Nelson Demille - The Panther

Chet continued his history of the Cole incident and said, “The first FBI agents sent to Yemen in response to the Cole attack worked in a very hostile environment. They were met at Aden Airport by Yemeni soldiers pointing AK-47s at them when they got off the plane.” He confided to us, “I was with the FBI that day, and I can tell you, we thought we were going to get into a firefight right there on the tarmac.” He added, “Assholes.”

So, another ugly American who didn’t like the Yemenis. How are we going to win this war on terrorism if we don’t win the hearts, minds, and confidence of our Islamic allies? Right? I mean, true, they were assholes. But they were our assholes.

Also, I was sure that Chet had been very frightened that day when he was threatened by Yemeni Army guys with lots of firepower. And when you let something or someone frighten you, you get very angry later. And you want to redeem your manhood-by killing someone. Same as on the mean streets of New York. Maybe that’s what some of this was about.

Chet continued, “Speakers in the Yemeni Parliament were calling for jihad against America, like it was us who did something wrong, and this was broadcast live on radio and TV every day.” He added, “Most of the Americans here-tourists, oil workers, and businesspeople-left the country quickly.”

Buck informed us, “The embassy was in lockdown and we sent all nonessential staff to Oman or Riyadh.”

Chet nodded, then went on, “The Yemeni government was sending us mixed signals. They said it was okay to bring our people in, but when we got here, we were threatened.”

Buck explained, “There was a lot of confusion and panic within the government.”

Ours or theirs?

Chet then related another scary story, one I’d heard when I was here. “The American response team was given the two floors of the Sheraton, but one night the hotel was surrounded by a few hundred men wearing traditional dress, though they had military jeeps and were armed with military weapons, so we knew they were Yemeni soldiers and maybe PSO men in disguise.” He stayed silent a moment, undoubtedly recalling that night, then said, “We organized defensive positions on the roof and on the ground floor, and we wouldn’t let any of the Arab guests leave the hotel.” He added, “There were still a few Western tourists in the hotel, and they were afraid to leave, so we gave them handguns for self-defense.” He let us know, “We all thought we were going to die that night… The officer in charge of the Marine unit issued a single order-‘Take a few of them with you.’ ”

Right. No surrender. No American hostages. And when I was here in the Sheraton, that order still stood. Take a few of them with you.

No one spoke for a while and the boat continued on toward the Sheraton beach. I looked at Kate, who appeared to have acquired a new appreciation of the situation here, and maybe a new appreciation of her husband who’d spent a month in this dangerous place. It wasn’t all beach volleyball, sweetheart.

To Buck and Brenner, Chet’s stories were nothing new, but it probably reinforced their resolve to get the job done and get the hell out of here. There comes a time in every hazardous tour of duty when you realize you’ve used up your quota of luck. Buck, Brenner, and Chet were past that time, but the goal was finally in sight; just a few hundred kilometers from here, in Marib.

Chet continued, “By dawn, all these assholes surrounding the hotel had disappeared. But we were ordered to get out of the hotel, and we were ferried by boat to U.S. naval vessels in the harbor. Two days later, the Yemeni government said it was safe to return to the Sheraton, so we took Navy helicopters back to the beach. But on the way in, the helicopters got radar lock-ons from SA-7 ground-to-air missiles, the pilots had to drop down to sea level, and we came in over the water ready for a shoot-out.” He looked out at the water and the approaching beach as though this scene brought back that memory, and continued, “But there weren’t any hostile forces on the beach-I think the Yemeni military probably thought we’d turn around when the choppers got the missile lock-ons, and when we kept coming they beat it out of there. So we retook our two shitty floors in the Sheraton and we’ve been there ever since.”

Right. And Mr. Chet Morgan, a privileged child of a superpower country, had had a lot of time since then to reflect on the poor reception he’d received in Yemen. He came here to help-well, not really, but officially-and the Yemenis treated him like a piece of crap, and threatened to kill him, and he wasn’t leaving here until he evened the score. Of course by now he was nuts, so even M-16 therapy wasn’t going to make him a happy man-but it would help.

Chet wrapped up his background briefing. “The weeks after the Cole was bombed had a surreal quality to them… maybe more like slapstick comedy with the Yemeni government and military running off in different directions like the clowns they are, saying, ‘Welcome Americans,’ then ‘Yankee go home.’ ” He concluded, “Totally dysfunctional country.”

Dysfunctional, as Betsy Collins said, would be an improvement.

We were about a hundred meters from the beach now, and Chet backed off on the throttle as he steered around some sandbars toward the shallows near Elephant Rock.

There were a lot of gulls on the rocks, but Chet left them alone, and instead he flipped the bird at the Yemeni Army guys manning the machine gun. Chet needs some anger management classes.

As he maneuvered the boat, he said, “In the old days of gunboat diplomacy, if some pisspot country attacked Westerners, a naval fleet would assemble and bombard the port city until it burned to the ground. Now… well, the primitive little assholes of the world get away with too much. But there will be a day of reckoning.” Chet thought a moment, then said, “In fact, every day since 9/11 has been a day of reckoning.” He nodded to himself and added, “And for Mr. Bulus ibn al-Darwish, a traitor to his country and a mass murderer, his day is close at hand.”

I hoped so. What I knew for sure was that there would, indeed, be a day of reckoning here in Yemen, but I wasn’t sure who would be reckoned with.

The cocktail hour had arrived, and Kate and I joined our colleagues in the hotel bar. Chet Morgan did not make an appearance, but he had asked us to meet him in the SCIF at 10 P.M. to discuss the operational plan.

Chet had stayed with his boat after dropping us off in four feet of water, and we had returned to the hotel pool where Howard and Clare were watching our things and apparently getting to know each other better.

Howard and Clare knew not to ask us about our new friend on the beach, but Clare did say she was worried when we were gone so long. Clare really cares about me.

Kate and I had gone back to our room to shower and dress for dinner and/or a trip to Marib later that night, as per Chet. Once things start to roll, they roll fast, and you have to keep one step ahead of the terrorists and two steps ahead of Washington.

Kate and I discussed Mr. Chet Morgan of the Central Intelligence Agency, and I confided to her my suspicion that Chet was a chewer. She thought about that, but wasn’t sure, so I dropped it.

I didn’t share with Kate my other thoughts about Chet in regard to his nuttiness or what was driving him, but I did say, “He seems a bit intense. When he’s not spacey.”

Kate replied, “You have a built-in prejudice against the Agency.”

Me?

Anyway, Kate was reserving judgment on Chet. Unfortunately, we needed to make a quick decision about going up to Marib with this loon to find The Panther.