Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“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.