The Crisis (55 page)

After several days and hundreds of casualties, the enemy had learned his lesson. The U.S. Marines could not be dislodged by force, no matter how many suicidal young men they expended.

Now Chicago was kicking off, to break out of the pocket they'd been compressed into and link up. They were turning everything west of the city to rubble, and the place hadn't been far from it before.

The presidential candidates had debated the previous night, carried live on Armed Forces Television. One said he'd withdraw U.S. forces as soon as the ground situation stabilized. The other promised to pull out as soon as he took office; nation building wasn't an American responsibility, especially with no Ashaara left to build.

Dickinson stood from his terminal. He spotted Dan. “How's that Tomahawk strike going, Commander?”

“
Chancellorsville
's on call. All we need's a target worth a half-million-dollar missile.”

Dickinson took his wraparounds off and examined the plot. Without them his eyes looked small and weak. “How about General Al-Maahdi?”

“Seems like we put one general down, another pops up,” Dan told him. “Anyone ever think it's not the guy, it's just the way it is out here?”

“They're making a case at the head shed he's the one ordered the whole shebang up in flames.”

“In that case, I could probably treat him to a TLAM strike. Where is he?”

“Would it were that simple.”

“Thought not. What's this meeting I'm hearing about?”

“Want to sit in? Take my ticket.”

“I better stay on the support side. This is with the Council guys?”

“Peyster thinks they could help.”

“After we blew away their warlord?”

“Maybe they never liked him much. Or it was a wakeup call. Anyway, they're gonna drop in for tea. Ahearn's tent.” The J-3 kneaded his chin. “I better shave.”

“Stay with it. The terrorist look's popular.”

Dickinson gave him a tight smile and turned away. Maybe it wasn't that funny, after all.

 

A saffron flash, a gigantic jet of dirty smoke, a staggering thud ripped the sky a few hundred yards away from where they followed the deputy ambassador off the helicopter. It was so loud Aisha stopped in her tracks and couldn't help cowering slightly.

When the bellow shook the ground again she recognized it as artillery. There was no road communication between the city and the airfield, unless you were in a tank. The helo trip had been low and fast, barely giving glimpses of troops moving forward in the suburbs, volumes of smoke,
lines of new refugees winding north: the only way out of the fighting now that it had blocked the westward roads.

She was in her trademark flowered abaya, headscarf, and running shoes, carrying a huge shaggy purse made of worn carpeting. Erculiano had abandoned silk shirts, gold chains, and designer slacks for combat boots, a white Oxford shirt worn under a flak vest, and his SIG tucked into the waistband of his Levi's.

“Damn, that's a big cannon,” he said. “Wonder what it is?”

“M198 one-fifty-five-millimeter medium towed howitzer,” said the marine waving their party through a barricade. “That's RAP rounds they're firing.”

“Ah, thanks, man. Just wondering.”

She'd been here before, but each time the camp seemed more permanent. Wire and bunkers perimetered the airfield. Concrete antitruck barriers protected the terminal. She caught stares from troops as they threaded labyrinthine alleyways between dozens of Conexes.

Inside she blinked, barely recognizing the once-shabby interior where a frightened man had welcomed them to Ashaara. If the idea was to impress the Council, this was the place, with the earth shaking as the artillery fired, jet transports turning up on the tarmac, and heavily armed helicopters lifting, twisting in the air like dancers, then hurtling overhead.

Terry Peyster was already in the JOC. A colonel in sunglasses briefed them on the day's movements on a plot board. So far, good news. No U.S. casualties, and where the tanks pushed, the insurgents fell back, decimated by artillery and air strikes. When they got to Ahearn's tent, though, there seemed to be a mixup. They wanted only the lead agent. Erculiano said no problem, he'd check out the PX.

They sat for an hour, drinking bottled tea, until the flap was raised and a group entered. She stood to greet them, then focused on the tallest.

He was in starched French-style fatigues and field cap. This time he didn't stink of sweat and whiskey. But his face was still a white man's molded onto a black man's skull, and he still towered over everyone, with hands that looked like baseball gloves. He was smiling, rubbery bluish lips stretched in what must have been meant as reassurance, but that came across as terrifying. She couldn't imagine being married to him. Seeing that face straining above her.

There were worse things than being single. She should remember that.

But hadn't he been a sergeant, that time at the gate? When Peyster had handed him a briefcase full of money. So he wouldn't kill.

“This is General Olowe,” Peyster said. “General Ahearn, commander of the Joint Task Force.”

They shook hands, the marine a slim child next to Olowe. The other Ashaarans smiled nervously when Peyster turned to them. They waved their hands, palms out. They didn't want to be introduced. But Olowe stood tall, shoulders back, almost at attention, as Ahearn introduced Dickinson, Erculiano, and Aisha. The Ashaaran enclosed each hand softly, nodding. But when it came her turn his gaze didn't even pause, just slid past. Allah, yes, the unreconstructed African man. They made American jerks look like models of chivalry. He pulled over a sturdy-looking chair with that huge hand, stretched out his boots and crossed them at the ankles.

She stared. Not only was he wearing brown top boots, there were
spurs
at his heels.

“Tea, General?”

“Thank you—General.” Olowe smiled more broadly, pale cheeks flushed pink. It was distinctly possible she'd never met an uglier human being. Yet his very hideousness transcended the usual classifications. The first time, at the gate, she'd thought him a thug. Now she wondered if he wasn't even more dangerous.

If so, you wouldn't have judged it from the deputy's smooth patter, the general's relaxed bonhomie. The only thing missing was cigars. Wait, the deputy was handing them out. She smiled at minus twenty degrees. Peyster fired her a warning glance.

The deputy launched into a statement. The U.S. was implementing UN decisions. Those who helped would be remembered as patriots, humanitarians. Olowe smoked, legs crossed. A man translated in a rapid, stumbling voice, looking too scared to sit down.

When the deputy finished, the “general” replied at length, gesturing with the cigar, waiting between sentences as his words were forged into English. The Governing Council had offered to place its forces at the disposal of the Americans, to protect aid shipments and ensure efficient distribution. Yet they'd been pushed aside while the Coalition built up exiles, Communists, labor leaders, others who'd lost the trust of the people. Not only that, they'd targeted the respected Abdullahi Assad. Errors could be forgiven. However, fanatics had stepped into the vacuum. They were the true enemies of the Ashaari, directed by foreign interests, dedicated to setting up a radical regime like that of Iran or Afghanistan.

“We're attriting them now. They won't stand,” Ahearn put in, and Olowe trained that horrifying countenance in his direction. “But they've halted the aid effort. There's grain piling up at the port, ships waiting to offload.”

“The general says, these are rebels you are talking about. Rebels against the legitimate government, the Governing Council.”

She lifted her head, understanding now what this discussion was about.
Ahearn wanted armed manpower. The deputy ambassador needed a local client. The RSO wanted . . . something, she wasn't sure what. And Olowe wanted recognition of what was all too obviously now his personal regime. The starving people in the hinterlands were secondary to the struggle for power. She started to speak, but Peyster put one hand over hers. “Not now,” he muttered.

The deputy was saying, “We'll need protection for the food shipments.”

“We have many technicals and also armored cars,” Olowe said, through the interpreter. “Place distribution in our hands. Give us fuel and ammunition. Then you can withdraw your troops to your base. No more American deaths. That's what Washington wants, isn't it?”

She tensed again—what about the other clans?—but Peyster was already making that point. “Food aid must go to
all
. Not only Diniyue, Jazir, and Xaasha. If we don't see it happening, our partnership will end.”

“That must be very clear,” the deputy agreed. “If there's to be cooperation.”

Olowe listened tolerantly, then spoke. “The general guarantees it will go to all the clans,” the translator said.

“Southerners as well?”

“Terry,” she murmured, but he waved her off, leaning to hear what the translator was saying.

“The general says he is a soldier. A simple man. You will find, a man of his word. But you must also be men of your word.” The translator stopped, frowning. Was beginning to speak again when Olowe leaned forward. He tapped the deputy's knee.

“Kill Al-Khasmi,” he said. In English.

The deputy smiled uncertainly, glancing around. Olowe tapped again, harder.
“Capisce?”

“The general is saying—”

“We understand the general. But we don't assassinate leaders.”

“He says: You assassinated General Assad.”

“Assad's protective detail resisted his arrest. He died accidentally in the melee.”

“Kill Al-Khasmi. Kill the false Maahdi.” Olowe flicked a cylinder of ash to the floor, then sucked moodily on the cigar again.

The deputy rose. He said a few more words about how glad he was to have this exchange of views. He hoped it would lead to a free and prosperous Ashaara. A liaison would report to discuss concrete measures. Olowe stared grumpily and at last lumbered to his feet. He squeezed out a smile and shook hands again. Ahearn held the flap and he ducked out, the other Ashaarans trailing.

Except for the translator, not one had said a single word.

.  .  .

AS soon as he left she had Peyster's arm, hissing in his ear, ignoring Ahearn's curious glance. “Why are we talking to
him
, Terry? Don't you remember what he wanted when he came to the compound?”

“What?”

“You don't
remember
? Your local employees. Some were southerners. He wanted to kill them!”

“That's your reading, eh?”

She rounded on Ahearn. “General? Does he strike you as trustworthy?”

Peyster took her elbow and steered her out, then down an alleyway to the camouflaging burr of a generator. “We're out of democrats, Aisha. Maybe they never were actually a viable alternative.”

“
He's
our alternative?”

“Maybe what this country needs right now's a soldier. Anyway, we don't have a choice. If we don't get at least some of the clans on our side, we're just an occupying army.”

“Taking sides won't make us popular with the sides we don't take. And we already know he's corrupt.”

“Olowe's corrupt?”

She spluttered. “
You
bought him off with a bagful of cash.”

Peyster said mildly, “He sees reason. That gives him long-term potential as a supporter of U.S. interests. He's not involved in weapons dealing or drugs, far as we know. Yeah, he has clan loyalties, but I've never seen an Ashaari who didn't. Have you?”

“Dr. Dobleh didn't.”

The RSO bared his teeth. “Dobleh's dead, Special Agent. We bet on him, and lost. Sometimes even a dictator's better than nothing. We've still got to get something that looks like a government running. Preferably, leaving somebody in charge who's not totally anti-American. But that's right, we're not here to promote U.S. interests, are we? Maybe you'd rather the whole country fell to this Messenger of Allah, or whatever he calls himself?”

She steadied her voice. “That's not a fair thing to say, Terry. Don't equate all Muslims with people like Al-Maahdi. And don't put me in the same category as him.”

“Then don't equate all soldiers with whoever you're comparing our new friend to. Don't worry, Agent Ar-Rahim.” Peyster patted her arm, mild-mannered again. “Believe me. Everything's going to be fine.”

 

IN the tent, flaps drawn, alone except for his J-3, Cornelius Ahearn rubbed his missing fingers and stared at the secure phone. Finally the light glowed and it purred. He picked it up and waited for the sync. “General Ahearn.”

“Hello, Corny. Steve Leache here. Watching your progress on Geeks. When do you expect linkup?”

Centcom himself, calling from Tampa. “By dusk, sir.”

“Casualties?”

“Light.”

“We're not seeing much media. Maybe that's good—I've got enough pressure to pull you out already. Your marines kicking ass?”

“Pushing hard, but the enemy's not standing. They're withdrawing.”

The distant voice dropped. “No chance of a mop-up, then.”

“No sir. They're in for the long haul. Classic guerrilla tactics.”

“Can we localize leadership elements? A decapitation strike? You got Assad, right?”

“He was a player, but apparently not
the
player. Intel's trying.”

“I'll see if we can do better here. Anything else I need to know?”

“Had a Warthog pilot drop his M9 in the port-a-john here at the airfield.”

“Ha, ha! That'll teach him to use his lanyard. How's the nation building? Thought you had that all set up. Before this Al-Maahdi pissed all over it. Who is this guy, anyway?”