Andrew Britton - The Exile

Another tactical advantage to having the drones take off from Navatim, alternately known as Air Base 28, was that it put them at the same spot as the 116th “Defenders of the South” Squadron and the 140th “Golden Eagle” Squadron, both of which were home to the F-16 fighter jets that would be essential to destroying tanks and helicopters. The UAVs, with their respective payloads of two Rafael missiles, were formidable weapons against convoys bearing arms and missile launchers. But when it came to destroying thirty-three tanks and over a dozen choppers, they were best used in a support role, sending the Israelis real-time pictures, taking out a secondary target or two, and perhaps doing some cleanup.

Having Sudanese air space unrestricted to them, however, the F-16s left little to be cleaned up. Their massive array of air-to-ground missiles and laser-guided bombs took care of the convoy quite neatly in just three runs-the third precautionary.

It was not always the size of the strike force, but how it was used, that counted. Simon Nusairi’s purchase barely got out of the box, however, rendering even that observation moot.

SUDAN,WASHINGTON, D.C.

As the Cairo-bound Gulfstream 550 charter jet taxied left onto the runway at Khartoum International, Ryan Kealey looked out his window and saw the Sudan People’s Armed Forces troops that had escorted his group through the airport break into spontaneous applause, standing there ranked alongside the tarmac.

Abby Liu sat beside him, Mackenzie in the seat facing her. Cullen White, in wrist and ankle cuffs, was next to Mackenzie and opposite Kealey. The rest of the charter jet’s cabin was occupied by a contingent of 6 dark-suited Agency men who had flown in from Egypt the day before.

“Well, Kealey, it seems you’re a local hero,” White said in a quiet voice. His eyes had fixed on him through his wire-frame glasses. “The man who saved the compassionate and lawful regime of Omar al-Bashir from scheming rebels…and their infidel coconspirator.”

Stone-faced, Kealey ignored him and stared out at the clapping soldiers in their dress regalia. He was glad when the plane angled off so they were out of sight.

“You should be proud,” White said. “You even bagged the Western devil alive. Here I sit, flying back to America in shackles. Shame on me, right?”

“Shut up,” Mackenzie said.

White glanced over at him. “What?”

“You heard me.” Mackenzie met White’s gaze with his own. “I don’t want to hear your fucking mouth.”

“Are you going to gag me?” White said with a small acid smile. “Or maybe just shoot me in my seat. If you’re careful, there’s very little risk of puncturing the side of the cabin. Though I know you all want me back in Washington so I can sing from my cage.”

Mackenzie just looked at him for a long moment, then slowly turned his head away.

“You’d might as well have killed me back in Kassala,” White said, facing Kealey again. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Kealey stared out at the runway without response.

“I’ve no stories to share,” White said. “Nothing to tell anyone. I was just a freelancer for Simon Nusairi. Hired help. Kind of like you were for a while, Kealey. Was it Blackwater…or Xe, as it calls itself now? I hear the company wanted to clean up its gunslinger image after your little exploit in South Africa.”

Kealey turned from the window without speaking a word, not so much looking at White as past him. Abby, meanwhile, had shifted around in her seat.

“We have more than one bird in hand,” she said. “I think you know that, Mr. White.”

“Hassan Saduq? An arms peddler? Who’d tell you anything to save his neck? Is he going to be believed?” White said.

“Don’t pretend to be naive,” she said. “There is a money trail.”

“You might want to mention Walter Reynolds, the senior diplomat at the U.S. embassy in Khartoum,” Mackenzie said. “Plus embassy staffers confirming this guy’s visits there, security videos…”

“Thank you, Mac.” Her almond-shaped brown eyes had settled on White again. “You see, no one needs to hear your song. There are others, enough for an opus. And your name and Nusairi’s will be in every refrain.”

“Your personal savior’s too,” Kealey said, breakng his silence. “We wouldn’t want to forget the man who’s as responsible for Lily Durant’s death as Nusairi.”

White’s eyes narrowed on him. “I don’t know who you mean.”

“Sure, you don’t,” Kealey said. “Keep on saying it. But your time’s running out and so is your line of bullshit.”

The two men looked at each other a moment, their silence only underscored by the loud whine of turbines as the plane accelerated for takeoff. Kealey felt the usual lurch inside him as it bucked against gravity and went wheels up into the air.

“It was Jonathan Harper who once demanded I leave the CIA,” White finally said. “The legendary Harper. Did you know he called me to his office at Langley to request my departure in person?”

Kealey shrugged. “Guess he probably didn’t think it was worth the cost of a phone call.”

“Good one. I didn’t realize you had a sense of humor.” White chuckled automatically, kept staring at Kealey through his metal rims. “I only bring up his name for one reason. And that’s to ask…without Harper, where would you be?”

“What’s your point?” said Kealey.

“It’s no secret he had faith in you when others didn’t. That he’s been your guardian angel at the Agency,” White said. “What would you do if he needed, absolutely required you for a task he could entrust to no one else? An assignment that had certain vital elements you found…objectionable? Would you refuse? Or do it, anyway, because of everything you owed him?”

Kealey shook his head. “I don’t believe in guardian angels,” he said.

“Ah…but there is one who’s believed in you,” White replied.

Kealey was quiet for a while before he gave another shrug. “His problem,” he said.

And he returned his eyes to his window as the jet banked to the right, leaving the African coastline behind for the Red Sea, then climbing gradually through a blue haze to cruising altitude and the greater part of its flight north to Egypt.

“I’ve just received word that Cullen White has been placed aboard a direct flight from Cairo to New York,” President Brenneman said. He was at his desk in the Oval Office, talking to Brynn Fitzgerald, his back to the large bay windows looking out on the South Lawn. “He remains in the Agency’s custody.”

“And once he lands?” Fitzgerald asked.

“He’ll be air-shuttled to D.C. and brought to a safe house for preliminary interrogation,” Brenneman said. “I’m not sure a decision’s been made as to where he’ll be held after that.”

Fitzgerald nodded. It was gusty outside, and as she sat facing the windows, she could see the breeze rustling the magnolias on the South Lawn. “Have you put in a call to the DIA?”

“Yes.” Brenneman rubbed the bottom of his chin with his index finger. “Joel Stralen requested that his personnel have a role in White’s questioning. His preference was that it be active, but he would have settled for having one or more people there as observers.”

“And your response to him was…?”

“Exactly what you would expect.”

“And how did General Stralen react to being refused outright?”

“He’s on his way over from the Pentagon right now. I suppose he intends to argue his case.” Brenneman shrugged. “You know, Brynn…as a kind of mental exercise, or way of getting a handle on a person, I try to imagine their thoughts in terms of printed type-styles. Been doing it since my early teens. I’ve known the general for a long time and have always imagined him thinking in boldface.”