MY-PID now estimated there were nearly 400 people inside the camp, though only 250 to 300 were likely to be fighters. At the moment, Danny had only twenty people to stop them, counting Melissa. The roads were mined and the ridges surrounding it could be blown up to stop an exodus, but it would be extremely messy.
His force would be augmented at nightfall by four Whiplashers arriving with more equipment from the States, the two platoons of Marines he’d been assigned, and the SEAL who had parachuted in with Nuri’s vodka. The SEAL was so eager for action when he saw the Marines arriving that Nuri told Danny he’d probably be shot if Danny didn’t give the OK.
“And I doubt I’ll get the gun out of my holster before he draws his,” Nuri had added.
Pitting a force seventy-odd strong against three hundred made for almost suicidal odds in a traditional military situation. But this wasn’t going to be a traditional military situation. Not only were the core fighters highly trained, but Danny had formulated a plan to use Whiplash’s nonhuman assets to balance the odds.
Primary reconnaissance was being provided by a Global Observer, a long-winged spy plane that could cover a vast swath of northeastern Africa from high altitude. With wings as long as a 747, the odd-looking, push-propeller plane was fueled by hydrogen cells that allowed it to stay airborne for weeks at a time. Her long wings and spindly body mounted an array of video and infrared cameras that covered the entire compound. With backup from the Global Hawk that had been circling over Duka, MY-PID had a comprehensive image of the enemy camp. The computer could selectively zoom in on any spot in the entire area. The images would be fed not just to Danny and everyone else on the Whiplash team, but to the Marine commanders via their standard “toughbook” laptops.
Spread out over almost a mile in the mountains, the Brothers’ stronghold looked something like a pair of sunny-side-up eggs with slightly separated yolks and a misshapen and large white ring. The defenses were situated in a way to protect against an outside attack—from the ground.
The “yolks” were clusters of clay and stone buildings that were like miniature citadels, about a half mile apart. Analyzing intelligence data relating to the terrorist organization, MY-PID had decided the cluster to the northeast was the most likely command post; most radio transmissions seemed to have originated from that area, and the satellite images showed more human traffic there.
Studying the same data, Danny concluded the opposite. The Brothers were undoubtedly aware that they were being monitored, if only by the Sudanese authorities; they would do everything in their power to throw them off. So he decided his first attack would be aimed at what was supposedly the less important “yolk,” with action at the other cluster intended simply to hold the enemy in place.
At first, anyway.
Danny rendezvoused with the Marine commanders in an abandoned oil field about ten miles north of the Brothers’ camp fifteen minutes after communications had been cut. The small village near the field was abandoned about a year before, after the wells went dry; they had polluted the groundwater long before that, making the place virtually uninhabitable by anyone who didn’t have a reason to be there.
Nuri and Hera, who would liaison with the Marine platoons, came as well, as did Melissa and Flash, who was filling in for Boston as Danny’s chief enlisted officer.
Danny arrived a few minutes early, and was on the ground waiting when the Marine Osprey skimmed in over the flat terrain, flying so low its wheels could have touched the ground had they been extended. The aircraft maneuvered so it was behind a set of derelict derricks, then landed neatly thirty yards from the Whiplash bird.
“Colonel Freah, helluvapleashuretameetya,” said the first man off the helicopter, Captain Joey Pierce. The officer in charge of the two platoons, Pierce had a Midwest accent but ran his words together quicker than someone from New York; Danny, whose ex-wife had come from New York, had trouble parsing the syllables into actual sentences.
It took him about ten minutes to sketch out the basic plan, emphasizing that the situation would be fluid from its inception.
“My people will hit the interior of the compound at 2300,” Danny told the captain. “We need you to tie down the main part of the Brothers’ force with an attack in this area here, and a feint at the main gate first.” He pointed to two areas on the southern side of the camp. “We need them to think that the main attack is occurring there. Once they’re committed to defending that area, we’ll come in.”
“Won’t they just reverse course and attack you?” asked Pierce.
“They won’t be able to,” said Danny.
“Colonel, with all due respect.” Pierce pointed to the map. “Looks pretty open to me.”
“It won’t be,” said Danny. “And whatever your forces do, absolutely do not pursue them inside the camp. For your own protection.”
“Our protection?”
Danny nodded solemnly. “We’ll hook into your communications just prior to the assault. Flash has a rundown on the emergency procedures, and what we’ll do if there’s a hurry-up—if things happen before the planned assault time.”
Danny glanced at Nuri when Flash had finished.
“Did you want to add anything?” he asked the CIA officer.
“Just that Colonel Freah isn’t kidding when he says don’t pursue,” said Nuri.
Hera felt the slightest twinge of jealousy as she caught the CIA officer Melissa Ilse glancing at Danny. There was something about the way she looked at him that bothered her. She felt almost protective of the colonel.
“What look are you talking about?” Nuri asked her as they trotted toward the Marine Osprey to head back to the platoon staging area. Since MY-PID wasn’t available to the Marines, Nuri and Hera would stay with them during the assault.
“Just a look,” said Hera.
“Danny would never ever hook up with her,” said Nuri flatly. “Ilse is bad news. No way.”
Men, thought Hera. Always clueless.
Chapter 2
Washington, D.C. suburbs
Breanna took one last look at her daughter sleeping in the bed, then gently closed the door and slipped down the hallway.
It was just past 5:00 A.M.; even her early rising husband wouldn’t be out of bed for another twenty minutes or so.
She grabbed the coffeepot and filled her steel insulated commuting cup. Then she went out to her car in the garage as quietly as possible, opened the door and headed for work.
If everything went well in Africa, the controversy would more or less blow over. Edmund could go before the Intelligence Committee and explain that Raven had crashed and had then been recovered.
He’d be out of a job shortly thereafter, but that wasn’t her concern.
The question was, what would happen to Raven?
As Breanna saw it, there were two possibilities: it could be abandoned, or it could be handed over to the Office of Special Technology.
Surely it wouldn’t be abandoned.
She cleared security at the main gate of the CIA headquarters complex, then drove to a lot about two hundred years from the Room 4 building. The building itself had no parking, even though there was ample room around it; it was one more way of confusing the ever more invasive satellite eyes and other data gatherers employed.
Downstairs, Breanna was surprised by the smell of strong coffee. Only one person made the coffee so strong that it could be smelled outside the electrostatic walls: Ray Rubeo.
Sure enough, she found the scientist himself sitting at the table in their main conference room with Jonathon Reid.
“Ray, what a surprise,” she said.
Rubeo accepted a peck on the cheek with his customary stiffness. “I thought I might be useful,” he said.
“Ray has been examining the Raven software,” said Reid. “Which our colleagues so reluctantly made available. I didn’t think you would mind.”