shit.
Howard said hopefully, “Could be dolphins.”
I suggested, “Tell them the lawyer joke and when they laugh we can see if they have sharp teeth.”
Anyway, we headed for shore and made it back to the shallow water, where Buck, Kate, and Clare stood waist-deep in the surf watching us set a swim speed record.
Buck asked, “Sharks?”
I replied, “I didn’t ask.”
We all waded ashore, and Kate said to me sharply, “We didn’t come all the way here and survive an ambush so you could get eaten by a shark.”
“Yes, dear.”
Brenner was probably rethinking his infatuation with Kate Mayfield. My rule is, if you’re thinking of having an affair with a married woman, first see how she treats her husband.
Anyway, we all decided that the pool was safer, but before we began our walk up the beach, I saw Buck looking at a guy who was standing about thirty feet away at the water’s edge, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the sea.
I had the impression that Buck knew this guy and knew he would be there.
Buck said to Clare and Howard, “You go ahead. We’ll join you later.”
So we were about to meet our last teammate.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
The guy flicked his cigarette into the surf, then began walking toward us.
He looked to be in his mid-thirties, medium height and very lean, though I had the impression he’d once carried more weight. He was barefoot, wearing white cotton pants and a green flowered tropical shirt, which was unbuttoned.
His hair was long and straight, and it was bleached almost white by the same Saudi sun that had burned his skin almost black. His eyebrows, too, were sun-bleached, and as he got closer I saw that his eyes were a weird, almost unnatural blue.
At first glance, you’d say beach bum or surfer dude. But if you looked closer, you’d see a man who’d been here too long; a Westerner who had not gone native, but had gone somewhere else.
Buck met him halfway and they shook hands. I heard the guy say, “Good to see you again.” His voice was flat as was his whole affect, but he did force a smile.
Brenner, Kate, and I joined Buck, who introduced us to Chet Morgan. He knew who we were, of course, and now we knew our CIA guy, though Buck hadn’t mentioned Mr. Morgan’s affiliation.
He shook hands with Kate first, saying, “Glad you could come,” then with Brenner, saying, “Good job on the road.”
Brenner responded, “Thanks for the Hellfires.”
He didn’t acknowledge that, and as I shook his hand, he said, “Thank you for coming here.”
Weird. And for the record, his handshake was more of a jerk than a shake, and his skin was cold. Maybe he was dead.
Chet, as he wanted to be called, suggested a walk on the beach, so we walked toward Elephant Rock.
Chet hadn’t said walk and talk, so we walked in silence, like we were old buds just enjoying the moment together.
I glanced at Buck, who seemed subdued, which is not like Buck.
Chet lit another cigarette.
I didn’t give a shit if this guy never said another word, but Brenner broke the silence and asked Chet the standard question, “How long have you been here?”
Chet replied, “Since the Cole.”
So that was about three and a half years. No wonder the guy was buggy. But Buck had been in Yemen on and off for a lot longer, and he was okay. Maybe if I stayed here another six months I’d think Chet was okay, too.
As a cop, I can spot someone who is indulging in a controlled substance, and I had the thought that Chet was on something, maybe khat. So maybe the A-team had a junkie on board. Terrific. Takes the pressure off me.
Brenner, a man of few words himself, was apparently uncomfortable with a man of no words, and he asked Chet, “Any chance our target was KIA in the ambush?”
Chet drew on his cigarette and replied, “I don’t think so.” He added, “Chatter puts him in Marib.”
Well, I guess we were going to Marib to end the chatter.
Buck asked Chet, “Do you or your people think that this attack on our convoy in any way compromises our mission?”
Chet replied, “I’m not hearing anything. But it’s a good question.” He added, “I think we need to move fast before somebody in Washington starts asking the same question.”
Right. As always, it came down to the age-old clash between the hawks and the doves-the ballsy and the ball-less-just like during the Cold War. The Pentagon, the State Department, the intelligence establishment, and the White House all had different agendas. The only people who had a clear agenda were the terrorists.
Kate asked, “Why would anyone in Washington not want to go ahead with apprehending The Panther?”
“There are legal issues,” Chet replied, “and diplomatic issues.”
Right. The Yemenis had this silly idea that their soil was sovereign. Plus there was Mommy and Daddy’s lawsuit. Also, there was a chance we’d be kicked out of Yemen for using the Hellfires today. I asked Chet, “How fast do we need to move?”
“Maybe tonight.” He added, “It may not be safe here.”
When was it safe here?
We continued our walk along the beach, past a Marine patrol, and reached Elephant Rock, which jutted into the gulf.
There were about a dozen fishing boats moored or anchored in the shallows, and Chet waded into the water toward one of them, so I guess we were supposed to follow.
He pulled himself into an open twenty-foot wooden boat with an outboard engine, and Buck followed. Kate and I and Brenner glanced at one another, then climbed aboard.
Chet unfastened the mooring line, put a key in the ignition, set the throttle, and pulled on the starter cord. The engine caught, and off we went. But where were we going?
The only seat in the open boat was in the stern near the engine, and that’s where Chet sat and steered. The rest of us sat on overturned white plastic buckets. The boat smelled fishy, and our bare feet were submerged in about four inches of nasty bilgewater.
Also, not to complain, but the sun was starting to burn my exposed skin, and I could see that Buck, Kate, and Brenner were getting a little lobsterish as well. A more immediate concern was that our guns and commo were back on the beach.
Chet Morgan, I concluded, was crazy. And we were following him. That didn’t make us crazy; it made us stupid.
There were a few rocks sticking out of the water, and on one of the rocks stood a large black-and-white gull. As we got within fifty feet of the rock, Chet reached under his shirt into the small of his back, pulled a.40 caliber Glock, took aim, and popped off a round at the big bird. Kate, who hadn’t seen Chet pull his gun, was startled; the rest of us were astonished, and Chet was annoyed because he missed. The bird flew away.
To make him feel better, I said, “To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and call whatever you hit the target.”
Chet ignored that and informed us, “That was a masked booby gull.” He assured us, “Not endangered.”
I remarked, “And never will be with shooting like that.”
I thought Chet was going to shoot me, but he laughed-a real laugh, which almost made me think he wasn’t nuts. He said, “I’d never shoot a white-eyed gull. They’re endangered. And they bring good luck.”
Whatever you say, Chet. Now put the gun away.
