Nelson Demille: The Panther

Hakim was in his Humvee with his driver now, along with two PSO thugs, plus Altair, who didn’t want to take a ride with us, but one of Hakim’s PSO goons hit him with a taser, then threw him in the rear compartment. On the plus side for Altair, he was now clothed, fed, watered, and alive.

Hakim had provided us with hand-held radios, and we left the scene of the Hellfire attack and headed into the sinking sun, back toward the highlands.

Hakim was in the lead, and we followed in the Land Cruiser. Zamo drove, I rode shotgun, and Kate and Brenner sat in the rear.

The basic plan was to first find the Al Qaeda base camp, because we all agreed that The Panther’s cave couldn’t be too far from his camp, so that was a good starting point, and a good place to encourage Altair to point the way to his boss’s hideout.

Colonel Hakim had also provided us with a military terrain map, and Brenner, who knew how to read these contour maps, was looking at it with Kate. I’d given them the coordinates of the Al Qaeda base camp that I’d taken from the Predator monitor, and we’d put a mark on the map. Brenner said, “Very inaccessible terrain… no roads, but maybe some mountain trails that aren’t shown here.”

I reminded Brenner, “We saw a few vehicles on the Predator video monitor, so there’s some kind of vehicle access.”

Brenner agreed, but said, “The airstrike may have caused rockslides.”

“So we’ll walk. Meanwhile, we don’t have a lot of daylight left. Call our partner and tell him to step on it.”

Brenner called Hakim on the hand-held radio and suggested, “We need to move faster, Colonel.”

Hakim replied, “This is a good speed.”

Brenner insisted, “A little faster.” He signed off and said to me, “That’s the story of the Yemeni Army, police, and government-too slow, too cautious, and too late.”

“I don’t think Hakim has much enthusiasm for this,” I said.

“I can’t imagine why not.”

“He’s a government worker.”

“So are we,” Brenner reminded me. He also reminded us, “He wants the money. But he doesn’t want to get killed earning it.”

“Same here.”

So we continued on the long, straight road toward the plateau where the Crow Fortress sat, and where the highlands began. Smoke still rose into the air from the burning tower and I asked Zamo, “Why did you set the hay on fire?”

“Because it burns.”

“Right.” Well, so much for Buck’s Sultan Crow Fortress Bed amp; Breakfast. And so much for American-Bedouin relations.

As we continued on, I thought about what was going on in our absence, and I had no doubt that Chet had concocted a good story about the friendly fire mishap to the Land Cruiser, though that would be a hard sell. The only people he could level with were the people in his Company who’d sent him on Operation Clean Sweep. And they’d cover his ass because Chet was a hero in Langley, and Buck was a hero at Foggy Bottom. The news release of this incident was already written, and the American public would be pleased to learn that Bulus ibn al-Darwish, the American traitor and a mastermind of the Cole attack, was taken out with a Hellfire missile. Unfortunately, in a separate but related incident, four unnamed Americans are missing in Yemen.

But if these Americans got back alive, they’d have, as I said, a different tale to tell, ending hopefully with me throwing The Panther’s head on the table.

We were approaching the base of the plateau, and after a quick radio conference with Hakim, we decided not to go into the highlands via the Crow Fortress approach. Instead, we’d go cross-country and skirt around the plateaus from the north, then we’d head into the highlands forty kilometers west of here, closer to where the Al Qaeda camp was hidden in the bad terrain.

We went off-road and the ride got a little rougher, and Hakim’s Humvee slowed up. I said to Zamo, “Give him the horn.”

Brenner chose his radio instead and urged Hakim and his driver to push it.

We continued on, across the arid fields and pastures, and whenever we came to a stone fence, Hakim in the lead found the gate and smashed through it, liberating hundreds of goats.

It took us an hour to travel forty kilometers along the base of the highlands, and we could see up ahead that the plateaus were now extending farther north, blocking us.

Brenner consulted his map and said, “The highlands get higher up ahead, and the only way through them is the Sana’a-Marib road, which takes us off course. So we need to head into the highlands around here… but I don’t see any trails or paths on this map…”

I reminded him, “Rahim ibn Hayyam said he got to the camp by vehicle.”

Brenner replied, “If you knew the uncharted trails, you could do it… but I do see some ravines that a four-wheel drive might be able to navigate.”

“Great.” I saw this in a TV commercial for a Jeep. “Let’s do it.”

Brenner radioed Hakim, who stopped, and we all got out for a map conference.

Zamo, too, was a good map reader, and even Kate had taken a map-reading course. I can read a subway map, and I can easily find my ass with both hands, but I had no clue about scoping out a terrain map. My contribution was reminding the A-team that we’d seen vehicles in the camp, and they weren’t made there.

As the map committee was deciding on a route, I went to the Humvee to check on Altair, who was lying in the back compartment, covered with a blanket, holding a bottle of water. He didn’t look great, but his color wasn’t pre-croak, and his breathing seemed okay. “Hang in there, old man. God saved you to help us find Bulus ibn al-Darwish.”

At that name, Altair shook his head.

Everyone got back in their vehicles and we took the lead now. Brenner sat up front with Zamo still driving, and he directed Zamo toward a shallow depression in the ground, saying to us, “The map shows a wadi here, and there it is.” He further explained, “This is a stream which comes out of the highlands during the rainy season, and I’m thinking that this has to be flat from erosion all the way up into the hills.”

Kate, who was born and raised in the great outdoors, said, “The streambed should be a layer of small stones, which will give us good traction.”

I offered, “Just like the wadi highway that cuts through the middle of Sana’a.”

“Correct,” said Mr. Brenner.

Maybe I have been here too long.

So we drove into the wadi, and Zamo headed into the hills. It was easy to follow the dry streambed, and within fifteen minutes we were in a sort of gorge or valley between two towering plateaus. The streambed got very steep as we climbed farther into the highlands.

I kept checking to see if Colonel Hakim’s Humvee was still behind us. I mean, I wouldn’t put it past that bastard to throw it in reverse and go backwards all the way to Sana’a. But he kept right behind us, driven forward by duty, honor, country, and money.

The sun was definitely sinking, and the eastern sky was darkening, but there was daylight left to the west. After about an hour, we were driving in near darkness, but the rising half moon started to cast some light on these dead, dry hills, which almost shone in the moonlight.

No one had too much to say, and now and then Brenner and Hakim would exchange a few words on the radio. It occurred to me-a few times-that if there were any jihadists left in these hills, we were sitting ducks down in this wadi with high terrain all around us.

I asked Kate, “How you doing?”

“Still fine.”

I was sure her ribs were very sore where that AK-47 round punched her Kevlar vest. Sometimes you get a broken rib, and always a big, ugly bruise. But, as we say, better red than dead.