Whiplash

14

The first order of business for Danny and the others at the fake dinosaur dig was to prepare in case Red Henri or the Sudanese army decided to pay another visit. To do that, defense and intelligence had to be strengthened.

The first was accomplished by mounting several automated weapons around the perimeter. Bullet panels and mines were deployed along the road and hooked to a central control station at the house, a small laptop computer. The bullet panels, first developed by the Dreamland weapons team a decade before, were literally that — panels with projectiles that could be individually fired, or launched en masse at an enemy. As originally conceived, the weapon was nonlethal, intended for crowd control. These panels, however, fired the equivalent of magnum rounds, each capable of stopping a 300 pound man and piercing all but the newest body armor. Boston described them to Sugar as “claymores on steroids.”

The mines were meant to make it harder for anyone to launch a flank attack. They were fused to miniature motion detectors, which could be focused by command on specific areas, providing wide or narrow field protection. They could be detonated by radio as well, and included a fail-safe protection circuit “tuned” to the rings the Whiplash members wore. This prevented a Whiplash team member from setting off the mines accidentally — though no one wanted to personally test the circuitry. The mines could also be turned off and on from the central command station.

The rest of the team’s firepower was more traditional. They had a half-dozen AK-47s, common weapons in the area, and indeed the world, despite their age. But they also had two heavy machine guns: XM-312s, which fired.50 caliber rounds. The 312s had recently replaced the M2, a machine gun that had seen service in the U.S. Army longer than any of its operators had been alive. Among the newer weapon’s advantages was its weight; at forty-two pounds it was about a third as heavy as a “Ma Two,” far easier for a single man to lug.

Each member of the team was also equipped with SCAR-H/ MK 17 assault rifles, originally developed by the U.S. Special Operations Command. There were two versions of the SCAR, one “light,” one “heavy.” The MK-17 was the heavy version, firing a 7.62mm round rather than a 5.56. Most of the team members, like many soldiers in the field, preferred the stopping power of the heavier round, though that limited the guns to magazines that contained twenty rounds, ten less than the lighter caliber. The difference didn’t sound like much, until the middle of a firefight.

The Global Hawk that had been detailed to the team the night before had gone on to other assignments. In its place, Danny launched a pair of small hydrogen blimps outfitted with LED technology that made them almost invisible to the naked eye. These were the direct descendants of much larger stationary radar ships developed at Dreamland. They had to be tethered to the ground and could not be maneuvered, but together they provided a view that extended roughly fifty miles around the post.

As a side benefit, the blimps also lofted radio antennas connected to radio scanners, identifying transmissions in the area. The frequencies were then transmitted to a National Security Agency network, making it easier for the cyber spies to sift through the literally billions of satellite transmissions it monitored and identify the rebels’ for decrypting. While the NSA had started a program to pick off transmissions in the region a week before, the rebels were sophisticated enough to change satcoms, frequencies, and encryption methods often enough to make tagging them a laborious process. The scanners didn’t make it instantaneous or foolproof, but the difference was significant.

Short-term reconnaissance of areas far from the camp could be provided by “Owl” UAVs. These aircraft, with a wingspan the size of Boston’s thick hand, had low-noise engines powered by a bank of batteries and solar electric panels on the top wing. They had two drawbacks: their bodies were black, making them nearly invisible at night, but not during the day, and a relatively limited flight time; in general they could be depended on to stay aloft for roughly four hours. The actual time depended on the wind and other conditions, and in practice most tended to last twice as long, especially when the sun could help provide the charge.

There were three rebel camps in the region that had had dealings with Jasmine. Nuri had scouted them all but not yet bugged them. With the defenses shaping up, it was time to start. He chose as his first target the village controlled by a rebel named Tura Dpap, sixty-two miles southwest of Base Camp Alpha. He saw it as a relatively straightforward job.

Danny wasn’t so sure. The village straddled a highway, the only road in or out. Both the northern and southern sides were watched by men in sandbagged positions who stopped any vehicle coming or going, demanding a small “tribute” or tax. They were heavily armed. The satellite photo showed two RPG launchers in the northern post, and it was reasonable to guess that the southern post would have the same.

“There’s no way we can get enough firepower down past these guys if there’s a problem,” said Danny as they reviewed the photos on the table in the “kitchen” and command center they’d established in the roofless building. “That open plain on the north and the hills to the south make it impossible to flank them.”

“It’s not a military operation, Colonel,” said Nuri. He chafed at Danny’s objections even more than his mind-set. He’d been on his own long enough now that explaining what he was going to do felt like rolling a heavy rock up a hill. “This isn’t an attack. It’s the opposite. We’re trying to find someone and follow him. If we have to fight, we’ve already failed.”

“I appreciate that. I’m just worried about you getting in trouble. Like the other night.”

“That worked out fine, didn’t it? That’s the way it goes sometimes. You gotta take risks. That’s the game.”

Nuri got up to refill his coffee cup from the pot on the camp stove at the side. The coffee was bitter and burnt.

“Someone should go in with you to help cover your back,” said Danny.

Nuri didn’t think that was necessary, but it wasn’t worth arguing about. “I’ll take Hera,” he said. He didn’t know her well at all, but she was fellow CIA, could speak Arabic, and most important, was good-looking. “We’ll go looking for supplies. It should only take us a few hours.”

“Fine,” said Danny.

“Don’t forget we’re supposed to be setting up a dig here,” said Nuri. “That has to be laid out as soon as possible.”

“I didn’t forget.” Danny didn’t like the edge in Nuri’s voice, but he let it pass.

Nuri decided it was wiser to take the bus into the village, since it would be more in keeping with the cover story of scientists bumbling their way through unfamiliar territory. This was just fine with Abul, who was chafing at the way Danny and the others were treating him. Even though Nuri had vouched for him, Danny insisted on keeping Abul away from the high-tech gear. With the monitoring station set up in the house, it meant he couldn’t go inside to eat.

Hera dressed in a pair of very baggy pants and a pair of man-style shirts, along with hiking boots and a black cap whose peak hid much of her face. Her intent was to appear drab and boring, but Nuri thought she looked like the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

The only problem with her outfit was her unusual accessory — a SCAR rifle. Nuri had his hideaway strapped to his calf, hidden by his long pants. It was the only weapon he planned on bringing.

Hera had other plans.

“You can’t bring the rifle,” he told her as she slung the SCAR over her shoulder.

“Why not?”

“Because they may inspect the bus. How many paleontologists go around with military rifles?”

“At least one,” said Hera. “Me.”

“You can bring an AK.”

“That’s an old piece of garbage.”

“It works.”

“Excuse me,” said Abul, “but if you want my opinion—”

“We don’t,” snapped Hera.

“I do,” said Nuri.

“It’s more dangerous to be armed,” said the bus driver. “The movement has been pretty benign toward westerners.”

“Benign?” said Hera. “Like Red Henri?”

“I’ve carried the rifle with me on the bike the whole week,” said Nuri.

“I would wager that it has attracted much attention. When people see it, they immediately are on their guard.”

“We can’t go without protection,” said Hera. “That’d be nuts.”

“You can hide the guns inside the seats,” suggested Flash, who was nearby, listening to the conversation. “Cut holes in them.”

“You cannot cut into my seats,” protested Abul.

Nuri thought this was just a bargaining position, but the bus driver/owner turned out to be almost fanatically dedicated to preserving the interior of his bus; the most he would allow were slits in the underside big enough to hide ammunition. Looking over the interior, Nuri realized he could hide two SCAR rifles in the space beneath the dashboard, as long as the guts of the blower were removed. This meant doing without the air-conditioning, which hadn’t worked all that well to begin with.

“This is a driving inferno,” complained Hera as they drove south. “A slow one, too.”

Nuri shrugged. He was beginning to regret choosing her to come along.

“The breeze is very pleasant,” said Abul. “Imagine if we were in the desert instead of the hills.”

“There’s plenty of desert around.”

“No, no, no. This isn’t desert. This is the very nice part of the Sudan.”

“It’s lovely.”

“There is much water the further south we go. Swamps.”

“Just like New Jersey.”

She meant it as an insult, but since Abul had never been to New Jersey — and in fact didn’t know where it was — he took it as a compliment.

The rebel soldiers who guarded the village approach during the day flagged down the bus with the professional boredom of conductors taking tickets on a morning commuter train. One came aboard, glanced at Nuri and Hera, then told Abul that the tax was ten dollars American to pass.

“Ten dollars?” said Nuri in Arabic. “Why so much?”

The soldier glanced at him, reassessing his appearance. He was dressed like a European. More than likely he was one, but if he wasn’t, he should be taxed like one for trying to ape them.

And the woman was also foreign.

“Ten,” the soldier told Abul.

“Ten dollars is five times what most vehicles pay,” insisted Nuri.

At fifteen years old, the soldier had been with the rebels for nearly eight years. This made him a veteran and, by seniority, an NCO. He did not like to be questioned.

Abul, starting to get nervous, asked diplomatically if the tax had recently been raised.

“That is always what it is,” said the soldier.

“It was less a week ago,” said Nuri. “You think we are rich, so you can charge what you want.”

“You are to pay or turn around,” the soldier told Abul.

“Tell him if we pay ten dollars, we expect that to cover our return trip,” Nuri told Abul in English.

Doubtful that the deal would be accepted, Abul nonetheless made the offer. The soldier surprised him, saying that was acceptable.

“I doubt they’ll keep the deal,” said Abul.

“They’ll keep it,” said Nuri.

He pulled the bill from his pocket, held it up, then tore it in half.

“You will get the other half when we come back,” he said, passing the bill to Abul.

Abul took it and held it out toward the soldier the way a man might hold a steak out to a tiger. The soldier’s eyes flashed with anger, but then he smiled.

“You are very clever,” he told Nuri. “Very clever.”

“You’re pretty clever yourself, Captain.”

“Only a sergeant,” said the young man. He smiled at him — a broad smile that revealed he was missing two teeth — then left the bus.

“Why did you dicker with them?” Hera asked Nuri as Abul pushed the bus forward. “You were only pissing him off.”

“No, I was telling them not to screw with me.”

“They had the guns, we didn’t. If you made him too mad, they’d shoot us.”

“You don’t understand the psychology,” Nuri told her. “Ten dollars is a huge amount of money. When I came through on my motorcycle, they charged me the equivalent of a quarter, and in the local currency. If we gave in right away, then they would think we had a lot of money. And if we have a lot of money, then we should give them more. They feel if they are the stronger ones, they deserve it.”

“All you did was piss them off,” said Hera. “If you wanted to show them you were strong, you wouldn’t have paid anything.”

“That wouldn’t have been fair — and might have gotten us all killed.”

Hera rolled her eyes.

Roughly five thousand people lived in the village, their numbers swelling it in size to a small city. Most were crammed into ramshackle buildings made from scraps and gathered into distinct hamlets on either side of the highway, which ran through the center of town. About seventy percent were families of guerrillas, and most were related to each other. The faction was a small player in Sudan’s revolt, unable to project power much beyond the immediate area, though they had launched occasional forays against the army farther north. The villagers survived on subsistence farming, though their yields had faltered over the past few years, as the nutrients in the soil were not replaced. The situation was similar to that in western Sudan, where steady soil erosion encouraged desertification, which then made it impossible for the people to survive.

Tura Dpap, the village and rebel leader, was an elder in the tribe whose people made up the bulk of the population. He was well-liked, generally called “Uncle” by his followers — many of whom were, at different removes, his actual nieces and nephews. Unusual for the rebel movements, he was an older man, well into his fifties. He had also never married, equally unusual.

The village centered around a church building that had been founded and then abandoned by missionaries nearly a hundred years before. Uncle Dpap had taken over the building and repaired it, painting it bright yellow, a color that had come to be associated with his movement. There was no steeple, but the roof and the cross-shaped facade made its history clear.

The two buildings next to it were used by Dpap and his closest advisors as homes, sheltering not only them and their families, but bodyguards and younger soldiers with no families and nowhere else to stay. Directly across the street were three small stores and a restaurant. The buildings dated from roughly the same time as the church, and had suffered through several cycles of disregard and repair, but were the sturdiest structures around.

Rebel soldiers, most of them in their early teens, milled around the center of town. Every one of them had a rifle; many wore ropes around their neck with ammo magazines taped to them.

Though she’d seen boy soldiers and worse conditions in Somalia, Hera was appalled by how young the kids were. Some would have been in only third or fourth grade in the States.

“We’re taking our pistols with us,” she said, slipping her hand under the seat in front of her.

“We don’t need them,” insisted Nuri. But he didn’t stop her from taking one.

The video bugs Nuri was planting were bigger than the ones he normally used. About the size of a quarter in diameter and three quarters thick, the size was a function of the batteries they contained, which would allow them to transmit for as long as six days. They would transmit to a small booster unit a half mile away; the booster would send the signals to the Voice’s satellite system.

As he stepped from the bus, Nuri put a piece of gum in his mouth. The gum was the adhesive that held the bug in place. The size of the bugs made them relatively easy to spot, and thus harder to place than the ones he normally worked with. He walked over to the stores, then stopped, as if he couldn’t decide which one to go into first. He was actually looking over the facade to see if there was a place to hide the bugs.

He couldn’t find a good spot offhand, and with the soldiers watching, decided to move inside the middle building. Hera followed.

A year before, she had been assigned to visit a resistance movement in northern Tibet, living in the mountains for several months as she gauged the seriousness and strength of the movements that were opposed to the central Chinese government. She had not been impressed. The so-called rebels lacked focus and organization. The group here, with the ability to run its own stores, seemed light-years ahead.

Which wasn’t saying much.

There were only men in the store. All fixed their eyes on her as she came in, following her as she walked behind Nuri and glanced at the mostly empty shelves. A radio tuned to the government music station played a mix of European techno and African music, the beats changing violently from song to song. The floor vibrated lightly to the music.

Nuri went to the shopkeeper, who worked behind a counter with a small cash box as his register.

“Nuri Abaajmed,” he said enthusiastically in Arabic, reaching out his hand. “I am a professor of paleontology at the University of Wisconsin, America.”

The word “America” got everyone’s attention. The man’s smile showed he had about half his teeth. Nuri told him about the scientific expedition “up the road.” The shopkeeper told him he could speak English, which he promptly demonstrated.

“Honor to me a visitor here,” he said, spreading his arms in a gesture of friendship.

“We need a few supplies,” said Nuri in English. The man clearly didn’t understand, and he switched back to Arabic. “We could use some blankets, water, and perhaps fruit. Do you have fruit?”

“Usually, we have much fruit, but just now we are out of it. The customers liked it very much,” said the shopkeeper.

Fruit was in fact a rarity. The store had had a few dates some months back, but it had taken weeks to sell them, mostly because he priced them so high the soldiers couldn’t afford them.

“But here — beans we have.” The man took Nuri around to an aisle and showed him several cans, which had apparently come to Africa as part of a church donation in the distant past. The dust on them could have filled a good-sized litter box. Nuri took one, then a second.

Glancing around the shop, he thought the best place to slip a bug in would be near the window, but two soldiers were using the low ledge as a seat.

Then he had a better idea — the roof.

“Do you have a restroom?” he asked, handing the African his cans.

The shopkeeper showed him through the crowded back storeroom to a cordoned-off corner, where a round hole had been cut in the floorboards for a latrine pit.

“I’d need some paper,” said Nuri, glancing around.

The man pointed to some folded yellow sheets, then gave him another toothless smile.

“I’ll be done as soon as I can,” said Nuri when the man made no sign of moving away. “If you could look after my friend. She’s new to the country.”

The grin widened at the suggestion. “Yes, yes,” said the man, and he disappeared into the front.

Nuri had hoped for a back door, but saw none. There was a window, though, next to the hole in the floor. He pushed at the sash but it wouldn’t budge.

The stench from the hole was overwhelming. He held his breath and tried pushing up again. The window still wouldn’t move.

He was about to give up and go back inside when he realized the bottom frame was held in place by a painted bolt through the side. The bolt was on a spring that held it closed, but was easily pulled from the hole. He pushed the window upward, but could get it only about halfway open.

Squeezing his shoulders, he pushed his upper body through the space and glanced up and down the narrow alley. When he saw no one watching, he pulled himself all the way out, then stepped up on the sill and climbed onto the roof by gripping the overhang.

It pitched on a very gentle slope up toward the front of the building, saltbox style. The radio was playing loud enough for him to hear, but Nuri knew he couldn’t count on it to mask too much noise. He kept his head down and slipped out two bugs, mounting them to cover the church building. Then he began moving backward, holding his breath.

He was only a few feet from the edge of the roof when the music below abruptly stopped.

Nuri froze. Someone had come into the building and was talking very loudly — yelling about something, though the words were difficult to decipher.

The man who had come into the store was Uncle Dpap’s brother, Commander John, the leader’s volatile aide-de-camp. He had seen the bus out front and wanted to know who was in town. He wasn’t yelling out of anger or alarm — Commander John always spoke in a very loud voice. He was a large man, so large in fact that he couldn’t fit comfortably between the aisles of the store.

Commander John spoke in the tribal language, and Hera had no idea what he was saying. But when he started toward the back, she knew she had to intercept him. So she walked around the side and yelled at him, introducing herself in English and then slightly rusty Arabic as Professor Hera Scokas.

Commander John considered himself a connoisseur of women. Unlike his brother, he had three wives and more mistresses than even he could keep track of. Hera looked to him like a woman worth giving up all the others for.

Hera recognized the way his pupils dilated.

Commander John told her in slangy Arabic that he was happy to make her acquaintance and she should see more of him. Sensing she didn’t understand his words, he took her hand in both of his and kissed it.

Hera gently pushed him back and began speaking loudly about the work she was doing. Commander John nodded politely, even though her accent made her words hard to decipher.

He truly had not seen such a beautiful woman in all his life. Ordinarily he didn’t care for white women; most were too pale and frail in his eyes. But this one had sparkle. She would make an excellent wife.

Commander John pressed in closer. Hera edged back slightly, keeping her voice loud and willing Nuri to appear.

Nuri was almost directly above her, just a few feet from the edge of the roof. But as he pushed his foot over to get down, two soldiers came into the alley, leaning against the building to share a cigarette.

He considered crawling to the other side of the roof but stopped when the Voice, translating what it could hear of the soldiers’ conversation, told him that they were complaining about rumors they’d heard that Uncle Dpap was trying to forge an alliance with Red Henri and another rebel leader, Colonel Zsar. The alliance would never work, one of the men said, because everyone knew Red Henri was crazy and Zsar was in league with foreigners.

Nuri took the reference to the foreigners to mean the Iranians.

The man kept talking, complaining about their lack of action and their dwindling supply of ammunition. Many of the ammo boxes the soldiers carried on their neck ropes were empty, and there were no reserves at the main storeroom.

This was fresh intelligence, and Nuri was happy to sop it up. But the conversation soon changed to concerns shared by fighting men the world over: they wondered when the next chance would be for sex.

Nuri assumed there would be plenty of opportunities in a village, but he was wrong — most of the women were married, and the daughters were watched carefully by men with guns. As limited as their bullets might be, there were always enough to protect the family honor.

Finally the men were called out to the road by a friend. Nuri slipped to the back of the building, made sure no one was nearby, then dropped down and went around to the window.

Which had slid back closed and locked while he’d been on the roof.

Hera had dealt with commander John types before, most often by putting her knee where it would do a world of good. But there were too many soldiers nearby for that approach, so she smiled and moved to the side as he continued to serenade her with words about how lovely she was.

His hand on her shoulder was too much, however. She pushed it off, smiled sarcastically at him, and started walking toward the front of the store.

Two of his men were standing in the aisle near the doorway. Hera lifted her head, raising her frame to its entire five feet two inches.

“Get out of my way,” she said.

Her words were in English, but her tone was universal. The men glanced over her head at their boss, who smiled and signaled that they should close ranks and not let her out. But the men weren’t quick enough — Hera pushed through like a halfback zipping into the gap between the nose guard and tackle.

One of the men swung around, reaching for her shoulder.

She began to duck and spin — the prelude to a rather nasty Krav Maga move that would have cost the young man his kneecap. Fortunately for the rebel, Nuri appeared in the front doorway, a big smile on his face.

“See anything you like?” he asked loudly.

“Time to go,” said Hera.

Nuri was ready to agree when he saw Commander John. He’d never met the rebel officer, but the man’s large frame made him easy to recognize. He stepped forward and held out his hand.

“Very pleased to meet you,” Nuri said, the Arabic rolling fast and thick off his tongue. “Very pleased. Very, very pleased. I am Dr. Abaajmed. We are digging dinosaurs. Ancient history in your backyard.”

Commander John shook his hand limply. He had no idea what dinosaurs were. To him, a doctor was someone who gave you pills or a shot when you were sick, and he wasn’t feeling ill right now.

“We came into town for some supplies,” continued Nuri. “We will be here for several weeks, maybe months. We will make you famous.”

“Nice.”

“That’s a nice old church across the way,” said Nuri. “Is the minister around?”

“What minister?” asked Commander John.

“That’s not a church?”

“It is an office.”

“I see. Who works there?”

The questions were starting to annoy Commander John. He shrugged.

“Does Uncle Dpap work there?” asked Nuri.

“Yes,” said Commander John, suspicious that a foreigner, even one who could speak Arabic like an Egyptian, would know of Uncle Dpap.

“We have been told that Commander Dpap is a very important person here,” said Nuri. “We would be honored to pay our respects.”

Commander John glanced over at Hera, and decided that he could use the doctor to get a chance to spend time with the woman, who surely would fall under his charms if he had a little more time.

“Uncle Dpap is my brother,” he said. “I will take you to meet him.”

“Nothing would please me more,” said Nuri.