Charon's Landing

The United Arab Emirates

Below the whirling blades of the Aerospatiale Gazelle helicopter, the desert was stirred into a vicious sandstorm that chased the speeding machine like a relentless shadow. The military chopper was flying no more than forty feet off the desert floor, the pilot pouring all of his concentration into keeping the craft from smearing against the earth. He left the tricky navigation to the copilot seated at his right.

The sun was just lifting over the far horizon, but still the brighter stars could be seen against the deep blue sky. The land below was dark, a featureless plane of sand and rocks. Only to their right was the endless vista broken. Fifty miles distant and growing out of the night were the Hajar Mountains, jagged ramparts protecting the Arabian Gulf from the eternal pressure of the empty desert.

Colonel Wayne Bigelow lit a cigarette and regarded the other passenger with paternal fondness. He’d had a good hand in raising him from a callow youth into a fine man. Bigelow, a graduate of Sandhurst and an old Middle East hand, had lived in the Gulf for most of his life, both as a member of the British occupying forces and later as military adviser to the Emirates’ Crown Prince. That post was more honorary than functional. The old man just liked having Bigelow around to tell war stories. The Crown Prince often remarked that Bigelow should have been alive when T. E. Lawrence was riding with old Faisal against the Turks. The era suited him better. Bigelow had never argued the point.

Seated next to him in the stripped-down Gazelle was Khalid Khuddari, another man suited for an earlier time but just as adept in this one. Bigelow knew how remarkable it was that Khuddari had achieved his current position, since he’d not been born into the royal family. Secretly, the Crown Prince had confided in Bigelow that he loved Khuddari more than his own sons, three of whom lived in Europe with women who seemed to need cash infusions for sustenance.

Bigelow had been present when Khalid’s father had come in from the desert with his son and reminded the Crown Prince of his promise to look after the boy in exchange for the Bedouin’s oath of loyalty. The Crown Prince, a man true to his word, welcomed the young Khalid into his home. Bigelow had had the good fortune of becoming one of Khalid’s many tutors, a chore he relished simply because the boy was so bright and dedicated. When he looked at the man Khalid had become a quarter century later, he felt he could indulge in a little pride. A lifelong bachelor, Bigelow saw Khalid as the son he wished he’d had.

“Don’t look so serious. All of the hard work is finished,” Bigelow shouted over the roar of the turboshaft engine over their heads. His Arabic was flawless.

Khuddari couldn’t be brought out of his dark mood. “I’m afraid that the hard work is just about to begin.”

“If the Crown Prince finds out what we’re doing, we’ll have more to worry about than hard work,” Bigelow said pointedly.

The chopper was well into Ajmani airspace without authorization. While the seven Sheikdoms that made up the United Arab Emirates were considered one country by the international community, each member maintained a great deal of sovereignty over its own portion of the desert. By flying into Ajman, Khuddari and Bigelow were in effect crossing a national boundary without prior notice. Their actions could easily be labeled an invasion.

“So tell me how you found it,” Khalid invited.

Bigelow leaned toward the younger man so they could speak at a more conversational volume. Khuddari had access to an executive chopper, one outfitted with the latest silencing equipment so that the interior was as quiet as a luxury automobile, but they had agreed this machine was better suited for the trip into the desert.

“Nothing to it, really. There were no roads leading this far out from the city of Ajman so everything had to be brought to the facility by helicopter, usually at night. I had a man at the airport watching them come and go from dusk until dawn. Since we couldn’t follow one of their choppers without giving ourselves away, I called in an old favor. An Air Force adviser in Saudi Arabia and I spent four months together as peacekeepers on Cyprus in ’64. I saved his life during the August ninth bombings. Anyway, last night I called him just before another of Rufti’s helicopters went into the desert. He had one of the AWACS planes the Saudis bought from the Yanks divert from its normal patrol of the Iraqi border and take a quick peek our way.”

“And?”

“The coordinates he gave us were right on. Our assault team found the camp four hours ago, as easily as you find the naughty bits between a whore’s thighs.”

“What did you find?” Khalid asked expectantly.

The intercom squawked as the pilot interrupted their conversation. “ETA two minutes.”

“Wait and you’ll see for yourself.” Bigelow stroked his mustache, sitting back in his seat.

The chopper thundered over a low dune, the skids nearly ripping off the top of the sand wave. The desert before them was bright enough to see the smoking ruins a few miles ahead. The ground had been scorched black by a blazing fire, a small ring of ash on the clear white sand. Tendrils of smoke still lifted into the shimmering sky.

Following the arm motions of one of Bigelow’s troopers who’d scouted a solid landing spot, the helicopter landed a few hundred yards short of the camp. Khuddari and Bigelow jumped down lightly, bending low to avoid the spinning rotor. Both were dressed in desert camouflage but only Bigelow was armed, a heavy Webley Mark VI revolver buckled around his thick waist. The heat was on the rise, and beads of sweat blistered Bigelow’s ruddy face by the time they were halfway to the destroyed camp, yet he continued to walk easily over the loose sand, matching Khuddari’s long-legged pace.

The camp sat in a natural bowl in the desert, a circular depression ringed by heaped sand dunes like the walls of an earthen castle. The center of the camp had been some sort of parade ground or training area; surrounding it were the remains of dozens of tents, their charred poles thrusting up like the empty ribs of some prehistoric monster. Steel scaffolds littered the parade ground, the struts blackened by fire. It was obvious that there had been a purpose to their original placement, but they now looked like girders from an Erector set that had been tossed aside by a vengeful child. Sand was already building up against their windward edges. The two camouflaged Toyota Land Cruisers used by Bigelow’s soldiers were parked at the camp’s perimeter, their drivers guarding them with roof-mounted fifty-caliber machine guns.

“How did he know?” Khuddari hissed, his dark eyes gazing at the desolation around him. “How the hell did that fat bastard know?”

“Those last helicopter flights were not to resupply the base. They were already pulling out. My agent was too far from the airport to tell the difference. As near as we can tell, the place was torched early last night.” It was obvious from Bigelow’s tone that he hated admitting they’d been too late, but regrets would do them no good. “However, to clear out a camp of this size, they must have started pulling out a few days before you spoke to Rufti.”

“For the love of Allah, he knew I was on to him already. Have your men found anything to give us an idea of what Rufti was doing out here?”

“Nothing yet.” Bigelow kicked at a small pile of burned canvas on the ground at their feet. “But the scaffolds remind me of my training days with the Special Air Service. The SAS used these sorts of things to simulate buildings, draping them with cloth with squares cut out for windows. It was a cheap and simple way to train for urban antiterrorist actions. I’d bet what’s left of my pension that Rufti’s men did the same thing here.”

Khuddari nodded and took a longer look at the frameworks. If they represented a street corner or park that he knew, he didn’t recognize it. Bigelow shrugged when Khuddari shot him an inquiring glance.

“For all I know, it could be the street corner in Manchester where I grew up.” Bigelow spat into the sand.

“Rufti doesn’t have the imagination for something outside of the UAE. This must represent a street in Abu Dhabi City. But I don’t think there’s any way to tell which.”

“What should we do?”

Before Khuddari could answer, one of Bigelow’s troopers called to them. He was kneeling off to the right of the parade ground, far from the cluster of tents. His bright teeth were visible as he smiled under a black, drooping mustache. Bigelow and Khuddari were at his side in an instant, peering over his shoulder at what he’d found in the sand.

Bigelow picked up the item and examined it as critically as a master jeweler peering into a diamond before making the critical first cut.

“Nine-millimeter Parabellum casing,” he said at once. “There’s an FIO stamp on the head, which means it was manufactured by Fiocci in Italy. The primer was flattened when it was fired, so we can assume it was hot loaded. By the depth of the bullet sealant left inside the casing, I’d guess it was loaded with 124-grain bullets and Winchester AA7 powder, about nine grains or so considering the distortion.”

“Can you tell what type of gun it was fired from?”

“Not without a laboratory and a couple weeks. It could have been anything from a Luger to an Uzi.” Bigelow slipped the spent cartridge into the breast pocket of his fatigues. “I can tell you it was fired at least a few weeks ago; there’s no trace of a cordite smell to it at all. Christ, the bloody thing could have been here since World War Two.”

“I wish.” Khuddari turned away and started back for the helicopter, Bigelow closing on his heels quickly. “Tell your men to head home. We’ve been here long enough. I don’t think we’ll learn anything else.”

Bigelow whistled shrilly, and immediately his Sergeant Major acknowledged the order to pull out by calling to his men. The troops started for the two desert vehicles, weapons at the ready, a beautifully executed tactical withdrawal. Bigelow’s men were well drilled and disciplined, like the man who’d trained them.

The Gazelle’s rotor was already turning lazily as they approached, the turbine just beginning to build up to an earsplitting whine. The two men vaulted into the cabin and buckled their seat belts. After a few moments’ pause, the French-built helicopter lifted into the air. The rotor’s down force threw up a cloud of dust that obliterated any sign that it had landed. Khuddari and Bigelow were quiet during the flight home, each respecting the contemplative silence of the other. Only after they were safely back in Abu Dhabi airspace did the younger man speak.

“Rufti left for London this morning to act as an observer at the OPEC meetings that start in two days. His men are obviously finished training for whatever they are planning, so I’m sure they’ll strike soon. Rufti’s gutless enough not to be around when the bullets start to fly.”

“You’re convinced that they’re planning some sort of assault?”

“It’s obvious. We just don’t know the target. I have an audience with the Crown Prince this afternoon, and I’m going to tell him everything we’ve found. I’m also going to tell him that I’m not going to the meeting in England.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea? Your not attending won’t look good to the rest of the family. This is the first Cartel meeting since you became Petroleum Minister.”

“I don’t give a damn about that,” Khuddari snapped. “This is more important than my career. I can’t afford to be in some boardroom when Rufti strikes. I should have killed the fat Lootee when I had the chance.”

“We’ll get the buggerer, mark my words.”

Abu Dhabi City spread below them as the chopper flew. Only a handful of buildings were older than twenty-five years; prestressed concrete and smoked glass had replaced traditional stone architecture as the nation struggled into the twenty-first century. Not long ago men here would have fought to the death over the theft of a goat or an insult to a family member, and that ruthlessness still molded the people of the Gulf. But now, with petrodollars pushing the stakes to the highest levels, a rivalry would end not with just a single death but hundreds or possibly thousands. Rufti was working to destabilize the confederation of the UAE, one that was shaky at best. He had put a lot of money and effort into his plan, and whatever his target, Khuddari knew it could mean the end of the Emirates as a single country.

Oil had been the salvation of the nation, but perhaps the ceaseless sawing of the horse-head wells spread throughout the land were pounding out her death knell, too. The money that the elite of the UAE possessed had not tempered their unyielding nature and, in fact, had fueled their ability to exercise it. Rufti’s greed might very well sever the vital artery of oil that allowed him to exist.

Khuddari had to admit that if Rufti was planning a coup, he couldn’t have selected a better time. The Crown Prince was at odds with most of the Supreme Federal Council, composed of the six rulers of the other Emirates, and with the Council of Ministers, the legislative arm of the nation. The schisms stemmed from the Americans’ announcement to phase out all oil imports within ten years. That act could cripple the money-based power structure of the Emirates, weakening the Prince’s position so that a coup might be seen as a beneficial act rather than one of naked aggression. The political climate was ripe for a change to face this new, uncertain future, and Rufti could be in the perfect place to exploit it. Khalid hoped that his thin evidence was enough to convince the Crown Prince that he and the nation were in danger, but no matter how credible Khuddari was in the Sovereign’s eyes, a lone shell casing and a deep suspicion weren’t much. He feared that his pleas would fall on deaf ears.

He craned his head as he looked out the window at the city below. This close to shore, the water of the Gulf was an iridescent aquamarine, a dazzling shade more suited for neon signs than nature. Because the water was only ten fathoms deep and nearly one hundred degrees, there was little life to cloud the sea. An empty supertanker rode high just where the Gulf turned darker and deeper, her upper deck painted a dull oxide red that matched the twenty feet of her underbelly that showed below her Plimsoll line. At this distance, Khalid couldn’t read the name on her stern, but the activity of the small boats cruising around the monstrous ship indicated that she was hove to for repairs.

He turned away, absently wondering why the vessel wasn’t at the huge new shipyard at Port Rashid near Dubai City. The Gazelle was coming in for her landing, and he didn’t give the tanker another thought.