The Phoenix Affair, Dave Moyer [best ebook reader for surface pro TXT] 📗

Interior and Saudi Intelligence. The computer that received this dutifully recorded it on its own disk drive, and updated its counter of messages with the same attention flag—the new total was 10,358.

*****

At the same instant at the NSA in Fort Meade, Maryland, a similar sequence of events was happening. This time, however, the computers noticed the original wording was in Arabic, correctly translated he words “Brigadier” and “Americans”, as well as most of the rest of the message. The system created a transcript of its translation and sent it by email to an Arabic linguist on the staff along with a recording of the original voice content. It recorded that the linguist had just one hundred unread messages in his Inbox. It added this small nugget of information to its transcript of the conversation and the original recording, and noted it in it’s own log, incrementing its counter just as its cousin in Riyadh had done. This counter, however, now numbered just over ten billion records.

*****

On the road again, Ripley and Allen road silently for a while in the silver vehicle at the tail end of the convoy, which was making a hundred miles an hour again along any piece of highway that would bear it. They struck the Tapline road about where they figured the Colonel predicted, and after the big turn to the left, with the SUV settled at 160 kph and the driver fixed just two lengths behind the rig in front of him, Allen turned to Ripley and asked.

“So, I’ve been wondering-this Colonel is really something, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, he is a piece of work,” Ripley said in return.

“What can you tell me?” Allen looked as curious as a schoolboy, Ripley had the most fleeting of thoughts that somehow that didn’t fit with the cold, efficient killer he’d seen in Paris—what, two days ago? Three?

He shook his head, then gave up trying to figure that last part out. Instead he thought a moment about what he did know about Cameron, then he decided. “I know enough. Interesting guy.” He told some of the history of the Phoenix program, the connection to the Big Boss, the long period of quiet, and then this summons a month ago that brought the whole action into play. Allen listened attentively, saying nothing.

“ . . .so then by utter coincidence, someone found out he was an aikido student, and they sent me out to take a look at him at this seminar a few years ago. The only time I met him before this week, and I didn’t make the connection myself until I saw him in Paris the other night. He was good back then, although a fairly new aikido guy, but learning fast, good power, good speed, excellent control—lacked a little polish was all. Unusual progress for his amount of training time at that point. Then after we met, whatever night that was, I asked for a bit more background on him. He’s a real live Colonel in the Air Force, the commander of something-or-other at this base in Ohio, the unit’s supposed to be the equivalent of an Army brigade command, so if you’re ex-Army you have that for comparison—he’s a player, I mean. It’s not a flying unit, but he spent his first 13 years or so as a fighter pilot flying F-15’s. Works for a 3-star at this place in Ohio, is well liked, respected. Word is he’s a good guy to have as a friend, fiercely loyal to his people and unit, but a nasty guy to cross if you’re a bureaucrat and get in the way of his mission or try to screw with his people.” Ripley looked at Allen--he knew nothing about this guy’s background, either—hoping for some clues in the face, but there was nothing. He resumed, “so again, if you’re ex-Army or any kind of ex-military, he sounds like he’s the kind of commander you like to have—kicking down doors that piss you off, riding the staff weenies hard to do their jobs and letting the troops do theirs without too much hassle. ‘Course, that sort of checks with what I’ve seen of him the last few days: easy going, good guy to hang with, but a hard guy when he has to be.”

“Hmph,” was all Allen said, but he nodded perceptibly, which gave nothing away at all. As an apparent afterthought, though, he said, “Well, that checks from what I see, too. Took down that guy on a London street in short order, quick thinking and gutsy move—he doesn’t lack guts, for sure. And the arrival act in Jordan was as good as I’d have expected from one of our guys. No training at all, you said?”

“None, zip,” Ripley said.

Allen pursed his lips as if to whistle, and shook his head. Without a further word, he produced a paperback novel from the large side pocket of his pants, and settled down to read in the light filtering through the tinted window.

Ripley turned to his own thoughts, rolling the small GPS unit around between his hands, and staring out the window. Outside the highway was two lanes each direction, and endless ribbon of blacktop that stretched ahead over the occasional low hill to a horizon that disappeared in a brown-ish haze. Between there and the SUV, the world was a monotonous, tan, flinty wasteland. No dunes here, no windblown patterns or waves in the sand, not a scrap of vegetation to be seen anywhere in any direction. He imagined this would be what the world must look like several thousand years or more after a nuclear explosion wiped everything out—nothing left but blank flatness, not even big rocks, just splinters of loose stone, the powdered sand, and nothing. There was the stray thought that Lot may not have been far from here when Soddom and Gomorrah went up, so to speak, and he wondered if that was your nuclear event and this the aftermath. He tried to calculate the number of years, wondered if a body could become a pillar of salt if it was burned instantly by the flash but was far enough away not to be obliterated by the shock wave a few seconds later . . .and with that last thought he was well and truly asleep.

*****

They rolled into the tiny village of Rafha just after four in the afternoon with the late April sun still fairly high in the Western sky, but the heat dimming noticeably. In the lead vehicle General Fahd ended the call on his personal cell phone and issued a short series of directions in Arabic that Cameron did not catch much of. Then Fahd said in English, “Paul, our people have been working on the camp for about thirty minutes. We’ll just find some gas for the cars here in the town, then carry on to the south a little way into the desert.”

“Fine,” Cameron said with a yawn, stretching and looking around. The town was not much to look at. The buildings were all pretty shabby, and there was a liberal sprinkling of trash along the streets and against the sides of the houses and shops. Everything was coated in dust, a casualty of the wind, mostly. There was little traffic, fewer pedestrians, not much sign of commerce or prosperity. He wondered what these people could possibly be living on out here in the middle of nowhere, or how long this place had been here—did it predate the road, or did it grow up around a gas station afterward? He looked out with new concentration, searching for pens that might hold sheep or goats for the night. There, he saw a few, in fact most of what he took to be homes had crude pens at the back made from ancient sticks of wood, or less ancient steel fenceposts and wire. Bedouin, then, maybe. There were no women on the street. Maybe another indication. The few men all wore the checkered shamak on their heads, desert Arabs, but of course that was no guarantee, either. City Arabs were typically supposed to wear a plain white one, but he’d learned years back from a friend with a gold shop that lots of city folk wore the checker as an ethnic cultural icon. Cameron smiled—Majid had actually compared it to Urban Cowboys wearing Stetsons and boots in downtown Dallas, or worse yet, Chicago. But these guys looked like the real article, he thought the rough leather sandals probably made the case. Shoes again. He looked at his watch for the date, which he wasn’t sure made sense, tried to count the nights again, settled on Friday for today. Day of prayer, day of rest. Shops closed after four, usually, the people in their homes with family for the evening. It was weird being in Saudi Arabia again, but oddly familiar at the same time.

“Abu-Muhammed,” he said to Fahd, “what kind of camp are we to have this evening?” He did his best to raise one eyebrow and affect a quizzical, suspicious face.

“Why, abu-Sean, a Saudi camp, of course. A proper Saudi camp. We’ll have . . .”

“Enough,” Cameron cut him off. “I know, and I can hardly wait to see it. I suspected as much. I’m pleased for my colleagues, though. I’d hoped we would show them some of the charms of the Kingdom.”

“That we shall, my friend, that we shall. I am surprised you even had to ask!” XXI. Riyadh/Northern Desert

Mohammed stared into space as he munched on the warm bread, seasoned with garlic, rosemary and onions, melted cheese over all. It would have been pizza but for the lack of tomato sauce, but Mohammed had never eaten pizza, so it was no great loss. He finished chewing and swallowed heavily, drank off a long draught of lukewarm Pepsi, and carried on with another huge mouthful.

To his left, right and front at the little square table three of his six men were doing the same—the twins and the man Jabreel who he did not know too well, and who was at his table the better that this should be corrected. Mohammed had no great experience of actual bloody combat, especially not against a potential party of active and determined defenders, but from what little he had he did know it was imperative to know one’s comrades in such a case, and he meant to know how this man would behave if it came to that.

He’d satisfied himself in the first ten minutes of waiting for the food that all would go well with Jabreel, however. Now his mind was far away, thinking of how he might do a reconnaissance of the target compound, how the plan might be put together rather quickly, how the men should be divided into teams, who should lead and what tasks each group might be assigned. Most of that he had in hand, he thought, and he was wondering about the one thing that vexed him: who Khalid would send to join him, what kind of men they would be, and most important, who would presume to be their leader. Discipline was not all that could be wished with the Brothers when it came to that. And he was aware that often young men