he liked to kill jihadists with his sniper rifle. That simple.
We accelerated uphill on the narrow, winding road that cut through the hills and bluffs above the beach. There were no other vehicles on the road, and we stayed in the middle of the blacktop, hitting 120 KPH. As we crested the bluff and got into the flatlands, Brenner’s driver gunned it, and Mike followed.
This was the road we’d come in on, and it skirted around the city, then ran along the Gulf of Aden. In less than five minutes, I could see the lights of the airport, but I didn’t see any aircraft flying at this hour.
We followed the lead vehicle into the airport and shot past a manned guard booth without stopping, then veered off the road that led to the terminal and headed across a dusty field toward the runway.
At the end of the runway, I saw a high-winged twin-engine prop aircraft that must be the Otter. The paint job was a monotone gray, the official color of Spook Air, and the small tail markings were almost unreadable, another indication that this was a Company aircraft. Also, the cockpit and cabin windows were dark, and as we got closer I saw that the cabin shades were pulled and the boarding door was closed.
As we approached the aircraft, the cockpit lights went on, both engines fired up, and the props began spinning.
The two SUVs stopped near the rear boarding door, and everyone piled out. Mike said, “Good luck. Look me up in Daytona or Madrid.”
“Will do.”
We quickly retrieved our bags from the rear, including Zamo’s sniper rifle case, some backpacks, and a heavy duffel bag that I hoped held junk food and extra ammo. As we got to the left rear boarding door, it opened and one of the pilots dropped a short ladder down, and up we went. At the top of the ladder I glanced back and saw that our two DSS drivers were covering the situation with automatic rifles.
The copilot was making his way up the aisle back to the cockpit, and I saw that the dimly lit cabin had rows of double seats on the right and single seats on the left that would hold about fifteen people. Here near the tail were two facing bench seats along the wall, I guess for napping. Chet pointed out an open baggage area to the right of the door where we threw our bags and weapons as Chet pulled up the ladder, closed the boarding door, and then directed everyone to take seats toward the front. Chet went up to the cockpit and spoke to the pilots for a few seconds, then returned to the cabin and took a single seat across from Buck in the row ahead of Kate and me. Brenner and Zamo had slid into single seats across the aisle, so the aircraft seemed balanced for takeoff.
The dim cabin light went out, then the PA speaker crackled and one of the pilots made a boarding announcement, “Welcome aboard,” and a safety announcement, “Get ready for takeoff.”
And thank you for flying Spook Air. I noticed, too, that neither pilot introduced himself by name. Not even a first name. Company policy.
The engines revved and we buckled in as the aircraft began rolling fast down the runway. In less than ten seconds, the Otter abruptly pitched up and we were airborne. The aircraft seemed to strain as it continued to climb at a very steep angle.
I reached across Kate and opened the window shade and looked down at the lights of Aden and the harbor where all this began. I mean, had Commander Kirk Lippold challenged the approaching boat and fired a shot across its bow, I wouldn’t have been here two and a half years ago, and I wouldn’t be here now. But for sure, I’d be someplace else. There was no end to this.
The ground was falling away at a fast rate as we continued our steep, full-throttle climb, and I turned my attention to my seat mate. “How you doing?”
“Can we go back and get my stomach?”
I knew she’d start to see the funny side of anti-terrorist operations in dangerous, fucked-up places.
I said, “This is nothing. Wait until you see the landing.”
“Not funny.”
“Just trying to lighten the moment.”
“Try jumping out.”
Anyway, a few minutes after our thrilling short-takeoff maneuver, the pilot, still climbing at a steep angle, banked hard right, which caused the aircraft to shudder and caused Kate to grip her armrests. A voice on the PA said, “Sorry, folks. There was some traffic ahead.”
I hate it when planes collide in midair.
The pilot or copilot also announced, “We’re flying dark-no exterior lights, and please keep all the shades down if you turn on your overhead light.”
I lowered my shade.
A few minutes later, we came out of our gravity-defying climb and leveled off. I turned on my overhead light and scanned the aisle for the beverage cart.
The pilot came back on the PA and said, “Marib is almost due north of here, but unfortunately I forgot to file a flight plan with the authorities.” He chuckled. A little CIA pilot humor. He also told us, “To confuse anyone watching us on radar, we’ll take a northwesterly heading towards Sana’a, then as we approach Sana’a we’ll drop below radar coverage and head east into Marib.” He informed us, “Marib has an airstrip, so if someone thinks we’re going there, they’ll think we’re heading for the airstrip.”
Right. Because no one would think we were stupid enough to land on a road in the dark.
The pilot also assured us, “Weather is good en route, and we have some moonlight to fly by and we have night vision goggles for the landing.”
Do we have parachutes?
“Flight time is about two and a half hours.”
Well, we had reached the point of no return regarding Operation Clean Sweep.
Actually, Kate and I had reached that point when we walked into Tom Walsh’s office to talk about Yemen.
And here I was.
And here we all were, all six of us, with not much in common except one goal-to kill someone. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have some misgivings about this, but I’d be lying more if I said I wasn’t looking forward to the kill. That’s the reason I came here. Well, one of the reasons.
PART VIII
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
The pilot announced that we’d reached our cruising altitude of thirteen thousand feet, and we were free to help ourselves to refreshments from an ice chest in the rear.
So we all got up and fished soft drinks and bottled water out of the chest, and Chet invited us to sit on the facing bench seats. Zamo had no need or desire to know what Chet was going to say, so he returned to his seat with a Dr Pepper. Was it my imagination, or did his left arm seem not to be moving normally? I mean, if you take a hit like that, with soft tissue trauma, it’s going to stiffen up, and maybe it was also infected. Great. A sniper with a bum arm.
Anyway, Kate, Brenner, and I sat together, and Buck and Chet sat facing us. Chet turned on an overhead light and I saw that he had a file folder in his hand-what the CIA calls a dossier, just to be tres cooler than the FBI.
Chet spoke over the steady din of the twin engines. “This is our psychological profile and background analysis of Bulus ibn al-Darwish. It was put together by a team of FBI and CIA psychologists and investigators over the last three years since we identified Mr. al-Darwish as a prime suspect in the Cole bombing.” Chet also informed us, “This report is based on interviews with the suspect’s parents, a younger sister, childhood and college classmates, teachers, school counselors, Muslim clerics, and others who knew the bastard in the States.”
I asked, “Any girlfriends?”
