“The terrorists, those Houthis terrorists, they killed Mikhail. I’m not… ” Her voice trailed off. Moments later, she added, “They’re going to pay dearly for shedding his blood. We have a saying in Russia: When anger and revenge get married, their daughter is called cruelty. Those animals will die a cruel death.”
She reached for her AK, snapped open the folding stock, then cocked the gun. “Let’s kill them all.”
The tribal chief was a man in his fifties, perhaps even sixties. He was dressed in a long white robe. His body was thin, and he was standing straight, ignoring the bright sun directly hitting his eyes and his head with its blinding light and scorching heat. It seemed his body had developed a strong immunity against sweat. His pose conveyed power and dominance, as if he owned this land, which he or at least his tribe actually did own. An AK hung around his left shoulder, the wooden butt stock worn by time and use. Justin wondered if he was a veteran of the war in Iraq or Afghanistan. Or both.
He had left his gun with Daniel, who was following two steps behind him. Yuliya was the last one. She had put on a black niqab. The veil covered her face and her head as required in the Muslim world by all women when in public and in the presence of men.
“Salam Alaykum,” Justin greeted the chief and the four men flanking him, as he placed his hand over his heart. “We come as your guest, thankful for your hospitality and protection,” he continued in Arabic.
The chief and his men were not expecting Justin to address them in their native tongue. The chief blinked and raised an eyebrow, then stepped closer as if to hear better the words. “Alaykum Salam,” he said slowly. “Welcome to my country and to my people.” He stretched a hand toward the men surrounding him. “Is this everyone?” he pointed at Daniel and Yuliya. “We were expecting many people.”
“That is correct. We fell into an ambush in Sana’a and lost many good men, good fighters.”
“Yes, the news was brought to me. It seemed you also killed a few of those cowards.”
Justin nodded. “God guided our hands.”
A low shuffle came from behind him. Justin turned his head. Daniel was wincing, shifting the weight of his body to his right leg.
The chief looked again at Justin’s team. “You are determined to go ahead, with just one wounded man and a woman.”
“It is bad. But behind a machine gun, his leg will make no difference. And she has proven to be a great fighter.”
The chief put on a thoughtful look, and Justin wondered what was going through his mind. Yuliya had told him the tribe had already received the money and had agreed to take the team close to the warehouse. But that was before the chief had seen the almost non-existent team. He may refuse to take us toward what he thinks is suicide. Or even worse, he may hand us over to Houthis in exchange for any prisoners they may have or to gain their favor. Not all tribes lived by the Arab honor code of hospitality and protection for their guests.
“You are a brave man, a brave, yet foolish man,” the chief said finally, moving closer to Justin. “We will give you weapons and take you to fight your enemy, our enemy.”
The last two words gave Justin reason to expect the tribesmen to fight along them. The chief seemed to realize Justin’s optimism. “My people will not be a part of your battle. We have our own war to fight against enemy, and we will do so at the right time.”
“We’re grateful for your generous help.” Justin placed his hand over the left side of his chest.
The chief reached and shook Justin’s hand. The tribesmen broke out in cheerful shouts, their arms and AKs rising up in the air. Justin grinned then mustered a small smile. This was a small victory, but the real battle was still awaiting them.
The warehouse stood near the end of a wide, open space camp that included two-story houses and smaller structures resembling sheds or garages. Two dirt paths led in and out of the camp. The aerial photos Justin had received were blurry and grainy. They showed neither the eight-foot high cinder block wall with corner turrets, nor the barbwire crowning it.
Justin observed the camp’s outer perimeter through his powerful binoculars. He was hiding behind large boulders at the top one of the hills directly across from the camp. The convoy had stopped at the road below snaking around the hills.
“This is as far as we go,” the chief said. He was sitting next to Justin, chewing on leaves of khat, a narcotic plant favored by most Yemenis. “A few more turns and they can see you. Their snipers — which are very good — will have no problem picking you off.”
Justin nodded. “I understand.”
“The camp is a fortress,” the chief said. “Our tribe, along with government troops to take it a few months ago.”
“How did it go?”
“We killed a lot of them, but they have the strategic advantage. They are in a valley, yes, but too far from the hills. Mortar fire is inaccurate. They have powerful machine guns in those turrets on all sides to stop your advancement.”
Justin scanned the walls again focusing on the turrets. He could not make out the types of weapons mounted there, but he could tell the turrets seemed to be well fortified with extra concrete blocks. “What about an aerial assault?”
The chief removed a khat leaf stem from his mouth. “If you had a fighter jet or combat helicopters, you could drop bombs and do some serious damage. But even then you would have to go in and make sure everyone is dead.”
Justin dropped his binoculars around his neck.
“What are you planning to do?” the chief asked.
Justin grinned. “We’re going down there to kill them all.”
The chief responded with a small smile. “It’s your battle, your plan.”
Justin nodded. He could not be absolutely sure the chief would not tell his tribesmen. Their loyalties toward their cause may not be as strong as their chief’s. Any leak at this point would bring certain death to him and Yuliya and Daniel. Their tactic relied on surprise as much as on a stroke of luck. According to Romanov’s recent intelligence, Al-Khaiwani and Hamidi were inside the camp, protected by over a hundred fighters. It seemed they were to leave for Sa’dah late in the evening, under the cover of darkness. Justin was planning to rig the road with a number of explosive charges. They would hide in the foothills, where shrubs were the thickest. They were counting on the broken terrain, the nightfall, and the element of surprise to give them an edge as they ambushed Al-Khaiwani and Hamidi when leaving the camp.
“Let’s head back,” Justin said.
Five minutes later, they stood next to their convoy of tribesmen.
Yuliya was behind the driver’s seat of a Nissan pickup, the sixth in the lineup. Daniel was in charge of two heavy machine guns in the back. The tribesmen had stored there a few ammunition boxes, an RPG launcher, and warheads. Justin’s truck was also fitted with a heavy machine gun and loaded with ammunition, RPGs, AKs, and explosives.
“May God bless you and give you victory,” the chief said.
“May God keep you safe as you travel back home. Gratitude for everything.”
They shook hands again, and Justin climbed into his truck. He drove slowly to the edge of the road and passed the other trucks and SUVs. Tribesmen nodded and greeted him, some waving their hands or their AKs. They began to turn their vehicles around.
His dashboard radio crackled, and Justin picked up the receiver. “Go ahead, I’m listening,” he said.
“Hi, Justin,” Yuliya said. “Just wanted to wish us luck.”