close to the border. Not only was he far enough from the main centers of government control to make it difficult for them to launch a large attack, he was isolated from most of the other rebels as well.
Like other successful rebels, Colonel Zsar had a steady source of income to pay for his army. But his was unique—the village he controlled was a modest manufacturing center, turning out small wooden and clay bowls, miscellaneous pottery, and wooden shovels. Zsar charged the owners a small tax in exchange for keeping order. Lately he had taken over one of the pottery factories himself, and added two others, both related to agriculture. One skinned cows and occasionally other animals, selling the meat and tanning the hides for use elsewhere. The other processed milk—collecting it and pasteurizing it. By Western standards, the operations were small and primitive. But here they were major sources of employment and veritable economic powerhouses.
It was the economic base that had brought Colonel Zsar to Bani Aberhadji’s notice some two years before. And when his emissary in Sudan, Arash Tarid, reported that Zsar was a fellow Shiite, Aberhadji knew he had found the perfect situation.
Tarid was at the wheel of the lead Jeep, driving Bani Aberhadji to the village below Colonel Zsar’s fortress headquarters. Colonel Zsar’s foray into entrepreneurship had been made possible by Aberhadji’s generosity, and he was coming specifically to visit his milk factory.
The colonel had not been notified of the visit. Undoubtedly he would see the Jeeps, realize they belonged to Tarid, and rush to meet them. Aberhadji did wish to see him—the personal touch was important, after all—but first he wanted to see the plant.
“There are no guards?” said the Iranian as they came near the village. It was well-off for Africa, but the ragtag collection of shacklike houses, old huts, and battered trailers and prefabs would have been considered a poor slum in Iran.
“No, they’ve seen us and recognized the Jeeps,” said Tarid. “If they didn’t, they would have fired at us by now.”
“You’re sure of this.”
“Yes.”
Tarid was not himself comfortable with the level of security, but it was typical among the rebels, even extensive. The lookouts might not even have been awake. But even the most alert would know that two Western-style vehicles did not pose an immediate threat, and intercepting them was far more likely to cause problems than merely watching.