Nelson Demille - The Panther

Or we’ll kill you.

Howard, practicing not saying anything to anyone, just nodded, then left.

We all assembled in front of the station. The Land Cruisers were topped off, the windshields were cleaned of mortal remains, and we got in our vehicles. Gentlemen, start your engines. And off we went, southeast toward Aden.

Brenner transmitted, “Predators still on station until we reach our destination.” He added, “Two new Predators with Hellfires on the way.”

Great. So, what did we learn from our drive in the country? Well, we learned that Al Qaeda knew of our trip to Aden-but that was almost a given. We learned, too, that Al Qaeda was willing and able to attack an armored American convoy. They were getting their act together. What Al Qaeda didn’t know, however, or didn’t expect, was Hellfire missiles-and that was because the Yemeni government idiots usually said no to Hellfires. But we solved that problem by not asking. This was a new game.

What we didn’t know was if Al Qaeda knew that Mr. John Corey was in the convoy. But we could assume they did. In fact, Al Qaeda knew that John Corey and Kate Mayfield would be in Yemen before we knew we were going. What we didn’t know was if The Panther was now in Paradise, or in Marib, or someplace else. Wherever he was, he was pissed.

Good. I was pissed, too.

The convoy continued on toward Aden.

Mike informed Clare and me, “The farther south we go, the less Al Qaeda is present.”

“Good.”

“But Al Qaeda is strong again around Aden.”

“Bad.”

“Also, when we cross into what used to be South Yemen, you have secessionist rebels.”

Clare asked Mike, “Is there any part of this country that’s… like, safe?”

“Not one square inch.”

You’re safe with me, sweetheart.

She said, “At least we can feel safe in the hotel.”

Uh… about that hotel, Clare…

We were on the downslope from the central highlands and making good time toward the coastal plains despite the traffic on the well-traveled Ta’iz-Aden road.

Mike said, “About a hundred K to Aden.”

Brenner’s voice came over the radio. “New Predators with Hellfires on station. No suspicious roadside activity ahead. But stay alert for suicide vehicles.”

The fun never stops.

Mike informed us, “The Predators can keep flying for up to twenty-four hours without refueling.”

Correct. And the pilot was on the ground, and he could hand off the controls every few hours. The Predator drone with Hellfire missiles was an awesome weapon system. This was probably how we’d bag The Panther, if we hadn’t already vaporized him back in the hills. American military technology is a beautiful thing-unless you’re on the receiving end.

I asked Mike, “Where are the Predators stationed? And where are the ground control units?”

He replied, “No one knows. But I’d guess Oman, or Saudi Arabia. Or maybe Djibouti across the strait.”

“So not here?”

“Not in this screwed-up country.”

“Right.”

It was almost 1 P.M., and we’d made okay time considering we took the old caravan route, though I hadn’t seen a single camel. The ambush hadn’t actually delayed us-in fact, it sort of moved things along. Nothing like getting shot at to get your ass moving.

We intersected the new highway that came from Sana’a and headed due south toward Aden. It was a good road, and if we’d taken it, I wonder if we’d have had the same exciting experience we had on the caravan route. I was fairly sure that it was the Predator controller who advised us to take that route. In the end, the CIA-who had operational control of the Predators-got what they wanted: a show of American force, dead bad guys, and an incident.

I asked Mike, “Will you guys be able to get back to Sana’a before dark?”

“Maybe… We’ll see what Brenner wants us to do.”

I used that opening to fish. “He seems like a good guy.”

Mike replied, “He’s good.” Silence. “But he pushes his luck sometimes.”

Which meant pushing everyone else’s luck. Maybe he had nothing to live for. But maybe he’d just found a new interest in life. I said to Mike, “He told me he had a lady in the States.”

“Yeah. She was here once.” He let me know, “A real knockout.”

“So no embassy romance?”

Mike realized he was saying too much about his boss and replied, “Not that I know of.” He added, “Slim pickings here.”

Clare piped in, “I beg your pardon.”

That got a laugh.

Clare also offered, “I think he’s cute.” She added, “But a little old for me.”

What? He couldn’t be five years older than me. I’m crushed. I wish I had died in the Al Qaeda ambush.

We were on the coastal plain now, and up ahead I spotted a road sign, one of the few I’d seen in the last four hundred kilometers, and I focused the binoculars on it. It said something in Arabic, but beneath that it said ADAN-with an A-GOVERNATE.

Mike said, “We are crossing into the former South Yemen, also once known as Adan.” He added, “It’s almost like another country in some ways.”

Actually, it was once. But I said, “Looks like the same crap hole to me.”

“Different attitudes here. A little more modern, maybe because of the British influence, then the Soviets, and all the ships coming into Aden Harbor from around the world.”

“Right. Like the Cole.”

Mike replied, “Al Qaeda is new in Aden.” He added, “South Yemen is regressing.”

Actually, the whole Middle East was regressing.

A half hour later, we were in the outskirts of Aden. I looked to the southeast, where I knew the Sheraton was located, and I didn’t see any smoke rising into the air, so that was a good sign.

The Sheraton Hotel is located away from the city, on a peninsula that juts into the Gulf of Aden. The landscape was formed by a hopefully extinct volcano, and there are high hills and bluffs overlooking the beaches, which is very scenic, but not good for security.

There was a construction project up ahead, and a big sign in English said: BIN LADEN CONSTRUCTION COMPANY, which reminded me of what Colonel Kent said in Sana’a. I’m sure most of the Yemeni-based bin Laden family were good citizens, but it was sort of jarring to see that-like if I saw in Germany ADOLF HITLER VOLKSWAGEN DEALER. Right? They might want to change that company name.

We passed the airport and began an uphill climb into the high ground above the beaches.

I could now see the Sheraton below, a white six-story contemporary-style building, sitting peacefully in the sunlight. Behind the hotel was a stretch of white sand and palm trees, and the calm blue waters of the Gulf of Aden. Paradise. Not.

Clare said, “Looks nice.”

Looks like a target.

Mike asked me, “Bring back memories?”

“Lots.”

We came down a narrow road on the downside of the high bluffs, and right in front of us was the Sheraton Hotel. Brenner radioed, “Niner, niner. We have arrived. Good job, everyone.”

Mike and the other drivers blasted their horns as we pulled into the hotel driveway.

I have returned.

Bulus ibn al-Darwish, al-Numair, The Panther, wearing the white robes and shiwal of a Bedouin, sat on the dirt floor of a goat herder’s hut situated in a narrow gorge in the highlands south and west of Marib town. The sun was low over the mountains and the hut was in shadow, though a shaft of sunlight came through the doorway.

Sitting around the walls of the stone hut were ten men-his inner council of advisors, and also his most senior aide, Altair, an older man, from the province of Ta’iz where the al-Darwish family originated. In fact, Altair was a distant kinsman, and the old man had known the father of Bulus’s father, and had also known Bulus’s own father as a young man, before he emigrated to America.