SUDAN
Enriched by the fertile soil of the Gash River delta, Kassala was known for the fruit groves and grape fields spread out for miles around the city proper, where its low, flat-roofed homes were laid out in a rectangle around a spacious open-air souq. There the crops were brought by donkey, truck, and camel train and sold from dawn to dusk, the citrus fruits, mangoes, pomegranates, and melons arranged around the market’s ruler-straight borders, where they overflowed their baskets among the woven goods of Beja artisans and the silver bracelets, necklaces, and charms crafted by women of Rashaida origin.
The prevailing religion in Kassala was Islam; the ethnic mix varied. Brown jute waistcoats over their long white robes, turbans wrapped around their taqiyahs, steel longswords at their waists, and wooden boomerangs across their backs, the Beja clansmen, who composed the majority of the village’s population, would often mill about the souq to trade for the superior livestock of the more colorfully dressed Rashaida nomads, whose sheep and goats were herded on seasonal migrations between the village and the Eritrean lowlands.
Kealey, Abby, and Mackenzie had driven from Khartoum in the crepuscular gloom before sunrise, Mackenzie at the wheel of the Jeep, their route following the main road out of the city southeast along the Blue Nile to Wad Medani, then turning due east across 150 miles of irrigated grain fields and parched sandy expanses to Gedaref, where the terrain gradually transitioned to rolling green hills.
Mackenzie drove mostly in dour silence. Just the day before he had helped lift the bloody remains of Jacoby Phillips from the rear section of the very Cherokee that he was now navigating toward Kassala. He and Phillips had been pretty good friends. They had often exchanged war stories-Mackenzie sharing some of his exploits in Afghanistan, Phillips speaking of his time disrupting Saddam’s communications infrastructure in the Persian Gulf. They had talked, on occasion, of getting together when they finished with their hitches in Sudan. Mackenzie, who’d inherited a family home on the Tennessee River at the Kentucky border, had told Phillips of the catfish traps they would lay in the morning from his outboard, and had explained how they would go out on the boat that same evening and bring in a haul for the community fish fry. Phillips had laughed about it. Community fry? We can catch that many fish in a single day? Mackenzie had explained you didn’t need to, not if you brought along plenty of bourbon to keep everyone happy.
The trio inside the Cherokee rolled on through the sunrise and early morning. By full daylight the uneven macadam beneath their tires had swung back north into flat plains and desert, clinging to the old British railway tracks near the Ethiopian and Eritrean borders as it took them first to the little village of Shobak, then under the loom of the twisted, humped Taka Mountains.
They had not been concerned with military checkpoints. Nor would they have to be as they neared their destination. The U.S. secretary of state and the foreign minister of Sudan had had a back-channel chat during the night and had arranged for a subsequent top secret conversation between their respective presidents. And when Omar al-Bashir and David Brenneman had spoken, Brenneman had advised Bashir of intelligence he’d received that vindicated him as far as having staged the assault on Camp Hadith and the murder of Lily Durant. While vague on many details, he had made it unequivocally clear that the United States, and indeed the world, had been deceived by subversive elements within Sudan who had planned to undermine the Bashir government, seeing that it was held responsible for the blatant atrocities committed against Camp Hadith’s starved, sick refugees and the U.S. president’s beloved niece. Finally, Brenneman had suggested that their mutual cooperation in bringing the conspirators to justice could lead to more than just a temporary thaw in relations between the two nations, but perhaps to a relaxing of trade embargoes and other long-term improvements in their relationship-including a U.S. reevaluation of its stance on Bashir’s international criminal status. And naturally Bashir had jumped at the deal.
Kealey hated that his government was now accommodating one bloody monster in order to stop another that it had given fangs and claws. He hated the facile blurring of moral lines and, most of all, hated feeling that he was being used as a pawn in a dirty political game.
But he had gotten involved with the Agency again for one and only one reason. For him it began and ended with the photograph that John Harper had shown him in that Pretoria bar, the snapshot of a plain, dark-haired woman in her midtwenties, an aid worker surrounded by starved-looking African children, her infectious smile somehow managing to catch hold on their gaunt, hollow-eyed faces.
He wanted the man who killed Lily Durant. He wanted him more now than ever. Call it justice; call it revenge; it didn’t matter. He could taste his desire for it at the back of his tongue, as he had tasted it every moment since he’d seen that picture…
And it was bitter. Unbearably bitter.
“That’s Jebel Atweila, about a mile east of us,” Mackenzie said. He pointed out the right side of his windshield. After passing through the main checkpoint into Kassala, he had crossed the Gash River over the bridge spanning its narrows and looped around the eastern edge of town, leaving the rutted blacktop behind for dirt and gravel tracks, then swinging completely off road toward the heaving escarpments. “The other two mountains are Taka and Totil.”
Kealey looked at his chronograph. “Almost noon,” he said. “Mirghani’s people should be there about now.”
Mackenzie steered toward Atweila and was soon bumping over the pebbly deposits spread out around the slope, glancing repeatedly at his GPS unit to check his coordinates against those that had been preset for their meet. Sticking close to the base of Atweila, he continued around it until he spotted a rock-strewn switchback in the shadow of a large, anvil-shaped spur. When he got there, he swung onto it, twisted up the mountain for about 50 yards, jounced to a halt, and cut the ignition.
Kealey glanced around at their surroundings, reached for his door handle, and got out, Mackenzie and Abby exiting with him. Seth Holland’s Glock 35 was in a sidearm holster under his Windbreaker, which also concealed the Muela combat blade he’d bought back in Yaounde and carried in a sheath at his waist.
They had hiked 30 or 40 feet up along the switchback, taking several winding turns, when a group of fighters appeared from behind a knobby granite outcrop…almost all of them in khakis, head scarves, and combat boots, standing openly in the baking sun. All had rifles on their shoulders-M14s, AK-47s, Steyr and FAMAS bullpups.
Kealey and his companions stopped, waited as a wiry man with a short, dark beard on his tanned face approached.
“ A s’amaa zarqaa, ” Mackenzie said.
The bearded man gave his response to the code phrase. “Wa quul id-diir.”
They shook hands, had a brief exchange in Arabic. Then Mackenzie turned to Kealey. “This is Tariq…Ishmael Mirghani’s second in command,” he said, making their introductions. “Tariq, Ryan Kealey. And Abby Liu.”
The fighter extended his hand to Kealey and gave Abby a polite nod in keeping with traditional Islamic custom toward women. Then he returned his gaze to Mackenzie.
“Your trip has been without difficulty?” he said, speaking English now.
“Happily so.” Mackenzie gave a nod. “We are grateful for the invention of the GPS.”
Tariq grinned. But Kealey had noticed that not all the men were quite as demonstrative in their welcomes-quite a few of them eyeing the Westerners with narrow mistrust.
“Our camp is around the mountain in a…how do you say…kerf?” Tariq touched the fingers of his hands together to form a kind of wedge.
“A notch,” Mackenzie said.
Tariq nodded. “It is a short distance from here.”
“How many of your men have come?” Kealey asked.
“Half again the number you see with me now,” Tariq said. “We hope more will arrive before the day ends. The rest go north but will not take arms with Commander Nusairi.”
Kealey considered that. Mirghani had not wanted to arouse Nusairi’s suspicions by holding back his guerrillas from the attack and so had sent them along as if to join his forces. But they would experience convenient delays that would keep them from sharing the same fate as the raiders-if things went as planned.
“Do you know where Nusairi is right now?” Kealey asked after a moment.
“He arrived in the city with some men yesterday and stayed overnight in Sikka Hadiid,” Tariq said. “That is where he met the other. There are still many buyut- ”
“The other?” Kealey interrupted.
“A Westerner like yourself,” replied Tariq.
“About the same age and height? Brown hair?” Kealey asked.
“Yes.” Tariq touched his own eyes. “He wears naddaaraat. ”
“Glasses?”
“Yes,” said Tariq.
Kealey turned to Mackenzie. “Cullen White,” he said.
“So the son-of-a-bitch bastard flew out of Khartoum after he shook me,” Mackenzie said, nodding. “The Sikka Hadiid is Kassala’s old railway quarter… I’d guess it’s three, four kilometers west of these mountains and across the Gash. I’ve been there before. Tell you about it later.” He briefly raised his eyes to Kealey’s to indicate it was something he wanted to discuss in private. “The British railway station was built right around the turn of the last century. It was abandoned a long time ago, but most of the structures are intact. When you walk around the area, you see some big colonial buildings where the Brit administrators lived, and then rows and rows of round huts built for the workers and their families… They’re spread out pretty good. Some are modernized inside, kind of like bungalow hostels, but a whole lot of them have hardly changed in a hundred years-there’s no electricity or running water. The locals have short-term rentals for travelers. Student backpackers, different types.” He gave Kealey another confidential glance. “They’re what Tariq called buyut. ”
The rebel was nodding.
Kealey stood rubbing his chin in thought.
“What about the tanks and helicopters?” Abby said, breaking her attentive silence. “Have you seen them?”
“See, no,” Tariq said. “But I know they came ashore at Zula in Eritrea and were brought across the border by truck. And I know they are to strike in two places. Some go toward the Nile between Khartoum and Ed Damer…perhaps two hundred fifty kilometers to the west of us.”
“Where the oil pipeline from the fields down south follows the bend of the river to the Suakim oil terminal outside Port Sudan,” Mackenzie said. “It runs for almost a thousand miles and delivers three or four hundred thousand barrels of crude a day.”
“And the rest of the attack force?” Abby asked.
“It goes north.”
“To the Suakim terminal-and the nearby refineries,” Abby said.
Tariq’s head went up and down.
“All right,” Kealey said. He looked at Tariq. “I assume you have men keeping watch on Nusairi?”
“Yes, of course,” Tariq said. “He remains for now in Sikka Hadiid…and I do not believe he will try to leave until after nightfall.”
Kealey grunted, massaging his chin some more. “I think you’d better lead us to your camp so we can talk about making sure that doesn’t happen,” he said.
“Brynn, hello. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to return your call earlier,” said Israeli prime minister Avram Kessler over his secure line. He was staring out the window of his study at Bet Agion, his official residence in Rehavia, Jerusalem, watching night settle over the ancient city. “I’m afraid it’s been one of those days…”
“It’s like old times at Northwestern, isn’t it?” Brynn Fitzgerald said from her White House office. “Some things never change, Avi. You and I were always trying to make arrangements and going back and forth with our voice messages until it was too late. And then, of course, Lee would try to join in and further complicate things.”
Kessler had heard her tone suddenly grow subdued. Kessler, whose parents were American Jews, had done his undergraduate studies at Northwestern University along with Fitzgerald and their mutual friend Lee Patterson, the U.S. ambassador who had been killed riding alongside Fitzgerald when her motorcade was attacked in Pakistan the year before.
“I suppose the only difference is our game of phone tag’s just gone international,” he said. “What’s going on, Brynn? Your message sounded urgent, and I had a strange premonition it meant your esteemed commander in chief had decided on taking overt military action against Omar al-Bashir.”
Silence.
Kessler’s face drew taut. “Brynn…I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Let’s say your psychic receptors were well tuned but the signals hit interference somewhere over the Atlantic,” she said. “Avi, we need your help.”
“If you mean insofar as providing a staging area for an attack, I’ll need to bring the Defense Ministry into this conversation-”
“I don’t, but he’ll need to be brought in, anyway,” Fitzgerald said. “And probably several other members of your cabinet. Internal Affairs, Internal Security…but these talks will have to be brief.”
Kessler’s thoughts suddenly did a double take. It was something she’d said a moment ago. He had had a long day meeting with heads of the Knesset, and he was feeling laggy. “What kind of ‘interference’?”
“I was thinking back to February oh-nine, when your planes hit that arms convoy in Sudan.”
“Reportedly,” Kessler said.
“Right, I stand corrected. When a squadron of F-sixteens reportedly hit seventeen trucks full of illegal Libyan arms in the Hala’ib Triangle. This occurred as they were reportedly being driven toward the Egyptian border by smugglers from Sudan, Ethiopia, and Eritrea, who intended to slip them through tunnels in Gaza to Hamas.”
“I do recall the stories in the press,” Kessler said.
“They followed reports that you’d knocked out a small convoy the month before with Hermes four-fifty drones out of Palmachim Air Base, though a little chirping birdie told me you’d moved them to Navatim. My recollection of the February story is that you’d made several passes and used the drones to assess the success of each one-”
“Brynn?”
“Yes?”
“Did that birdie happen to be wearing a yarmulke?”
A sober laugh. “Avi, you’re moments from receiving a classified intelligence packet via e-mail. It will tell you about a strike force equipped with two convoys of tanks and support helicopters that is preparing to invade or possibly destroy the northern oil pipeline and refineries. We do not have real-time intel about their current position, but we know they are close to their staging ground and that the siege is imminent.”
Kessler gripped the phone more tightly in his hand. “Who’s behind this?”
“An alliance of rebels led by Simon Nusairi,” Fitzgerald said. “I suspect your Mossad has exhaustive dossiers on him, but we’ll share all our own information.”
“It doesn’t sound like he has your backing.”
“He absolutely does not,” Fitzgerald said. “This attack must be stopped. But given the immediacy of the situation, the United States does not have sufficient resources in place, or time to move those resources to do so. And we are asking a favor of your nation that, if granted, will be something I promise you will not regret.”
Kessler inhaled. “You want us to launch a mission on behalf of Omar al-Bashir?”
“It isn’t that simple. We are cooperating with Bashir to defuse a situation with dangerous global ramifications. Should you opt to assist us, he will lift the no-fly zone over certain sections of his country to allow your aircraft total operational latitude.” She paused for a good ten seconds. “I will be up front with you, Avi. There may be diplomatic compromises forthcoming between my government and the Sudanese concerning Bashir’s status. But you have my assurance we will in no way remain passive if his regime commits further acts of blatant ethnic violence inside its borders…or attempts any aggression beyond them.”
Kessler thought he’d taken another breath, but wasn’t sure, and consciously told himself to do it. Then he tapped his computer out of its idle mode, opened his e-mail program, and noted the new message in the queue.
“I see your packet’s arrived,” he said.
“Read it and get back to me,” Fitzgerald said. “Don’t worry about another round of phone tag, either… I’ll be standing by for your call.”
It was shortly before sunset when they took the bridge over the Gash to Sikka Hadiid, having left the east side of town and gone around and past the souq in a motley procession of vehicles. Kealey, Mackenzie, and Abby kept their Cherokee behind Tariq, who was in a battered Outback with several of his fighters. The rest of their group-its head count had grown to two dozen men as they filtered into the mountain camp throughout the day-rode in a dusty Jeep Wrangler, a Volkswagen hatchback, a Hyundai wagon, and an aging Ford sedan.
On the west bank of the river the Hyundai split off from the line and pulled under the trees outside a cultivated patch of farmland. Behind the wheel of the Cherokee, Mackenzie glanced briefly in the rearview mirror.
“Wish we had more men to cover that area,” he said.
Kealey looked at him. Back in the mountains, Mackenzie had walked from camp with him and made good on his promise to expand on his familiarity with Kassala and the Sikka Hadiid. For forty years, he’d explained, fugitives from persecution during the endless civil wars in Eritrea and Ethiopia had crossed the border plateau into Sudan, many entering through treacherous passes in the Taka range. On his assumption of power, Omar al-Bashir had attempted to crack down on the flow of refugees, since many had ancestral ties to antigovernment factions within Kassala’s Beja and Rashaida clans.
“Bashir’s problem was that he had his hands full with the secessionists in the south and couldn’t commit enough forces to keep a tight fist on this area,” Mackenzie had said. “What you should know is that Mirghani hasn’t just gotten more tolerance than other opponents because he’s from the north and not an avowed separatist. It’s racial… He’s Arabic, and the divisions in this country are really between Arabic and black Muslims.”
“Like the refugees that came through the mountains,” Kealey had said.
Mackenzie had nodded. “It wasn’t so far back historically that the Arabs were making slave raids on the south. And there hasn’t been much progress in the way of attitude among the people who rule this country,” he said. “What you need to know is that the majority of refugees are black, and some are aligned with the opposition in Darfur. Over the past decade we-the Agency-did some things to assist their entering the country. That included helping them dig a tunnel between the west side of the river and some of those huts in Sikka Hadiid. They’d take temporary shelter there and get out of the city. For them it was a lifesaver while their own countrymen were burning down their villages. For us it was building another segment of the population that was hostile to Bashir…completely win-win.”
Kealey had taken a long moment to digest all that, standing in the hot sun beating down on the craggy slope. “We’re going to have to keep the tunnel’s entrance covered tonight,” he’d said. “In case Nusairi and White try using it to make a getaway.”
“Yup.”
“That means you’re going to have to let Tariq know about it.”
“If he doesn’t already. There isn’t much that gets past Mirghani or his headmen.”
“That isn’t my point,” Kealey said. “It’s one thing for them to be aware the tunnels exist. Another to find out the Agency had a role in digging them. Or that it chose to support a particular group-ethnic, political, whatever-over theirs.”
Mackenzie had shrugged his shoulders. “Them’s the breaks,” he’d said. “This is a complicated world. Now we need them, and they need us. A whole new codependency is born. We can’t worry about Tariq feeling slighted.”
All of which was true, Kealey thought now as they rolled by the decayed, sun-bleached railway station with its merging of Arabian and British architecture-the simple curve of the entry arch overlooked by Victorian gables with elaborate moldings and the remnants of a high clock tower, its dial and workings long ago removed by thieves or vandals.
With the station and its splintered, torn-up tracks at their rear, they doused their headlamps in the deepening night, then passed the buildings that had housed the British officials and finally saw the long rows of workers’ huts ahead of them in the dimness.
“We’ll be there in a couple minutes,” Mackenzie said to his passengers. “Better get ready.”
Kealey took three sets of thermal night vision goggles on headsets from a compartment under the dash, passed one back to Abby, and put the other between himself and Mackenzie. A moment later he heard Abby palm a 30-round clip into her Sig 552 5.56mm assault rifle and reached for the 552 in his seat well, setting it across his lap. Seth Holland’s knee-jerk admonition to treat the weapons with care back at the embassy had been almost the same as when he’d handed Kealey his Glock 9mm pistol before they headed out to Bahri.
Under very different circumstances, the recollection might have struck Kealey as humorous. But he found nothing remotely amusing about what was about to go down tonight, just as he could find nothing to like about the rapidly shifting political expedients and allegiances around him. On the other hand, he thought, it was worth reminding himself that his own objective was neither complicated nor ambiguous.
He wanted Simon Nusairi; it really couldn’t have been simpler, or more serious, than that.
“The commander is in the beyt there…the last in this line,” Tariq said, pointing. He had braked to a halt in front of the Cherokee, gotten out, and hastened over to speak with Mac through the driver’s side window. “There are three or four of his men in the one next to it.”
Mackenzie nodded, gazed out into the night. He could see what appeared to be firelight in the windows. “No chance he could’ve left the lamps burning to trick us and snuck off while the cats were away?”
Tariq angled his head slightly toward one of the tall, vacant officers’ buildings behind them. “My cats have had their eyes on him from the rooftops,” he said. “He and the American remain within.”
Kealey looked across the seat at Tariq. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s move in.”
Tariq nodded and hurriedly returned to the Outback.
The plan was to hit hard and fast, using the element of surprise to their best advantage, and to keep their targets from scattering into the night.
Tariq sped up to the farthest hut, the one occupied by Nusairi and White, jolting to a halt directly behind it. His wheels spinning up dirt and pebbles, Mackenzie simultaneously sheered up in front so no one could rabbit through the entrance, the Cherokee’s doors flying open even as it stopped, Kealey and Abby springing from inside with their night vision goggles down over their eyes, Mackenzie following an instant later.
Behind them, Tariq’s fighters in the Wrangler and Volkswagen stuck to the same execution, the Wrangler shooting around back of the second hut, the VW screaming up to its front door, its occupants spilling from both vehicles. The Hyundai wagon took up a rear position, its men doubling as lookouts and backups in case anyone managed to escape from either of the two huts.
Semiautomatic gunfire tore from inside the huts at once, the staccato bursts shattering their windowpanes amid explosive sprays of glass. Kealey rushed over to the first hut in a crouch, flattened his back against it to one side of a broken window, peered inside. And then he saw them in shades of gray through the lenses of his NVGs-Cullen White and Simon Nusairi. White held what appeared to be a Kalashnikov in his hands and had ducked behind a table with an oil lamp on it. Nusairi was scrambling through a door on the far side of the room, an identical weapon in his fist spitting bullets ahead of his path.
Kealey pivoted on the ball of his foot and returned fire, the Sig 552 quivering in his hand. Then he went flat alongside the window again. He heard guns answering Nusairi’s volley out back-Tariq and his men. Abby, meanwhile, had shuffled up next to him even as Mackenzie backed against the opposite side of the window frame and triggered a salvo of his own into the hut.
A dozen yards away the second hut was also caught in a storm of semiauto fire, the salvos blowing out its windows, bullets pecking splinters from its wooden door. Kealey heard an extended peal from one of the guns inside the hut and then saw one of Tariq’s fighters go down to the ground with a howl of pain, clutching his stomach as he curled into a semifetal position.
He zoned in on his goal, looked across at MacKenzie and Abby.
“ Cover me! ” he called, motioning toward the door.
A brisk nod from Mackenzie, then Abby. Mackenzie edged from the window to the door along the outer wall of the house, stayed there to the right of the entrance. Abby, head tucked low, raced around the Cherokee, using it as a shield as she put herself to the left of the door.
Kealey looked over at Mackenzie, held up three fingers, ticked off a visual countdown. Three, two, one…
And then Mackenzie backed up a step, directed his fire at the lock plate, almost tearing it free of the door itself. He released the AK’s trigger, sent the door crashing inward with a high leg kick to the twisted remnants of the flimsy metal plate, and poured more rounds into the hut, Abby joining him now with a rippling burst from her rifle.
“ Now! ” Kealey shouted, and they momentarily ceased fire as he went in low, the stock of his weapon against his arm, his fist around the grip, finger squeezing the trigger.
Bullets streamed from his gun into the hut as he laid out a side-to-side firing pattern, sweeping the room, his eyes seeking out White through the goggles.
He was still kneeling behind the table, having shuffled behind a chair. Incredibly, the oil lamp on the tabletop remained unbroken, throwing its pallid orange light around the room. Not wanting to be a stationary target, Kealey dove to one side, swung the rifle in White’s direction, prepared to fire-and suddenly the chair was thrown across the room at him, flying through the air, nearly hitting him smack in the chest. He managed to avoid it on reflex and had some vague, marginal awareness of it hitting the wall directly behind where he’d stood as he arced the snout of his gun toward the oil lamp and blew it to bits and pieces.
Oil spilled from the disintegrated lamp onto the table and chairs, igniting instantly, bathing them in fire. Burning puddles formed on the floor. White was caught in a shower of burning droplets, snaps of flame erupting on his sleeves and trousers. As he stood, trying to slap them out with his hands, Kealey ran across the room and tackled him across the waist, the momentum of his lunge sending both men down amid the spreading blaze.
His clothes on fire, White hit the floor on his back, grunting out an expulsion of breath, Kealey landing atop him, his weapon over his shoulder on its strap. He saw White’s hand come chopping up at his throat, blocked it with a muscular forearm, and then brought his elbow down on White’s neck and punched him squarely in the middle of his face. Blood gushing from his broken nose, White somehow wrapped his fingers around Kealey’s throat, his thumbs pressing up under his chin even as his shirt and trousers continued burning.
Kealey hit him again in the face, felt his fingers loosen around his windpipe, and tore them free. Suddenly, then, a gun muzzle came down against White’s temple, pushing it sideways.
“Don’t move, fucker!” Mackenzie, his legs planted wide, stood just to one side of the two men, the bore of his rifle steady against White’s head. “I ought to goddamn let you lay here and burn!”
Kealey got to his feet, swooped in a breath. He could smell White’s singed hair and flesh. He looked around, saw a field jacket on a wall hook to his right, tore it down off the hook, and used it to beat out the flames on White’s clothes and the floor around him.
“I want this son of a bitch alive,” he said. And then glanced at the doorway at the back of the room, where the hut had been partitioned with a plasterboard wall. Goggles on, Abby was just on the other side of the door in the darkness, holding her weapon across her body, looking down at the floor.
Knowing what to expect, Kealey swore under his breath, raced into the second room, and saw the oriental rug tossed back from the open wooden floor panel. Outside the hut the sound of gunfire had become light and sporadic.
He and Abby exchanged glances through the monocular lenses of their NVGs.
“Did you see Nusairi go down there?” he asked.
She shook her head no. “We can’t head in after him… If he’s waiting, he could easily pick us off.”
“He isn’t waiting,” Kealey said. “He intends to reach his forces at Suakim or Ed Damer. And he’s got enough of a lead so we’d never chase him down on foot. I-”
The heavy tramp of boots now, coming through the hut from out front. Kealey jerked upright, swung his weapon around at the door to the room…and then felt the tension drain from his limbs. It was Tariq, a silhouette against the deeper darkness, squinting down at the tunnel entrance with his unaided eyes.
“We’ve finished those ghabanat in the other hut… I lost Abdul, a good friend. And another, Mahzin, is badly wounded,” he said, shaking his head. Then he snapped his cell phone from his pocket and looked at Kealey through the gloom. “I left my men at the other end of the tunnel, over by the Gash.”
Kealey’s molars ground together. Yes, Tariq had left his men there. But wouldn’t Nusairi anticipate it? At any rate this would not be left up to them. Or anyone else.
Spinning toward the door without a word, he ran out to where Mackenzie stood with his gun still pointed down at White. A pair of Tariq’s fighters were trussing his arms and legs with strips of rawhide cord.
“The car keys,” he said, holding out his hand. “Now!”
Mackenzie got the key ring from his pocket and tossed it to him without asking questions…not that Kealey would have lost a moment pausing to answer before he raced from the hut into the night.
No longer wearing his goggles, Kealey white-knuckled the Cherokee’s steering wheel, its high beams lancing the night, his foot hard to the gas pedal as he roared over the curving, potholed road toward the river. It was two miles to the mountains, just over a quarter that distance to the bridge. Head start or not, Nusairi was on foot. He would not be able to gain much distance on him.
The rail station behind him now, Kealey sped past square patches of farmland to the grove of trees at the river’s edge, came to a short stop. Where had Tariq positioned his men?
He glanced over his left shoulder, then right at a copse of shrubs and trees. Yes, there.
Leaving the headlights on, he pushed out his door, hastened a yard or two through the screening brush…and then almost stumbled over something underfoot.
He knew what it was before looking down. The body lay sprawled faceup on the ground, a bullet hole in its forehead, the toe of its boot against its outstretched arm. The second of Tariq’s men was on his side only inches from the first, blood oozing from what was left of his mouth and chin.
Their old Ford sedan was gone. A few feet away from where its tires had flattened the surrounding vegetation, Kealey saw the hinged trapdoor to the tunnel. It was thrown wide open, the packed sod and twigs that had camouflaged it flapped aside.
He turned back to the Cherokee, keyed it to life, and tore off for the river crossing.
Kealey was coming off the east side of the bridge when he spotted the wink of taillights up ahead of him to the right, on the street turning off toward the souq at the heart of Kassala. There were no other vehicles on the road, no people around; the town had rolled up whatever damned sidewalks it had… He would have to take his chances that it was Nusairi.
He swung onto the narrow street, pouring on the gas. The taillights, where were they? The main part of town was a labyrinth of twists and turns, and he’d momentarily lost sight of them…
Mouthing a string of profanities, Kealey whipped his head back and forth, then thankfully picked up the gleaming red lights around another sharp bend to his right. He swung into it, found himself on a relative straightaway, and accelerated, noticing the car ahead had sped up, too. He’d gambled correctly, then-it had to be Nusairi.
He bumped on over the cobbled street, his foot to the pedal, gaining on the Ford. It would be no match for his Cherokee, but Nusairi probably knew the city’s layout better than he did, giving him that far from negligible advantage. Kealey was afraid he might yet reach another twisty section of town and shake him loose.
Reaching the next corner, the Ford took a sudden left, Kealey almost on its bumper now, able to see Nusairi hunched over the wheel. He swerved after him, realized they’d gotten to the wide-open central market-there were stalls and wagons all around, everywhere, some emptied out for the night, others with their wares covered with tarpaulins.
Kealey poured it on now, getting closer, closer, and then cutting his wheel to the left so he pulled directly alongside the Ford. He looked out his passenger window, briefly met Nusairi’s gaze through double panes of glass, and swung the wheel hard to his right.
He felt the collision of their doors jar his back, heard the tortured, scraping grind of metal on metal. Then Nusairi’s lighter vehicle half bounced, half skidded to the right and went plowing into a cart of woven textiles, knocking off its wheel so it spun wildly over the cobbles, the cart toppling onto its side, blankets and sheets of fabric spilling everywhere over the street.
Somehow, though, Nusairi managed to hang on to control of the Ford. Kealey swung hard into his flank again, this time almost lifting Nusairi’s wheels off the ground to send him careening through a high stack of packing crates. The crates broke apart over his hood and windshield, wood flying, the burlap sacks of millet and corn inside them breaking open to disgorge their contents. Nusairi tailspun across the square into a vendor’s stall and smashed into a long wooden table, upending it before he hit the back of the stall and brought its bare plank walls crashing down on him, demolishing the Ford’s windshield.
Kealey stopped the Cherokee and exited it in a heartbeat, rushing across the square to the Ford as Nusairi pushed himself out of its scraped and beaten driver’s door. Blood trickling from under his eye, cuts on his cheeks and forehead, Nusairi looked at him, turned away, and started to make a break for the shadows.
On him now, right behind him, Kealey took a running leap at Nusairi that almost knocked both men to the cobblestones, wrapping his arms around his back to try and catch hold of him. But Nusairi, staggering, managed to stay on his feet. He twisted around to face Kealey, locking eyes with him, his features distorted with rage and malice-the rage showing above all else, completely overtaking him, his eyes flaring, his lips peeled back from his tightly clenched teeth in an almost bestial grimace.
And then he dove at Kealey, literally dove, giving Kealey little time to realize that the bottom of his shirt had pulled out from the waistband of his cargo pants and bunched up to reveal the handle of his combat knife.
Nusairi snatched hold of the knife, pulling it from its sheath, the blade flashing in his right hand as it came up. He took a vicious swipe at Kealey, barely missed carving a deep gash across his abdomen, and might have done so if Kealey hadn’t feinted backward at the last instant. As Nusairi came charging at him with the blade again, Kealey recovered his balance, pivoted on the forward part of his left foot, and shot both hands out in front of him, his right clenching Nusairi’s knife hand, his left grabbing the same elbow, twisting it around, yanking it up and back toward Nusairi.
They grappled like that for an endless minute, strength against strength, their faces inches apart. Kealey could feel Nusairi’s breath, see his cheeks puffing with exertion, the blade suspended between them.
And then he felt something in Nusairi’s grip give way, just for a split second. He moved forward into him, knowing it might be his one opportunity, bending the knife back toward Nusairi’s chest, back so its point was directly under his rib cage…and, mustering everything he had, gave it a hard upward shove to bury it inside him to the handle.
Still on his feet, Nusairi produced a feral sound that was something between a grunt and a moan, his hands going to his chest, his blood pouring over them in crimson sheets. At last, after what seemed another long while, his legs began to sag.
Kealey pulled out the knife before Nusairi could fall, stepped back, and stood looking at him, looking into his eyes…
Looking into his eyes, his gaze calm and unwavering as the life faded out of them.
“That was for Lily Durant,” he said before the last spark was extinguished. Then, waiting for Nusairi’s body to finally hit the ground, he bent over him to add something that had struck him almost as an afterthought. “And by the way, all your tanks and choppers are about to get blown to kingdom come.”
True to Brynn Fitzgerald’s “chirping birdie,” the Israelis did indeed launch the Hermes “Ziq” 450s out of Navatim for their strikes at Sudan. Although the unmanned aerial vehicles were indeed a component of the 166th Squadron at Palmachim Air Base near Tel Aviv, moving them to the base outside Be’er Sheva in the southeastern part of the country-and closer to the Red Sea route to the Sudanese border-extended their tactical range both in terms of fuel usage and data communications.
Another tactical advantage to having the drones take off from Navatim, alternately known as Air Base 28, was that it put them at the same spot as the 116th “Defenders of the South” Squadron and the 140th “Golden Eagle” Squadron, both of which were home to the F-16 fighter jets that would be essential to destroying tanks and helicopters. The UAVs, with their respective payloads of two Rafael missiles, were formidable weapons against convoys bearing arms and missile launchers. But when it came to destroying thirty-three tanks and over a dozen choppers, they were best used in a support role, sending the Israelis real-time pictures, taking out a secondary target or two, and perhaps doing some cleanup.
Having Sudanese air space unrestricted to them, however, the F-16s left little to be cleaned up. Their massive array of air-to-ground missiles and laser-guided bombs took care of the convoy quite neatly in just three runs-the third precautionary.
It was not always the size of the strike force, but how it was used, that counted. Simon Nusairi’s purchase barely got out of the box, however, rendering even that observation moot.