Dead Six

“How . . . how do you know this?” I asked, stumbling on my words for some reason.

McAllister smiled at me. She had a mischievous . . . no, a devious smile, and beautiful green eyes. “I’m going to be in charge of our communications network when we get there. I’ve spent the last three weeks learning how their telecommunications setup works. Can’t drop me in blind with equipment I’ve never seen and expect me to make it work.” She maintained eye contact with me for what felt like a long time but in reality wasn’t. “Anyway, that’s all I know,” she said then. “Well, we’re getting some really good equipment, too.”

Before I could think of anything else to say, the door of the plane opened, and the stairs were lowered down to the tarmac. A moment later, a black Suburban pulled up next to where we were all standing. Three men got out. Two looked like standard-issue contractor types, with their tactical cargo pants and tactical vests and whatnot. The third looked like something out of an old movie. He was probably sixty or so, with white hair and a black eye patch over his left eye. His face had hard lines in it. His remaining eye could bore a hole in you. He wore a bomber jacket that was undoubtedly older than I was.

“Alright, listen up!” he said. His voice was harsh and raspy. “I need you all to fall in and board that plane in an orderly fashion. This is your first assignment, and it’s an easy one, so try not to fuck it up! I know you have a lot of questions. We have a long flight ahead of us. You’ll be briefed in the air.”

“But, um, sir, Gordon Willis told us that we’d have briefings and training before we deployed,” some brave soul said.

“You were lied to, son. Now get on that plane so we can get going.”

“Um, sir, who are you?” the same person, a red headed guy, asked. Some people just didn’t know when to quit.

The old man, for his part, cracked an evil smile. “My name is Hunter, son. Colonel Curtis Hunter. I’m the boss. Now move out!”

We’d been in the air for a few hours, just wandering around the plane, killing time. The Boeing 767 jetliner was meant to hold hundreds of passengers in its standard form, but there were only about sixty seats in the front of the plane we were on. The rear was all for cargo. Tailor and I sat next to each other, talking, when Hunter’s harsh voice came on over the intercom. “Listen up. Everyone wake up. I’m coming back to give you the first part of the briefing. McAllister, King, you two come up front.”

I watched as McAllister and the tall black lady from the tarmac got out of their seats and made their way forward. After a few minutes, they returned, each carrying a bunch of manila envelopes. They walked down the aisle, handing them out to everyone.

“Thank you, stewardess,” a smartass named Walker said. Walker was one of the guys that had been to Leavenworth. He’d been an Army Intelligence interrogator. Apparently he’d gotten in trouble for killing an insurgent prisoner in Iraq. He was short and suffered from obvious Little Man Syndrome. I had no idea how a dipshit like him scored high enough on the ASVAB to make it into Intelligence in the first place. “Could you bring me a Coke and some peanuts?”

“Shut your face, pencil-dick,” McAllister said, dropping Walker’s packet in his lap. Several guys started to laugh. Walker’s face turned red, and he stood up. He grabbed McAllister by the arm, causing her to drop the rest of her packets. She was four inches taller than him.

“Listen, bitch,” he started, looking up at her. She turned and punched him square in the face, just like that. He recoiled and let go of her. Blood came trickling from his nose. He came at her again, grabbing her with both hands. The next thing I knew, I was out of my seat, standing in the aisle.

“Val, what are you . . . ?” Tailor asked. I ignored him and moved toward Walker and McAllister. “Oh, goddamn it, Val,” Tailor said, getting out of his seat and following me.

“What do you want, Valentine?” Walker didn’t let go of McAllister. A couple more guys stood up. Walker was about to get his ass beat.

“What the hell is going on back here?” Colonel Hunter yelled, his rough voice clear over the drone of the engines. He had appeared from up front, flanked by two of the ambiguous security men. Both had their hands under their vests, probably ready to draw pistols.

“I’m fine, sir,” McAllister said, pushing Walker off. She seemed embarrassed that people had come to her defense.

“I’m sure you are, Sarah,” Hunter said, working his way through the crowd. “Mr. Walker, what is your problem?”

“Sir,” Walker said, defiantly staring Hunter in the eye, “I just made a joke and this bitch—”

“That’s enough, Mr. Walker.” Hunter cut him off. He moved in closer. “Now you listen to me, boy. We aren’t even in-country yet. If you’re going to give me problems before we even get there, so help me God I will drop your ass into the ocean. I’m not joking. That’s not some empty threat. You belong to me now. If you don’t make it to Zubara alive, no one in my chain of command will give a shit. So I suggest you sit down and shut your mouth before you piss me off.”

Walker looked around nervously. The rest of us had backed away, leaving him virtually alone with the scary senior citizen. After a long moment, he deflated. “Yes, sir.” He sat back down.

“Better,” Hunter said. “Sarah, Anita, please hand out the rest of the packets. Let’s get this briefing started.” McAllister and King both resumed handing out the materials. Tailor and I returned to our seats at the rear of the abbreviated passenger compartment and were the last to get the handouts. McAllister handed me mine without so much as making eye contact.

“Did I piss her off somehow?” I asked Tailor. He just shrugged and opened his packet. Inside was a bunch of documents, maps, and photographs.

“Gentlemen,” Hunter said, using the aircraft’s intercom so we could hear him, “as you’re all probably aware, our destination is the Confederated Gulf Emirate of Zubara.” There were screens all along the passenger section that displayed the briefing. The cabin lights darkened, and a large map of Zubara appeared. There wasn’t much to it. It was a patch of desert with three little peninsulas sticking out into the Persian Gulf on the eastern side. Its borders touched Qatar in the north, Saudi Arabia in the west, and the United Arab Emirates in the southeast. The map then changed, from one of the entire country to one focusing on the three urbanized peninsulas.

“The capital city, and really the only city in Zubara, is Zubara City. It’s made of three sections, Ash Shamal, Umm Shamal, and Al Khor. Over a million people are packed into these three pieces of land, including large numbers of immigrant workers from Pakistan and South Asia. For years, Zubara was a reclusive Middle Eastern emirate, founded on the supposed site of some ancient port city. It’s rich in oil and natural gas but was very isolated. Without foreign investment, Zubara was unable to fully tap its natural resources, leaving the country much poorer than its neighbors.

“This made it a breeding ground for radical Islam. Over the years, Hezbollah, Hamas, and especially Al Qaeda were able to do a lot of recruiting here. Things started to change ten years ago. The old emir went on a vacation to Switzerland. His son, the current emir, had built a loyal following in the country’s military and told his old man not to come back. Things have more or less been improving ever since.” The map disappeared, and the picture of a middle-aged, mustachioed man, in an expensive-looking suit and traditional Middle Eastern keffiyeh headdress, appeared.

“This is the current emir,” Hunter explained, “Salim ibn Meheid. He’s tried very hard to force Zubara into the twenty-first century. He’s attempted to crack down on terrorist recruiting and financing, has formally recognized Israel, though relations with the Israelis are strained, and has opened his nation’s economy to foreign investment and development. As a result, billions of dollars are pouring into his country now, and oil and natural-gas output has doubled.

“There are problems, though. The biggest problem is this guy, General Mubarak Hassan Al Sabah.” The picture changed again, this time to a man with a goatee in a gaudy tan military uniform, decorated with ribbons and medals.

“General Al Sabah has gained the loyalty of the army. Most of the army is made up of conscripts from poor families and volunteers from places like Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, and Yemen. General Al Sabah has created a cult of personality and has done everything short of openly defying the emir. The emir’s economic policies have brought a lot of change to Zubara, and many Westerners. And while he’s tried to crack down on the financing of terrorism, the