Shoum’s work.
“Please forgive me for keeping my radios tuned so loudly,” he said. “I am conducting a wide search for the missing Americans.”
“That is part of why I am here, beyond learning the joyous news of your family. I am doing a favor for my fellow cleric and our important ally, Sheikh Ali Shalal Rassad in Iraq, a very respected man in the service of the Prophet, whose name be praised.”
“Praised be the name,” al-Shoum parroted. “Anything I can do to assist your mission, I shall do.” The Rebel Sheikh was sending a message through a messenger of such high pedigree that there could be no doubt about its validity and importance.
“Our friend is most disturbed. He dispatched an airplane early this morning to transfer the American general safely to his hospitality in Iraq. He knows our own nation had nothing to do with the kidnapping, and it appears that many things have changed since the man was taken. Matters have gone to the highest levels.”
Al-Shoum said, “Which is why I am present here.”
The imam continued without pause. “Our friend, of course, was unaware that you had been sent by Damascus, and offers his most sincere apologies for the misunderstanding. He meant no offense to you or to your abilities. He was only attempting to salvage the situation and help our nation.”
Al-Shoum put his hands flat on the table, eyes downcast, humble, obedient as a sheep.
“But you can only imagine our friend’s surprise when he learned that not only has the American general escaped with the help of another American, but that all of the Sheikh’s holy warriors who had been guarding him have been martyred. All of them!”
“That is true. His Iraqis apparently were too careless in posting guards.” Al-Shoum’s tone was a sneer at their carelessness.
The old man stroked his beard, the dark eyes stronger than the frail body. “Something insulting has happened. The American infidel Gordon Gates actually ordered our friend to dispatch even more fighters, a large number of them, up here to join your search.
“Of course. And what was his decision?”
“Naturally, he would never intrude into your operation, brother. He expresses full confidence that you will resolve this situation, and his attention is demanded elsewhere, on more fruitful things.” Having delivered his message, the old man rose and gave the Syrian intelligence officer a final hug. “
Al-Shoum watched the blue SUV vanish back the way it had come.
“What was that all about?” asked Logan, ducking back beneath the tent.
“Nothing,” said al-Shoum. “An old friend who happened to be in the area and wondered what was going on.” Ali Shalal Rassad, who had already lied to the world that his organization, the Holy Scimitar of Allah, was not involved, was washing his hands of the whole mess. The old imam who brought the message was often employed as an unofficial emissary by the Syrian government, which would now be considering doing the same thing to ease international tensions. While al-Shoum sat beneath this tent in the middle of nowhere, the distance from Damascus hung around his neck like an albatross, for he realized that being stuck out here meant that he would not be privy in the final decision-making. Damascus had changed his mission. Instead of making a decision himself, he had been sent off running after a couple of Marines. If a scapegoat was needed, he might be chosen as the sacrifice.
He looked at the sky, where the sun had risen higher. No helicopters in the area. He increased the volume on the radio net. The sooner he captured those Americans, the better, because then he would be on the next chopper back to Damascus, possibly entering the city as a hero. He spun to face the American mercenary, whose help he now needed much more than he had only ten minutes ago. “We are wasting time, Logan.”
CHAPTER 51
THE DESOLATE ROAD LED BACK into a countryside that was green with agriculture rather than the normal desert brown, with ditches on each side to help with the irrigation of crops in a dry climate. Small canals with gates separated the larger tracts of land in a crossing pattern, to feed water from one area to another in a rotating schedule. As the sun crested totally above the horizon, a shining torch that removed the protecting darkness, Swanson found a major canal that apparently spilled into much of the region, with a low level of water. He dropped the truck into four-wheel drive, cut onto a cart path, and bounced down into the big trench.
Middleton grimaced in agony as he was tossed around in the cab, but Kyle kept going until all four wheels were in the water. He plunged ahead into a large concrete culvert that served both as a waterway and an opening through which farm machinery could transit from crops on one side of the road to the other. With a high clearance and only about a foot of water, the truck fit easily beneath the shelter, with both ends deep in shadow. He stopped and turned off the engine, and silence engulfed them. “This is it for the day. No choice.”
Middleton adjusted himself in the seat, eyeing the broad openings in front and behind them. “Pretty exposed.” Kyle started to respond, but Middleton added, “You’re right. Nothing else was around.”
Swanson opened his door and stepped into stale water. “The truck sits up high enough for the water not to be a problem. I’ll go brush over our tracks.” He waded away, back into the daylight, and spent ten minutes covering their tracks from the road into the culvert ditch, then used his binos to examine the fields all around them. Quiet, with no workers, even in relatively cool morning. He returned to the truck and climbed into the back.
Middleton was standing there cradling the AK-47. “Anything out there?”
“Nope. We’re okay for now. If they are not working the crops at this time of day, maybe these fields are just being watered. We might get lucky and not have to deal with any farmers coming through. Let’s look at the map.”
They unrolled it on the roof of the cab, each holding down an edge. “The place where you were being held is called Sa’ahn, over here.” Kyle pointed to a small symbol that denoted a village of fewer than a thousand people, and dragged his finger along a dark line. “We drove all the way over here to where that big highway goes up to Damascus, and then doubled back. I estimate that we are about right here, close to midway between these two big population centers, As Suwayda to the east and Dar’a to our west.”
He stopped talking and both grabbed their weapons when they heard a truck engine. Kyle motioned for the general to watch one end of the culvert while he covered the other. The truck came closer and closer, then rumbled across the bridged culvert and pushed on down the road. “We’ll probably be getting more of that during the day. Farm traffic.”
“So how far are we from anywhere?” Middleton squinted at the map.
Swanson found a scale of kilometers printed on the bottom and measured with his finger. “This road runs into As Suwayda in about forty-four kilometers. About a mile away from where we are now is another small road that goes due south for, let’s see, about seventeen klicks.”
“Doesn’t reach all the way to the Jordanian border,” Middleton observed. “Dead-ends at the next crossing. But it looks like a straight shot from there.”
“I figure that we are about twenty-one miles, more or less, from Jordan,” Kyle estimated. “We can drive closer and hump it tonight if we have to. Just have to get close.”
“Should we get rid of the truck?”
“No. It’s a hard worker and blends right in. Anyway, if we take another one, we alert more people.”
Middleton looked over at Swanson. “What do you mean that we only have to get close?”
Kyle dug into his pack and pulled out the battery-powered satellite telephone he had taken from the dead pilot in the crash. “In a few hours, about noon, we break radio silence and call our guys in the fleet for help. They might not risk coming in just to get me, but they sure as hell will come in to get you!”
“Rank has its privileges, Gunny. Why not call right now and get it over with?”
