“Give it to me,” the general ordered.
The imam reached into his robe and produced a handheld GPS navigation device. He handed it to the general. The big Nubian pressed buttons to register the waypoint in memory. Then, wanting no chance for error, he said, “Write down these numbers.”
The imam produced a pen and paper, and scribbled the numbers recited by the general. Later, they would compare the coordinates to those on an aeronautical chart that displayed the airfield. The whole process was tedious, but a necessary step. Maps of this region were notoriously inaccurate, a nuisance born not of careless cartography but rather intent — such charts were, by definition, public domain, and the Arab countries of North Africa didn’t want to make things easy should the Israelis or Americans come calling again.
When they were done, the two men stood in silence for a time.
The general looked down and turned over a loose chunk of concrete with the toe of his gleaming boot. “Is this surface adequate?”
After a pause, Imam Khoury said, “For what we have in mind, it is perfect.”
The general stared at him. He was not a man given to humor, yet as Rafiq Khoury watched, the general’s brutish, rough-hewn visage seemed to crack as little used muscles regained memory. The man, apparently, could smile after all.
Five minutes later, they were back in the helicopter and skimming across the desert toward Khartoum.
Davis had been in Sudan for an hour, and he already had three enemies.
He reached the perimeter road and walked straight across, kept going until he hit the tarmac. There, he turned left and skirted the edge of the flight line. For all Sudan’s shortages, he could see that one thing was in abundant supply — concrete. The ramp and taxiways stretched for miles, a gray-white ocean of rock.
As he made his way, Davis studied the aircraft parked along the flight line. The fleets were segregated by utility. A flock of military helicopters sat idle, rotors tied down and plastic plugs stuffed into the engine intakes to keep sand out. Davis had spent a lot of time in the Middle East, and so he knew all about sand. It got into everything — your pockets, your food, your ears. And your aircraft. Sand was the enemy of machinery, so this handful of Russian-made choppers probably didn’t get daily runs. More likely they were kept ready, clean and oiled, waiting for a crisis. Waiting until the government needed a show of either force or goodwill.
The next section of ramp held a cluster of aircraft with a wide mix of types and registrations. Russian, Chinese, Italian, United Nations. This was the humanitarian ramp, the place where boxes with red crosses and bulk food arrived, the frequency and size of the shipments correlating to the immediate state of the world’s conscience.
Finally, at the far end of the concrete ocean, Davis saw what he was looking for. Two DC-3s sat baking on the ramp, doors and windows left ajar to keep the heat from building inside, their aluminum skin undulating in the radiant mirage that rose from the tarmac. By Larry Green’s count, FBN Aviation had seven airplanes at its disposal after the recent mishap. Which meant five were likely in service right now, plowing through African sky to do the bidding of Rafiq Khoury. And beyond the DC-3s, connected by a long taxiway, Davis got his first look at his objective — the remote hangar run by FBN Aviation. It looked just like it had in the satellite photos, a massive block of corrugated metal surrounded by a low fence. He saw a squad of mismatched vehicles parked in front, including two small pickup trucks with guns mounted in their beds. And inside the hangar? A state-of-the-art CIA drone? Davis drew to a stop and wondered.
He’d always had reservations about the entire concept of unmanned aerial vehicles. Pilots were natural skeptics, but from any point of view, drones were part of a strange new world. They flew high and at night so that those being targeted had no way to see or hear them. No way to know what was coming.
For the most part, UAVs in the Middle East were operated by men and women sitting in bunkers in Nevada and California. Surveillance data from their sensors got uplinked to satellites, then downlinked. The information was studied by people sitting in soft armchairs in air-conditioned rooms. Tactical decision trees were run and authorizations to engage sought from uniformed lawyers. Once everything was approved, another uplink and downlink in reverse made things happen. Bright, loud things. That was the reality of air combat today.
It had to be a bizarre way of life for the drone operators, David thought. You wake up in a cozy house in Las Vegas, drop the kids off at school, go to work and sit in front of a world-class gaming console for eight hours. On a given day, you might bore circles in the sky for your entire shift, like some kind of remote-controlled Zamboni driver. Or you might launch a salvo of Hellfire missiles and kill a truckload of people, relying on intelligence assessments that the targets were indeed enemy combatants. Either way, when the day was done you clocked out and picked up the kids from soccer practice. Grilled a few burgers for dinner.
It really was weird.
In Davis’ experience, there were moments in combat when you needed to see and feel and hear everything. Even smell it. Situations changed, and sometimes you had to react fast, almost instantaneously. That was his burn when it came to drones. No flexibility, too much time lag between seeing and acting. But there was an upside — drones carried little risk, which was why commanders liked them. You never had to worry about pilots getting shot down behind enemy lines. Never had to worry about risky search and rescue missions. All you could lose was the hardware.
Of course, even that carried risk, proven by the fact that Davis was here right now.
CHAPTER SIX
Whoever first called the earth’s outer layer its crust had probably lived right here. The brown desert was baked into layers that had cracked for lack of moisture, and a high midday sun was vulcanizing everything in sight.
Davis set his bag on the tarmac in front of FBN Aviation. Standing on the groomed concrete, a searing wind snapping at the cuffs of his pants, he filled his lungs with the dry, musky air. This was his target box, and so, just like flying a combat mission, the first order of business was to get his bearings. The FBN Aviation building looked relatively new, a given really, since the whole airport complex had been nothing but scrubland seven years ago. The main building was big, two stories of concrete and burnt brick. It reminded him of any number of military facilities he’d seen. Brown, gray, tan — shades so dull Michelangelo couldn’t have done anything positive with them. On the flat roof, two box-like swamp coolers were working hard. There was little in the way of architectural detail. Just square corners and a few token windows, institutional and cheap, a budgetary stepchild to the over-the-top passenger terminal a mile away. Behind the main office was a second building, three stories that reminded Davis of a college dormitory. And that was probably what it was. Finding homegrown pilots and mechanics in the Middle East was a challenge, so companies like FBN Aviation were usually operated by expatriates. And when foreign contractors were brought in, part of the bargain had to be housing. You gave the hired help a place to live, kept them fed, particularly important when the cultural differences between the host nation and employees were so stark. A little distance to keep everyone out of trouble.