“Not a problem. We can land and take off on three.”
“Good. We’ll have to declare some sort of emergency going in.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“Engine out or something like that. OK?”
“As long as I don’t really have to screw up my engines, that’s fine.” The pilot laughed. The long flight had twisted his sense of humor.
Breanna pulled off her headset and got out of her seat. Greasy Hands was snoring behind the pilot, his head folded down to his chest.
“Greasy Hands, wake up,” said Breanna, shaking him. “Wake up.”
“Huh? We’re here?”
“We have a ways to go. About an hour.”
“Oh, OK.”
“Do you think you and the loadmaster could get the Ospreys out of the cargo bay?”
Greasy Hands rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes, then shot a glance across the aisle at the seat where the loadmaster was sleeping.
“Probably,” he said. “I mean, sure. Of course. Why?”
“How long will it take to get them ready to fly?”
“Jeez, I don’t know, Bree. They should be ready to go right out of the box.”
“What if they’re not?”
“I don’t know. Depends.” Greasy Hands pulled himself upright in his seat, trying to think. “It’s all automated. I mean—with this system, it’s going to work or it’s not. Nothing in between.”
“They have to be fueled?”
“If you want to go anywhere.”
The aircraft carried a minimal amount of fuel in their tanks, but not enough for a mission.
“How long will that take?” Breanna asked. “An hour?”
“Depends. Could be a lot longer. Might be less. Though that I wouldn’t count on,” he added. Greasy Hands unbuckled his seat belt. “I’ll go down there and take a look at ’em. Let me know what I’m up against.”
55
CIA headquarters
JONATHON REID HAD JUST BEGUN TO PORE OVER THE LATEST situation report out of Sudan when Breanna’s call came through. He immediately punched it into his handset, resting his chin in his hand.
“Reid.”
“Jonathon, the Ethiopians are being unresponsive. They’ve sent troops to the border—we think they’re planning on pushing the refugees there back. Or maybe just killing them. Our people are right nearby.”
“We’re just getting information from the embassy to the same effect,” said Reid.
He’d also seen an opinion from one of the analysts within the past fifteen minutes speculating that the Ethiopians, under pressure from the Egyptians, would not only refuse to open their borders to refugees, but would seek to actively dissuade anyone from crossing over into the country. They needed little encouragement: Sudanese refugee camps were a notorious breeding ground for terrorists and other “disruptive influences,” as the report put it.
“I’m going to land in Dire Dawa and get our people out,” said Breanna. “We can’t wait for the Ethiopians.”
“I think you’re taking—” Reid stopped short. “I don’t want you risking your own life, Breanna. It’s not your job.”
“Jonathon, I’m here. I have the tools. I’m going to get it done.”
Reid had made similar decisions himself, many times. He knew from experience that the lines looked very clear and bright when your people were in danger and you were nearby.
From the distance, though, they were hazy and complicated. She was suggesting interfering in another country’s affairs, a country with whom they had decent relations, because of a corpse.
And a few hundred refugees. Some of whom might or might not be terrorists, and none of whom were likely to be grateful.
“We’re going to have to tell the White House what’s going on,” said Reid.
“Go ahead.”
“State may object. Among others.”
“I’m not leaving our people.”
“I wouldn’t, either.”
AS SOON AS REID HUNG UP, HE CHECKED BREANNA’S position on the map. She was forty-five minutes from Dire Dawa. If he waited until dawn to call the White House, the operation would be over before anyone objected.
That was the coward’s way.
Let them object. If they gave an order directing her not to proceed, he would simply neglect to call her back. He’d take full responsibility—as soon as the operation was over.
He picked up the phone and called the White House operator.
56
White House
CHRISTINE MARY TODD HAD BEEN A NIGHT OWL FOR MUCH of her adult life. In college, she used the early morning hours to hit the books; when her children were born, she found rising for their nightly feedings somewhat less onerous. As a governor, she’d loved to use the early morning hours to catch up on her reading—not of the newspapers and political blogs, but old-fashioned cozy mysteries, which she was famously addicted to.
But in those days, she’d always been able to grab a nap during the day. Now naps were out of the question.
Still, she stayed up late. Sometimes she had work to do, and other times she simply couldn’t sleep. Her mind refused to shut off. She would lie in bed next to her husband for an hour and sometimes more, occasionally falling asleep, but more often getting up and going down the hall to the room she’d converted into her private study. Her staff knew her habits, and when there was an important call, would try her there before deciding whether to try the bedroom.
Tonight she answered the phone on the first ring.
“This is the President.”
“Mrs. President, I’m sorry to wake you,” said Jonathon Reid. “I expected I would be connected to one of your staff people.”
“You didn’t wake me, Mr. Reid. Please explain why you called.”
“There is a situation in Ethiopia…”
The President listened as he laid it out.
“I will call the Ethiopian prime minister myself,” said Todd before he finished. “That should solve the problem, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.”
“Very well. Let’s see what we can do. Please stay on the line in case they need some background. I trust you can speak to them without giving away any critical secrets.”
57
Eastern Sudan, near the border with Ethiopia
“THEY’RE GETTING READY FOR SOMETHING,” SAID SUGAR, standing on top of the bus and pointing down toward the Ethiopian troops. “They’re mustering behind the trucks.”
Boston reached up and took the binoculars. He wasn’t quite high enough to see over all of the buildings, but what he did see made it obvious the Ethiopians were planning on moving out. Boston saw several of the soldiers checking their rifles as they formed up.
The civilians were in their makeshift camp, milling around aimlessly. They didn’t have any lookouts posted. Children played near the fence and road.
Boston pulled out his sat phone and called Breanna back.
“Things look like they’re about to get pretty desperate over here,” he told her. “What’s going on with the government?”
“We’re going to pick you up,” she told him. “But it’s going to take us another hour and a half to get there. We’re about five minutes from touching down. We’re sending an Osprey.”
“Can you get here sooner? They look like they’re ready to move.”
“Boston, we’re doing everything we can. Are the Ethiopians threatening you?”
“It’s not us I’m worried about. Whiplash out.”
Boston looked up at Sugar.
“Hey,” he shouted, “remember that idea you had for a diversion that I said we weren’t desperate enough for?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, we’re desperate enough now.”
SUGAR’S IDEA WAS TO START A FAKE FIREFIGHT, DRAWING the Ethiopian army away. She’d wanted to move south about a mile to do it, but there wasn’t time for that; they’d have to launch it much closer to their own position, here on the north side of the crossing.
Boston had another idea to make sure they got the Ethiopians’ attention.
“You’re going to set my bus on fire!?!” exclaimed Abul as Boston opened one of the spare gas cans and prepared to douse the interior. They’d already off-loaded their supplies and McGowan’s body.
“We’ll pay double for it,” said Boston.
“Already you are paying ten times what I was promised,” said Abul. “Double is less.”
“Ten times, whatever.” Boston began spilling the liquid liberally down the aisle. “Look at it—it’s all battered anyway. Bashed and whatnot. This will save you the trouble of having to fix it up. You want to be the one to light the match?”
Abul would sooner have thrown himself into the flames. He sat on the steps in the open doorway, dejected, mournful, his head buried in his arms as Boston got it ready. After making sure the interior was as flammable as possible, he rigged three Molotov cocktails next to the driver’s seat—bottles half filled with gasoline that he could ignite to turn the bus into an inferno. With everything set, he leaned over Abul and shouted up to Sugar, who was still watching the border from the roof.
“Sugar, what’s the story?”
“Troops are in formation,” she yelled from above. “The drivers are getting in the trucks.”
“All right, get off!” shouted Boston. “I’ll be back!”
“You better be.”
Boston turned the key. The engine cranked but didn’t catch.
Damn!
He tried again. Nothing.
“Abul! How the hell do you start this crate?”
Abul looked up from the steps. “Pump gas pedal twice,” he told Boston. “Praise Allah, then pump while you turn the engine.”
Boston followed the directions, pumping, cranking, and praying. The engine caught.
“Get off the steps. Stay here with Sugar!” he yelled.
Abul hesitated, then did a half roll forward, staggering off the vehicle.
The fumes made Boston feel a little high as the bus rumbled out of the little crevice where they’d parked. He headed for the road, at first aiming directly for the refugee camp and the fenced border crossing beyond.
Boston took a deep breath as the crossing came into view. He could see the refugee camp to his right. Beyond it to his left were the trucks and the Ethiopian soldiers. They were starting to move.
He began beeping the horn, then turned the bus off the road. The ground was soft, and the battered vehicle wobbled but stayed upright, picking up speed as it started toward the fence.
Boston reached down and slipped a big rock he had taken with him onto the gas pedal, keeping his speed up. Then he took a smoke grenade from his vest pocket, pulled the pin, and dropped it into the makeshift sling he’d set on the mirror. A plume of smoke began trailing from the bus, whipped around by the wind so the bus almost completely disappeared.
The last thing he needed was his lighter, which he’d slipped into his upper vest pocket. But as he fished for it, the bus jerked sharply, and he nearly lost control before he could get both hands back on the wheel. He was moving faster than he’d planned—nearly eighty kilometers, according to the speedometer. The terrain, though it had looked fairly smooth from the distance, was pockmarked with holes and studded with rocks. Dirt and pebbles flew everywhere, a minitornado consuming the vehicle as it sprinted toward the fence.
He’d planned on jumping about fifty yards from the fence, as soon as he was sure he had enough momentum for the bus to get through the fence and maybe jump the ditch. But the swirling dust and the smoke from the grenade, as well as the bus’s speed, made it difficult for him to judge his distance. By the time he grabbed the lighter, he was only thirty yards from the fence. He let go of the wheel, and the bus careened to the right. He pulled back, then flicked his lighter. The jerking bus made it difficult to ignite the wadded fabric in the bottles. He cursed, pulled his hand down—then felt the crush of glass and metal spraying on his back as the bus hit the outer fence.
By now it was going over a hundred kilometers an hour. It sailed right over the tank ditch and pummeled over a second, shorter fence partly hidden in the dirt. Boston flew against the metal rail, then back against the dashboard, as the bus plunged onward. He looked at his hand and realized he’d lost the lighter.
Then he looked up and saw that the rag in one of the bottles was burning.
With a shout, he threw himself down the steps and out of the bus as it careened through the second fence. He landed in a tumble, arms crossed in front of his face, temporarily blinded by the smoke and dust.
The Molotov cocktail exploded, setting off not just the other two, but the fumes that had gathered in the rear of the vehicle. The bus turned into a flaming mass of red, an arrow shooting across the empty plain.
Boston pushed himself on all fours for five or six yards, swimming more than crawling, flailing forward through a tangle of smoke and dust. Finally he hit a clear patch and realized he was going the wrong way. He jerked himself to his feet and began running as quickly as he could back toward the others.
The Ethiopian soldiers had watched the spectacle with disbelief. As the bus finally ground to a halt and began exploding, one of the officers directed a squad to investigate. A fireball shot up; he sent a full company, then ordered the rest of the troops to take up a defensive position as he consulted headquarters.
Up on the hill, Sugar held her breath until she saw a second spray of smoke erupting near the damaged border fence. She realized that had to be Boston, letting off another smoke grenade; he was OK. Sure enough, he emerged a few moments later, sprinting in a wide arc back toward their position.
She went back over to the laptop, which was displaying the image from their last airborne UAV. The Ethiopian soldiers were responding to the bus exactly as they had hoped, moving away from the refugees.
She also saw something they hadn’t counted on—a motorcycle followed by four pickup trucks filled with men, coming toward them from Sudan.
The mercenaries had followed them from a distance the whole way, and hadn’t given up hope for revenge.