interests were of no consequence.”
“Perhaps we should clear the esteemed American consul of the impression that he continues to be welcome here,” al-Mahdi said. “In the most forceful way possible.”
There were seven ministers in the ILC. All were presently seated at the large circular conference table, watching al-Mahdi with intent faces. “I say we take the embassy,” he continued, his gaze briefly leveling on each minister as it passed around the table. “Much as our Iranian brothers did nearly three decades ago. Only we will not leave the operation to an unruly militia, but employ regular army troops to secure the compound.”
“You speak of an overt act of war,” Abdel-Ghani said. Uncertainty flickered in his eyes.
“These are the inmates of the fire and they shall abide in it,” al-Mahdi replied, quoting from the Koran. “Allah shall guide us to victory.” The ministers kept looking at him. “Are you all asleep, or does your silence mean we are in agreement?” he asked in a biting tone. “If we are, then let me see your hands.” Saabdulah’s arm came up first, rapidly followed by five more. Abdel-Ghani hesitated a moment, but then caught a sharp, meaningful look from his ruler and raised his hand. The vote, as always, was unanimous in al-Mahdi’s favor.
Ed Sanderson was what you’d call a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy To hell with his cholesterol count, just give him a juicy steak six nights a week, and a cheeseburger with fries on the seventh, and he’d be smiling. Oh, yes, easy on the seasonings too, please. A pinch of pepper, a sprinkle of salt, a dash of A-1 sauce would do him just fine. It was, Sanderson had always thought, an unfortunate irony that his culinary preferences and professional interests were so greatly at odds. As a renowned Middle Eastern expert, and the resident CIA station chief in Khartoum, he found himself sitting over a plate of
Now, sipping his
“Nathan, what you’ve told me is incredible,” he said, and looked across his desk at the attache. “Please understand, I personally have utmost faith in your information. But you must be aware that when I relay it to Langley and the State Department they’ll insist on being given the source.”
“Tell him what exactly I told you,” Butto said. “It came to me directly from a high-level minister in the Sudanese government. One who sits close to al-Mahdi’s right hand.”
“That as specific as you can be?”
Butto nodded. “My informant has already placed himself in great jeopardy. We both know that men have been tortured to death merely for expressing their disagreement with al-Mahdi’s opinion. He would be flayed alive in public if his identity were revealed.”
“For al-Mahdi to think he can overrun the embassy and get away with it, commit an act of flagrant aggression against the United States… it’s astonishing.”
“So you’ve already indicated, although I believe the word you used a minute ago was ‘incredible.’ ” Butto gave him a grim smile. “But in his mind he is both messiah and warlord.”
“And in mine he’s a delusionary sonovabitch,” Sanderson said. He raised his coffee to his lips, held it there a moment without taking another drink, and set it back down. “I’d better wake up Diamond, let him know the goddam
“Indeed,” Butto said. “You say that with surprising accuracy.” Sanderson gave a grim smile in reply.
The President was used to working until all hours, having long ago given up trying to remedy his insomnia, deciding to instead put his restless nights to good use. On the other hand, the constellation of military advisors and cabinet officials in the briefing room with him — particularly the Secretaries of State and Defense — looked frazzled and overtired. Only the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs seemed to have all his burners lit, which said something for military discipline, now didn’t it?
“I still advise we get further confirmation of this leak before taking action of our own,” the Secretary of State was saying. “If we dispatch forces prematurely, and the Sudanese don’t move on the embassy, it’ll be more than a serious embarrassment to us. Every sheikhdom and caliphate in the region will be up in arms at our aggression against a sovereign Muslim state.”
The President shook his head vehemently. “I’m not waiting until the embassy’s been overrun and I have a hostage crisis on my hands. There are over three hundred U.S. personnel in the compound with their wives and kids included. Plus maybe a couple hundred citizens of Western nations who’ve gone there to seek refuge from armed gangs that have been running wild in the streets. These people have to be extracted.”
“I agree with you on principle,” the Secretary of Defense said, as the President had expected. Pick an issue and his view tended to be diametrically opposed to that of the Secretary of State. The two men were thick as thieves, however, their friendship seeming to thrive on argument. “My concern is the strategic difficulty of launching a rescue. It’s a sure thing we’re not going to get any help from other nations in the region.”
“Not even the Egyptians?” the President asked. “Their troops have been involved in border skirmishes with the Sudan for almost two decades.”
The Secretary of State shrugged. “True, but when push comes to shove, it’s sure to be the same old story. The Egyptian president’s got his own problems with terrorists and radical factions within his government. He won’t want to rile them over an issue that’s essentially got nothing to do with him.”
“Mr. President, I think we ought to look at shaking the mothballs off Operation Fort Apache.” This from General Richard Hancock, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who sat there rubbing his chin, a meditative expression on his face.
The President glanced at Hancock, gesturing with his hand for him to continue. “Fort Apache was cooked up in the nineties, but could have been tailor-made for the situation we’ve been discussing. It’s based on the idea that an airborne infantry battalion can be dropped into an urban area on or near a threatened or overrun embassy compound without external support from other nations.”
“Sounds to me like Charlie Beckwith’s old nightmare scenario,” the Secretary of State said.
“The extraction would be dicey, to say the least. We’d need to fly the choppers nonstop from the Red Sea to Khartoum and have them touch ground on a hot LZ,” the Defense Secretary said.
“That’s where the Osprey comes in. The MV-22Bs can do the job without any refueling, and three times faster than the old CH-46s or CH-53s. It’s agile, and, for all intents and purposes, self-deployable.”
“Which makes it ideal for plucking our evacs out of a brushfire,” the Secretary of Defense said.
“Exactly.” General Hancock sipped from the water glass at his elbow and then glanced at the Secretary of State. “You mentioned Colonel Beck-with a second ago. If he and the Delta Force had been given a piece of equipment like the Osprey at his disposal for Eagle Claw, the 1980 Iranian hostage rescue attempt might not have ended in a wash. Same goes for the Son Tay POW extraction ten years earlier.”
“Okay, let’s hear the rest,” the President said.
Hancock nodded. “Once the troopers have been delivered, they fight their way into the embassy, relieve and reinforce the Marine guard detachment, and then establish a perimeter around the compound. This done, they hold on until the helicopters of an offshore Marine Expeditionary Unit — Special Operations Capable [MEU (SOC]) can come into the compound and fly the evacuees to the waiting ships.”
“What about the paras?” the President asked. “Who gets them out after the people inside the embassy have been removed?”
“The troop evac’s been thoroughly integrated into the plan, sir. As the civilians are being taxied offshore, the airborne troopers and their Marine supporters will conduct what’s known as a ‘collapsing bag’ defense, tightening their perimeter with each successive relay of choppers, and finally exiting the area on the last relay wave.”
“There’s still the question of air support,” the Secretary of State said.
