“They push those people away, they’re just going to die,” said Sugar.
“Maybe your boss on the phone can help,” said Abul. “Washington.”
Washington hadn’t even been able to get permission to let them cross, but Boston decided it was worth a try.
“We’re another hour from touchdown at the capital,” Breanna told Boston when he called on the sat phone. The MC-17 was over Egypt, legging south toward Addis Ababa. “The ambassador is going to meet me at the airport, and we’re going to go over to the prime minister’s residence and have him work out something. The bureaucracy has just been throwing up roadblocks.”
“There’s another problem.”
Boston explained the situation. Breanna punched up a detailed map of the area, then opened a window to connect with the Air Force’s frontline intelligence network. Ethiopia was not an area of prime concern, and all of the bulletins were generic, warning of tensions along the border with Sudan, but containing no current information about troop movements or the like. The number of soldiers involved were simply too small and the area too isolated to generate an alarm.
“Boston, what’s your situation now?” said Breanna.
“We’re about half a mile from the refugees, up on the side of a small hill. We can see what’s going on down there,” he added. “There ain’t much.”
“How many civilians?”
“A hundred, around there.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
Breanna used the aircraft’s satellite communications system to call the embassy in Addis Ababa. By now she was on first-name basis not only with the operator, but with the ambassador’s personal assistant, Adam Clapsuch, who took most of his calls.
“Adam, it’s Breanna again. Any word from the Ethiopian government?”
“No, ma’am. Ambassador’s right here.”
He handed over the phone.
“This is John, Breanna. I’m sorry. I have nothing new. They’re stalling for some reason that’s unclear.”
“A few hundred more troops just arrived at the border near where our people are,” said Breanna. “There’s a small refugee group there. The troops may be thinking about attacking the refugees.”
“Which side of the border are they on?”
“The Sudan side. But they want to get over.”
“The Ethiopians have had a lot of trouble with refugees. It wouldn’t surprise if they wanted them to disperse. But I don’t think they would attack.”
“Is there some sort of protest, or anything we can do to stop them from hurting these people?”
“If they’re not willing to speak to us about moving our own people across, Breanna, I’m not sure what we can do.”
“Has Washington spoken to their ambassador?”
“He’s been called to the State Department for an urgent message this morning. That’s all I know.”
With Washington several hours behind Africa, the meeting would be several hours away. Even if it went well, the civilians — and the Whiplash team members — might be overrun by then.
“I’ll keep trying the president. And I’ll talk to Washington immediately,” said the ambassador. “I’ll update them with this. In the meantime, if I hear anything, obviously, I’ll let you know. Otherwise I’ll see you when you land.”
“All right,” said Breanna, though she had already decided she wasn’t waiting for the Ethiopians anymore. As soon as she ended the communication, she punched the information display to double-check the map.
“Pete, we’re going to land at Dire Dawa,” she told the pilot, Captain Dominick. “It has an 8,800-foot runway. Can you get us in and out?”
“Not a problem. We can land and take off on three.”
“Good. We’ll have to declare some sort of emergency going in.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“Engine out or something like that. OK?”
“As long as I don’t really have to screw up my engines, that’s fine.” The pilot laughed. The long flight had twisted his sense of humor.
Breanna pulled off her headset and got out of her seat. Greasy Hands was snoring behind the pilot, his head folded down to his chest.
“Greasy Hands, wake up,” said Breanna, shaking him. “Wake up.”
“Huh? We’re here?”
“We have a ways to go. About an hour.”
“Oh, OK.”
“Do you think you and the loadmaster could get the Ospreys out of the cargo bay?”
Greasy Hands rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes, then shot a glance across the aisle at the seat where the loadmaster was sleeping.
“Probably,” he said. “I mean, sure. Of course. Why?”
“How long will it take to get them ready to fly?”
“Jeez, I don’t know, Bree. They should be ready to go right out of the box.”
“What if they’re not?”
“I don’t know. Depends.” Greasy Hands pulled himself upright in his seat, trying to think. “It’s all automated. I mean — with this system, it’s going to work or it’s not. Nothing in between.”
“They have to be fueled?”
“If you want to go anywhere.”
The aircraft carried a minimal amount of fuel in their tanks, but not enough for a mission.
“How long will that take?” Breanna asked. “An hour?”
“Depends. Could be a lot longer. Might be less. Though that I wouldn’t count on,” he added. Greasy Hands unbuckled his seat belt. “I’ll go down there and take a look at ’em. Let me know what I’m up against.”
55
Jonathon Reid had just begun to pore over the latest situation report out of Sudan when Breanna’s call came through. He immediately punched it into his handset, resting his chin in his hand.
“Reid.”
“Jonathon, the Ethiopians are being unresponsive. They’ve sent troops to the border — we think they’re planning on pushing the refugees there back. Or maybe just killing them. Our people are right nearby.”
“We’re just getting information from the embassy to the same effect,” said Reid.
He’d also seen an opinion from one of the analysts within the past fifteen minutes speculating that the Ethiopians, under pressure from the Egyptians, would not only refuse to open their borders to refugees, but would seek to actively dissuade anyone from crossing over into the country. They needed little encouragement: Sudanese refugee camps were a notorious breeding ground for terrorists and other “disruptive influences,” as the report put it.
“I’m going to land in Dire Dawa and get our people out,” said Breanna. “We can’t wait for the Ethiopians.”
“I think you’re taking—” Reid stopped short. “I don’t want you risking your own life, Breanna. It’s not your job.”
“Jonathon, I’m here. I have the tools. I’m going to get it done.”
Reid had made similar decisions himself, many times. He knew from experience that the lines looked very clear and bright when your people were in danger and you were nearby.
From the distance, though, they were hazy and complicated. She was suggesting interfering in another country’s affairs, a country with whom they had decent relations, because of a corpse.
And a few hundred refugees. Some of whom might or might not be terrorists, and none of whom were likely to be grateful.
“We’re going to have to tell the White House what’s going on,” said Reid.
“Go ahead.”
“State may object. Among others.”
“I’m not leaving our people.”
“I wouldn’t, either.”