many ways it could be wrested away.
Sugar had not heard any similar stories, but she felt uneasy nonetheless. She hadn’t known McGowan very well, but working with someone during an operation compressed time greatly. And it was impossible not to wonder why he had died, and not her.
For Boston, McGowan was a reminder of his responsibility to the others, and the fact that even the best commander might lose people, no matter how hard he fought or tried to protect them.
The dawn offered little solace. The battery in the UAV they’d launched during the night ran down shortly before sunup, and Boston launched a replacement. But its battery failed prematurely less than a half hour later, and it took nearly twenty minutes to get another aircraft ready to fly. Sugar and Abul hunkered over their rifles as Boston prepared the tiny planes, his fingers turning klutzy just when he needed them calm and precise. By the time he had the plane up, the sky was bright blue and the temperature was rising quite high.
The mercenaries were not within the five-mile radius the Owl patrolled. On the Ethiopian side of the border, however, a hundred more troops had just arrived. Boston stared at the screen, mentally counting the force and trying to guess its intentions.
“Maybe they’re coming to party,” said Sugar, joining him.
When Boston didn’t laugh, she asked what he thought they were going to do.
“That many troops, without a threat — I’d say they were going to push the refugees away from the border,” said Boston. “It’ll be a massacre if they do.”
“Maybe they won’t use force,” said Sugar.
On screen, the men were jumping from their trucks, rifles in hand.
“I don’t think you can count on them not using force,” said Boston. “Those aren’t aid workers.”
Abul, his eyes burning with fatigue, came over and squinted at the screen.
“There are no UN people there?” he asked, looking around the screen.
“No,” said Boston. “Why?”
“The agency that deals with refugees. They’re not there.”
“Why’s that important?” asked Sugar.
Abul shook his head. “There are many different attitudes here. Mostly, the Ethiopians are a good people. But sometimes…it is possible that they would see the refugees as members of a different tribe.”
“They’re going to just shoot them?” asked Sugar.
“No, no. Not at first. But, if they didn’t move or, worse, if they resisted.”
Abul made a face.
“What will they do?” asked Sugar.
“Tear down their tents. Push them to disperse,” Abul said. “Get them away from the border. The camps — they consider them a breeding ground for political dissension. And they are not related to the people.”
“They push those people away, they’re just going to die,” said Sugar.
“Maybe your boss on the phone can help,” said Abul. “Washington.”
Washington hadn’t even been able to get permission to let them cross, but Boston decided it was worth a try.
“We’re another hour from touchdown at the capital,” Breanna told Boston when he called on the sat phone. The MC-17 was over Egypt, legging south toward Addis Ababa. “The ambassador is going to meet me at the airport, and we’re going to go over to the prime minister’s residence and have him work out something. The bureaucracy has just been throwing up roadblocks.”
“There’s another problem.”
Boston explained the situation. Breanna punched up a detailed map of the area, then opened a window to connect with the Air Force’s frontline intelligence network. Ethiopia was not an area of prime concern, and all of the bulletins were generic, warning of tensions along the border with Sudan, but containing no current information about troop movements or the like. The number of soldiers involved were simply too small and the area too isolated to generate an alarm.
“Boston, what’s your situation now?” said Breanna.
“We’re about half a mile from the refugees, up on the side of a small hill. We can see what’s going on down there,” he added. “There ain’t much.”
“How many civilians?”
“A hundred, around there.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Breanna used the aircraft’s satellite communications system to call the embassy in Addis Ababa. By now she was on first-name basis not only with the operator, but with the ambassador’s personal assistant, Adam Clapsuch, who took most of his calls.
“Adam, it’s Breanna again. Any word from the Ethiopian government?”
“No, ma’am. Ambassador’s right here.”
He handed over the phone.
“This is John, Breanna. I’m sorry. I have nothing new. They’re stalling for some reason that’s unclear.”
“A few hundred more troops just arrived at the border near where our people are,” said Breanna. “There’s a small refugee group there. The troops may be thinking about attacking the refugees.”
“Which side of the border are they on?”
“The Sudan side. But they want to get over.”
“The Ethiopians have had a lot of trouble with refugees. It wouldn’t surprise if they wanted them to disperse. But I don’t think they would attack.”
“Is there some sort of protest, or anything we can do to stop them from hurting these people?”
“If they’re not willing to speak to us about moving our own people across, Breanna, I’m not sure what we can do.”
“Has Washington spoken to their ambassador?”
“He’s been called to the State Department for an urgent message this morning. That’s all I know.”
With Washington several hours behind Africa, the meeting would be several hours away. Even if it went well, the civilians — and the Whiplash team members — might be overrun by then.
“I’ll keep trying the president. And I’ll talk to Washington immediately,” said the ambassador. “I’ll update them with this. In the meantime, if I hear anything, obviously, I’ll let you know. Otherwise I’ll see you when you land.”
“All right,” said Breanna, though she had already decided she wasn’t waiting for the Ethiopians anymore. As soon as she ended the communication, she punched the information display to double-check the map.
“Pete, we’re going to land at Dire Dawa,” she told the pilot, Captain Dominick. “It has an 8,800-foot runway. Can you get us in and out?”
“Not a problem. We can land and take off on three.”
“Good. We’ll have to declare some sort of emergency going in.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“Engine out or something like that. OK?”
“As long as I don’t really have to screw up my engines, that’s fine.” The pilot laughed. The long flight had twisted his sense of humor.
Breanna pulled off her headset and got out of her seat. Greasy Hands was snoring behind the pilot, his head folded down to his chest.
“Greasy Hands, wake up,” said Breanna, shaking him. “Wake up.”
“Huh? We’re here?”
“We have a ways to go. About an hour.”
“Oh, OK.”
“Do you think you and the loadmaster could get the Ospreys out of the cargo bay?”
Greasy Hands rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes, then shot a glance across the aisle at the seat where the loadmaster was sleeping.
“Probably,” he said. “I mean, sure. Of course. Why?”
“How long will it take to get them ready to fly?”
