As soon as reid hung up, he checked Breanna’s position on the map. She was forty-five minutes from Dire Dawa. If he waited until dawn to call the White House, the operation would be over before anyone objected.
That was the coward’s way.
Let them object. If they gave an order directing her not to proceed, he would simply neglect to call her back. He’d take full responsibility — as soon as the operation was over.
He picked up the phone and called the White House operator.
56
Christine Mary Todd had been a night owl for much of her adult life. In college, she used the early morning hours to hit the books; when her children were born, she found rising for their nightly feedings somewhat less onerous. As a governor, she’d loved to use the early morning hours to catch up on her reading — not of the newspapers and political blogs, but old-fashioned cozy mysteries, which she was famously addicted to.
But in those days, she’d always been able to grab a nap during the day. Now naps were out of the question.
Still, she stayed up late. Sometimes she had work to do, and other times she simply couldn’t sleep. Her mind refused to shut off. She would lie in bed next to her husband for an hour and sometimes more, occasionally falling asleep, but more often getting up and going down the hall to the room she’d converted into her private study. Her staff knew her habits, and when there was an important call, would try her there before deciding whether to try the bedroom.
Tonight she answered the phone on the first ring.
“This is the President.”
“Mrs. President, I’m sorry to wake you,” said Jonathon Reid. “I expected I would be connected to one of your staff people.”
“You didn’t wake me, Mr. Reid. Please explain why you called.”
“There is a situation in Ethiopia…”
The President listened as he laid it out.
“I will call the Ethiopian prime minister myself,” said Todd before he finished. “That should solve the problem, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.”
“Very well. Let’s see what we can do. Please stay on the line in case they need some background. I trust you can speak to them without giving away any critical secrets.”
57
“They’re getting ready for something,” said Sugar, standing on top of the bus and pointing down toward the Ethiopian troops. “They’re mustering behind the trucks.”
Boston reached up and took the binoculars. He wasn’t quite high enough to see over all of the buildings, but what he did see made it obvious the Ethiopians were planning on moving out. Boston saw several of the soldiers checking their rifles as they formed up.
The civilians were in their makeshift camp, milling around aimlessly. They didn’t have any lookouts posted. Children played near the fence and road.
Boston pulled out his sat phone and called Breanna back.
“Things look like they’re about to get pretty desperate over here,” he told her. “What’s going on with the government?”
“We’re going to pick you up,” she told him. “But it’s going to take us another hour and a half to get there. We’re about five minutes from touching down. We’re sending an Osprey.”
“Can you get here sooner? They look like they’re ready to move.”
“Boston, we’re doing everything we can. Are the Ethiopians threatening you?”
“It’s not us I’m worried about. Whiplash out.”
Boston looked up at Sugar.
“Hey,” he shouted, “remember that idea you had for a diversion that I said we weren’t desperate enough for?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, we’re desperate enough now.”
Sugar’s idea was to start a fake firefight, drawing the Ethiopian army away. She’d wanted to move south about a mile to do it, but there wasn’t time for that; they’d have to launch it much closer to their own position, here on the north side of the crossing.
Boston had another idea to make sure they got the Ethiopians’ attention.
“You’re going to set my bus on fire!?!” exclaimed Abul as Boston opened one of the spare gas cans and prepared to douse the interior. They’d already off-loaded their supplies and McGowan’s body.
“We’ll pay double for it,” said Boston.
“Already you are paying ten times what I was promised,” said Abul. “Double is less.”
“Ten times, whatever.” Boston began spilling the liquid liberally down the aisle. “Look at it — it’s all battered anyway. Bashed and whatnot. This will save you the trouble of having to fix it up. You want to be the one to light the match?”
Abul would sooner have thrown himself into the flames. He sat on the steps in the open doorway, dejected, mournful, his head buried in his arms as Boston got it ready. After making sure the interior was as flammable as possible, he rigged three Molotov cocktails next to the driver’s seat — bottles half filled with gasoline that he could ignite to turn the bus into an inferno. With everything set, he leaned over Abul and shouted up to Sugar, who was still watching the border from the roof.
“Sugar, what’s the story?”
“Troops are in formation,” she yelled from above. “The drivers are getting in the trucks.”
“All right, get off!” shouted Boston. “I’ll be back!”
“You better be.”
Boston turned the key. The engine cranked but didn’t catch.
Damn!
He tried again. Nothing.
“Abul! How the hell do you start this crate?”
Abul looked up from the steps. “Pump gas pedal twice,” he told Boston. “Praise Allah, then pump while you turn the engine.”
Boston followed the directions, pumping, cranking, and praying. The engine caught.
“Get off the steps. Stay here with Sugar!” he yelled.
Abul hesitated, then did a half roll forward, staggering off the vehicle.
The fumes made Boston feel a little high as the bus rumbled out of the little crevice where they’d parked. He headed for the road, at first aiming directly for the refugee camp and the fenced border crossing beyond.
Boston took a deep breath as the crossing came into view. He could see the refugee camp to his right. Beyond it to his left were the trucks and the Ethiopian soldiers. They were starting to move.
He began beeping the horn, then turned the bus off the road. The ground was soft, and the battered vehicle wobbled but stayed upright, picking up speed as it started toward the fence.
Boston reached down and slipped a big rock he had taken with him onto the gas pedal, keeping his speed up. Then he took a smoke grenade from his vest pocket, pulled the pin, and dropped it into the makeshift sling he’d set on the mirror. A plume of smoke began trailing from the bus, whipped around by the wind so the bus almost completely disappeared.
The last thing he needed was his lighter, which he’d slipped into his upper vest pocket. But as he fished for it, the bus jerked sharply, and he nearly lost control before he could get both hands back on the wheel. He was moving faster than he’d planned — nearly eighty kilometers, according to the speedometer. The terrain, though it had looked fairly smooth from the distance, was pockmarked with holes and studded with rocks. Dirt and pebbles flew everywhere, a minitornado consuming the vehicle as it sprinted toward the fence.
He’d planned on jumping about fifty yards from the fence, as soon as he was sure he had enough momentum for the bus to get through the fence and maybe jump the ditch. But the swirling dust and the smoke from the grenade, as well as the bus’s speed, made it difficult for him to judge his distance. By the time he grabbed the lighter, he was only thirty yards from the fence. He let go of the wheel, and the bus careened to the right. He pulled back, then flicked his lighter. The jerking bus made it difficult to ignite the wadded fabric in the bottles. He cursed, pulled his hand down — then felt the crush of glass and metal spraying on his back as the bus hit the outer fence.