The Crisis (27 page)

His qat-chewing bodyguards stayed. They watched the contractors and the contractors watched them as Aisha, musing on what had just passed, made her way down the steps toward the still-idling convoy. Anticipating, as she walked through the dense hot dusty morning, the air-conditioning there, once she was sealed inside.

 

AC would be nice, Dan thought. The dry stinking dust was reigniting his headache. He massaged his brow as the trucks ground toward the port area. Past its cranes rose the Old City, its hill still surrounded by remnants of the Portuguese-era wall.

He was riding in a five-ton dropside from the 100th Light-Medium Truck Company. Four more of the big 6x6s rumbled behind. One peeled off as they passed the exit for the park, loaded to twice the height of a man with palleted Meals, Ready to Eat. Some locals might find themselves eating pork with rice, but as he understood Islam, dietary restrictions could be set aside if you were starving. Others were stacked with lumber, welding equipment, prefab ramps, electric controllers, generators, coils of shining wire. They made a wrong turn, backed and maneuvered. Then came sandbagged revetments, alert faces under helmets. A glance at his ID, and he was through.

He picked up a sunshine yellow hard hat from a box inside the gate. The clatter and buzz of compressors and generators crowded the basin. A tug lay near the wreck by the jetty, hoses snaking over its side, as a landing craft warped beneath one of the cranes. Forklifts maneuvered between working parties. Cables and compressor hoses snaked across heatshimmering concrete.

A heavyset man with thinning reddish blond hair and sagging, sunburned cheeks stood with hands on hips, directing a truck-mounted boom at full extension. It lifted rusty sections off the crane as cutters carved it apart with crackling arcs. His cheek bulged but it wasn't qat. He wore a cardinal scarlet hard hat and old-style green fatigues unbloused over Red Wing work boots. A portable radio, a Leatherman, and a canteen were clipped to his belt. His blue eyes photographed Dan as he came up.

“The harbormaster?”

“Parker Buntine.” He stripped off a work glove to shake hands. Something had been burned off his nose and cheeks, leaving pink raw skin. “Lenson, right? Any questions before I tell you everything we need?”

“Looks like everybody's busy. When can you take the first ship?”

“Five days. Got to remove all this fucking debris, and I want to triple the staging area.” Buntine swung and shouted, “No, you fucking moron! In the truck!
The truck!
” He swung back. “Weld up these fences and put concertina on top. These cranes are shit, faster to replace than repair. Them monkeys stole every fucking piece of electrical gear, every switch box, every motor. What kind of baboons would do that?”

“I guess, people who didn't think it made any difference to their lives.”

“Absolute bullshit, Commander. People who do this aren't people, they're fucking animals. And I'm not letting 'em back through those gates.”

Dan blinked. He didn't know what Buntine was: army warrant, civilian, contractor. But whatever he was, he'd have to get along with the locals. “We're going to need labor, Parker. And this
is
their country.”

“I done this before, Commander. Da Nang, Haiti, Mogadishu. Let 'em in the gate, right away, your losses go to forty percent.”

“Not
forty
—”

“You take in a hundred thousand tons, sixty thou gets on the road. You'll lose another half there. Everybody'll have his fucking hand out. Then they'll start fighting over it. I already had some big son of a bitch looked like a white-faced possum here trying to shake me down.”

“Who?”

“Some asshole with a bunch of hired guns. Had the marines escort him out. Big black bastard, but his face white as mine. Give you the willies. . . . Keep the fucking skinnies out, that's my two cents.”

“Parker, we've got a big job here. Nav aids, runways, power, water—the regime didn't spend a cent on infrastructure for ten years.” Dan wondered what he was trying to say, then located it. “And there's
no jobs
. If we put people to work, we start money circulating. If the economy starts up, they can afford to import food. And even if we have losses en route, the aid's still getting to hungry people.”

“So what. Just be twice as many of 'em, ten years from now.”

“What's that?”

“Nothin', never mind. . . . Five days, that's what you wanted to know.” Buntine scratched at a raw place on his nose, then jerked his hand away and spat and bawled at the men on the crane, “
No
, you fucking limpdicks! Who the fuck told you to splice? Everything out of the runs! Throw that shit in the scrap pile and pull me new wire,
new
wire!”

. . .

NEXT stop was the embassy, for Ahearn's first coordination meeting with the ambassador. He hitched a ride with Buntine, who was invited too, on a Humvee on a twice-daily run, stopping at the logistics headquarters at the airfield, the marine terminal, and the embassy. The gunner stood casually in his seat, leaning on the hatch rim as they crossed the bridge. The Humvee was old, its suspension worn. He barely noticed, deep in the daily sitsum on his notebook. When the gunner tapped his shoulder they were at the bullet-pocked walls of the chancery. He looked at the hole in the guard tower, wondering why it hadn't fallen. Apparently there'd been quite a battle here.

The enormous lobby felt empty. A modernistic chandelier, pale furniture set at wide intervals, an African-style tile floor. An elevator had an
OUT OF ORDER
sign, so they followed the other attendees up a staircase. One was a flaming redhead in tight jeans, Aussie boots, and a bush shirt, carrying a slung leather tote that looked as if it had traveled. He saw others he knew. McCall, turning heads as she tapped along in black uniform heels. Marines. Contractors in sport shirts and ball caps. A heavyset black woman in an embroidered dashiki and gold headwrap. He wondered where the other Ashaarans were.

At the door to the conference room two burly men in black battle dress, combat boots, gray jackets, slung rifles, baseball caps, and Oakleys were checking IDs. The caps carried a logo that grabbed his attention. Two more stood down the hallway. He was almost there when the biggest stepped forward, blocking the black woman in front of Dan. “You, stop!” he shouted. “Go back.”

“I'm a presenter. I'm—”

She reached into her purse, and the guard shouted, “Gun!”

The team down the hall reacted immediately, one taking a knee and aiming, the other covering another door up the hall. Where the principals were meeting, Dan guessed. The others in line backed away. One stumbled, nearly falling down the steps but saving himself on the banister.

When Dan looked back they had the woman's arm behind her back and her cheek pressed to the wall as they patted her down, feeling around her waist, up her chest. Her eyes met Dan's. She didn't struggle, but a deeper hue suffused her chocolate skin.

“She's clean. Except for the gun.”

“
Let me go.
Check the purse. My badge is in there.”

Reluctantly, the guard searched the handbag. Came up with a black case. “What kind of badge is this?”

“NCIS. My photo ID's in there too.”

“What's the trouble?” said a young white man in suit jacket, white turtleneck, and a gold chain from disco days. “That's my boss you got there. The NCIS agent in charge.”

“It's all right, Paul,” the woman said.

The guards looked at each other, and unhanded her. “Sorry, ma'am,” one said. “Saw the pistol, had to check you out.”

“It started before that.” She sounded furious. “Just don't think that every—never mind. Never mind,” and she smoothed her blouse, face still thunderous, and swept into the room beyond.

When it was his turn Dan said to the guard, “You were too rough with her.”

“People die when we're polite, Commander.”

“When did GrayWolf get in country?”

He didn't bother to answer.

Dan remembered the hills of western Virginia. Ranges, bunkers, barracks, training compounds with green steel-roofed shooting houses. Jet strips, helo pads, tank firing ranges miles long, and entire mock villages through which troops maneuvered to the crackle of small arms. Acres of concrete prefabs surrounded by new concertina, cornered by guard towers.

GrayWolf was a burgeoning empire. Torgild Schrade had been two classes ahead of him at the Naval Academy, so they hadn't had much contact there. But at their last meeting he'd offered Dan a job, even hinted at a vice presidency. “What are you people doing here?” he asked the guard again, not moving on.

“State Department contract. See Mr. Peyster, any questions . . . Commander Lenson.”

That gave him a start—Schrade was known for tracking people of interest, by electronic and other means—before he realized the guard was just reading his name tag.

Inside he found the petty officer in charge and downloaded his slides. The military ran on PowerPoint these days. A laser printer was chuffing out takeaways.

A stir; everyone headed for gray metal chairs. He found himself next to the redhead, whose face was badly blistered. “Attention on deck,” someone bellowed. The military folks stiffened; the civilians looked blank.

“Stand at ease,” Ahearn said, ushering a white-haired man ahead of him who didn't look at all like the child star Dan remembered. The general and the ambassador took seats in front with advisers and staffers. Dan could have sat there but preferred the back. A handsome young marine
took the stage as lights dimmed and the opening slide came up.
OPERATION COLLATERAL GRATITUDE. BRINGING FOOD AND SECURITY TO ASHAARA
. The briefer gave a quick overview of ops to date and the location and status of forces in-country and on the Time-Phased Force and Deployment List for arrival. He stepped down after introducing the next briefer, on internal security.

To Dan's surprise it was the black woman in the colorful dress. “The national police are disbanded,” she began. “The closest entity to a government seems to be a Governing Council that claims to exercise sovereignty, but does it? Your guess is as good as mine. We've met with a group that calls itself the national police, headed by a ‘general' who was a major before his bosses flew the coop. But it may actually be nothing more than a Dalangani clan militia.

“The other clans seem quiescent, but may be arming. Case in point: the shipload of weapons
Shamal
intercepted last month. So far animosities between the sects are muted, but this may be only a narrow window. We'll continue to broaden our circle of contacts, but my recommendation is to keep the Council at arm's length until a more representative group can be formed. Since they maintain they're the legitimate police, we may have to begin our disarmament program with another clan.” She quickly covered the drug and weapon situation, then stepped down.

Before the next briefer could begin a rugged-looking Englishman in civilian clothes stood. “Howard Quarles, Save the Children. In-country six years. I agree Ashaara needs help. But are troops and occupation forces the way to do it?”

“That's beyond the scope of—”

“I'm interested in the gentleman's insights,” Ahearn said, turning in his chair. “Can we meet after this brief, Mr. Quarles?”

The red-haired woman beside Dan raised her hand. “Dr. Gráinne O'Shea, International Hydrological Programme. Your efforts seem confined to the population hubs. But the real suffering's in the villages and mountains, and the nomads of the Quartier Vide.”

“Right now we have to improve the transportation network, in order to handle shipments on the scale necessary to save more lives. But I'd like to sit down with you too, Dr. O'Shea. Any other representatives from local NGOs present?”

A nervous-sounding agricultural rep asked what the long-term intent was. Were they going to feed these people forever? “The ag sector has to be stimulated. There have to be markets, fertilizers. Above all, water. This country could be self-sufficient in grains, and the southwest was once a major citrus producer. The premium coffee market's taking off. Ethiopia's
cashing in with Yegarcheff. That grows here too. There's another crop, teff, a gluten-free grain—”

“Well, that may be premature,” the general said, sounding wary now, as if he'd let a cat out of a bag he should've kept laced. “I agree, we need to kick-start agriculture. But let's resume the briefing. I especially want to hear how our port reconstruction's going.”

 

AS a bluff-looking American spoke about cranes and wiring, Gráinne tried not to touch her sunburned face. Then she fell asleep. She woke with a start, her head on a tall naval officer's shoulder. “Sorry,” she muttered, brushing drool off his shirt.

“Not a problem, Doctor.” He plucked a hair off and dropped it to the floor. She looked away, cheeks prickling as blood rushed to burnt tender skin. His smell lingered. Exhaust and male sweat. Not a bad smell. She'd obviously been celibate too long.

The general closed the briefing with a forceful recap of his priorities and the necessity to get food and medical care out posthaste. She followed him and the others who'd been asked to remain into a smaller room next door. The embassy library, perhaps; it was lined with bookshelves, with terminals along one wall. The drapes were closed, all the lights on. He pointed at her, then at two chairs. “Tell me what I need to do first, Doctor. Have you been in touch with our medical people? We could use your experience with local diseases—”

“I'm not a medical doctor, General. I'm a hydrologist.”

“Well, that can be useful, in a drought.”

For a moment she was tempted to tell him. But she couldn't. He was military. Not just military,
American
military. He seemed well-disposed, if a bit simple, but she couldn't trust him, nor the predatory companies that would prowl in the wake of the invasion. If there was water beneath the sand, it belonged to the people of Ashaara, not multinational corporations.