The Phoenix Affair by Dave Moyer (best ebook pdf reader android txt) đź“•
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Twenty years after he declined an invitation to join the CIA, Air Force Colonel Paul Cameron finds he’s a part of the secret Phoenix Group and takes on an innocent-sounding CIA mission to help an old friend. Al-Qaeda hunts the pair from Europe to the Middle East, Cameron must rely on his wits to survive relentless attacks designed to silence his Saudi friend and preserve a plan to attack America.
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who were very excited by the nervousness before action for the first time could be prickly and proud, defensive of their honor lest they should appear to be afraid. It would be a delicate business to take command, to quickly forge a unit that could act as one, and to do the thing fast enough to get away before any force of authorities could muster and then destroy him. This last he put aside with the self-assurance that with the arms Khalid had promised to send he would surely outgun both his victims and any local police or interior ministry troops who might be in al-Ha’il. It would be enough to get away, whatever thing might arise.
He came out of his daze with this thought fading from his mind, noticing at the same time that his bread was finished and his plate clean. The light can revealed the Pepsi was all but gone as well, and a quick toss destroyed it entirely. A brief glance over his shoulder at the other table—the other men were finishing up—and he said to his people, “That was excellent, by the grace of God. Gentlemen, let us be on our way.”
Outside the Riyadh air was like a blast furnace, the one hundred twenty degrees magnified by a steady breeze from the northwest. Mohammed shrugged with some pleasure after the chill of the air-conditioned restaurant. He felt the briefest beginnings of sweat form on his arms under the thob that covered them, and then all dried away in an instant, giving way to that curious dry-desert cooling effect of evaporation under light clothing. He walked to the nearest of the two vehicles they traveled in, the Land Cruiser, and the twins and Isa their cousin joined him. Jabreel walked around to the Nissan SUV with the others, and in a few moments they pulled out into traffic. They rode just the two blocks north on King Abdulaziz Road, entered the roundabout under the overpass that carried the six-lane Riyadh-to-Mecca highway, wound around it two hundred seventy degrees, and up the entrance ramp. By the time they reached the motorway and merged with the traffic the speedometer indicated one hundred-thirty kilometers per hour.
Mohammed turned off the radio and glanced meaningfully at Isa in the passenger seat. “Listen, now, all of you, and I will sketch out the beginnings of the plan that we will carry out tomorrow or the next day. We will have five groups of six men each, if our friends come as they have promised, each of us leading a group and the last led by whomever it appears is in charge of the newcomers . . .
*****
Gas tanks full to the brim, the convoy of Suburbans back-tracked a little through the town of Rafha, and just to the west of town the lead vehicle turned left off the paved road onto what Cameron saw was the familiar type of desert track he’d seen many times on weekend outings years ago. Wide, flattened by years of use, devoid of the low brush and scrub that grew here and there out of the flinty sand. He saw as his car passed it the large stone placed at its junction with the main road to mark it’s location—otherwise, he might have passed the track a hundred times looking for the damned thing and never found it. Maps out here were useless, and in the days ten years ago when hand-held GPS receivers were only available to the military and vehicle mounted systems an un-imagined future, the only way to find things like this was to have a narrative description in a book one kept, or inherited from someone who knew, that began at some landmark in Rafha in this case, and ran “ . . .turn West on the Tapline road, marking your odometer, and drive 3.7 kilometers. There look for a large flat-topped rock on the south side of the road, turn here . . .” or something to that effect.
This brought a wry smile and a bit of nostalgia. Despite the fact that it had been a long year, living in Riyadh without Elizabeth and the kids, working in the Saudi Air Force Headquarters, it had after all been fun. There’d been two other F-15 guys with him there: one who he knew well from before, the other who’d been a student under him at the F-15 school four years earlier. They’d got along extremely well, and together with a large group of radar controllers whose job in town was to fly with and train AWACS crews at Riyadh Air Base, they’d all been checked out in scuba diving and spent much of the year’s free time running all over the Kingdom. Scuba, good food and carpet shopping in Jeddah and up and down the Red Sea coast. Weekend day outings in the desert in every conceivable direction from Riyadh, finding tracks like this to the most remote places, but finding what was probably some of the most striking desert scenery in all the world, seldom seen except by expats working in Saudi since there were no tourists allowed in the country. Weekend “camps”, often with the Brits who especially liked to organize them and were exceptionally good at it, with huge fires, enormous dinners, prodigious amounts of moon-shined liquor, beer and wine. More rarely the camps with the Saudi officers, different in many ways and yet very special. And always the clear night sky that fairly blazed with the stars, a cold, hard desert sky that was more blue than black with all that blazing light. Staying up into the small hours, talking, drinking, telling stories, discussing religion and politics with the Saudis, their favorite topics, thinking often of home and yet enjoying the company.
The memory was pleasant, and anticipation welled in his mind. This would no doubt be a spectacular affair tonight—when he’d lived here he had not been that close with Fahd, and they had not camped together that he could remember. He was sure, however, that Fahd intended to show lavish hospitality, on the one hand because they were very close now, had been since School, and on the other hand because he was near his home: he had his family and tribe to do well by—it was a matter of family and tribal pride.
The town was behind them, beyond a low hill and a mile or two distant, and all around the little convoy was an unbroken sea of sand, an odd color: tan as one would expect, but there was just the smallest tint of red in it. Here and there it had drifted into dunes, some fifteen and twenty feet high. In other spots the ground was bare, hard, with scattered fragments of flint strewn on the surface. To the west the sun had touched the horizon which was beginning to glow red. Somewhere near the zenith overhead the sky turned a darker blue, blended through purple and was utterly black on the left away East. It looked like it would be a black night.
Another two miles, the track was mostly level, but now they were bouncing along a good deal as they crossed spots that had drifted over with fingers of sand a foot deep or so, and the pace had to slow. The driver shifted into four wheel drive, the convoy slowed to a snarling crawl. Fifteen minutes took them only ten kilometers down the road, a sad, painful, jarring, monotonous fifteen minutes that seemed much longer, but then a bend in the road with dunes to left and right, turning left between them, then right again as another dune loomed in front out of the growing dark, back left and there was the camp.
“Ah, we are here Paul,” Fahd offered matter-of-factly, but anyone could see he was pleased by the look on his face.
Pleased because of the look on Cameron’s. His mouth agape, Cameron was staring at the camp arranged in a broad rectangle, six enormous Bedouin tents ranged along four sides, with a gap facing north. In the center a large fire was burning high, along the inner perimeter there were electric lights on head-high poles at every tent corner. That piece seemed so out of place it took him a moment to remember a similar occasion, and he suspected that over beyond the dune to the east, or perhaps that one to the south, there would be a truck or a trailer with a very large generator to supply the power. He chuckled out loud. The last time he’d seen that, there’d also been another truck with a cabin on the back, the cabin containing four full bathrooms with running water and all the comforts of home.
“Well, Fahd, I am amazed,” was all he could say for now.
“Excellent, I’d hoped you would be.”
But now they’d parked at the western end of the camp, and they piled out with all the rest. Men were coming out of the tents, greetings flying everywhere, and Cameron noted some of the people made the shallowest of bows when they greeted Fahd. This went on in a confused lump for a minute or two, and then Fahd issued some instructions in a kindly voice. The camp men split into two groups, one heading for the tents on the north of the square—one had to be the kitchen tent, Cameron guessed—the others for the suburban with Fadia and the family. Soon baggage was carrying across the sand, the women were moving, swathed head to toe in black, and all disappeared into the tents the far side of the square.
Ripley came up and said quietly, “I don’t really think this counts as camping, Colonel. Where they hell are they getting the electricity?”
“Well, I’m guessing, but probably the other side of that dune, or that one, you’ll find a generator. They place them like that so you can’t hear it, works pretty well if the location is right. This is perfect.”
“Really perfect,” injected Allen, as he joined. “Very good site selection for defense, too. See how it’s covered on all sides by the dunes? And notice the lights have shades on tops, no light into the sky. I never even saw the place until we rounded the corner. These guys know their business. You think there’s going to be dinner, Colonel?”
“Oh, I should think we won’t be hungry at all, but it might be awhile. Saudis dine late. There should be some snacks soon, though—I think that guy over there is cooking pita bread. Let’s get our gear, gents.” He walked over to where Fahd was talking to one of his cousins, for cousin he was, and said, “Fahd, which tent shall I take with the other guys?”
“I was just asking Musa the same question, Paul. These two, closest to the vehicles, are for you and your people. The family and I will be across the way, other side of the fire. The servants in those two on the north, the rest of the men in the two end tents on the south, there. The middle tent with the side open to the fire is for the majlis.”
“Ah, so it is,” Cameron saw now that inside this tent there were carpets covering the sand, and its inner walls were lined with cushions.
“It is such a fine evening, though, Paul, I’ve suggested we dine outside. I hope you agree.”
“Of course. Now, let me and the brothers Grimm stow our gear, and we’ll meet you over there for some tea, I imagine.” He paused for an awkward moment. “Uh, Fahd, should we be armed, for any reason? I’m not sure of the situation, to be honest.”
Fahd laughed. “Right again—I had just gotten Musa’s opinion on that as well. No, I don’t think so tonight, Paul. They saw no one on the drive here from al-Ha’il, and Musa took the precaution of having a vehicle wait an hour or two at one point hidden behind a dune off the road, to see
He came out of his daze with this thought fading from his mind, noticing at the same time that his bread was finished and his plate clean. The light can revealed the Pepsi was all but gone as well, and a quick toss destroyed it entirely. A brief glance over his shoulder at the other table—the other men were finishing up—and he said to his people, “That was excellent, by the grace of God. Gentlemen, let us be on our way.”
Outside the Riyadh air was like a blast furnace, the one hundred twenty degrees magnified by a steady breeze from the northwest. Mohammed shrugged with some pleasure after the chill of the air-conditioned restaurant. He felt the briefest beginnings of sweat form on his arms under the thob that covered them, and then all dried away in an instant, giving way to that curious dry-desert cooling effect of evaporation under light clothing. He walked to the nearest of the two vehicles they traveled in, the Land Cruiser, and the twins and Isa their cousin joined him. Jabreel walked around to the Nissan SUV with the others, and in a few moments they pulled out into traffic. They rode just the two blocks north on King Abdulaziz Road, entered the roundabout under the overpass that carried the six-lane Riyadh-to-Mecca highway, wound around it two hundred seventy degrees, and up the entrance ramp. By the time they reached the motorway and merged with the traffic the speedometer indicated one hundred-thirty kilometers per hour.
Mohammed turned off the radio and glanced meaningfully at Isa in the passenger seat. “Listen, now, all of you, and I will sketch out the beginnings of the plan that we will carry out tomorrow or the next day. We will have five groups of six men each, if our friends come as they have promised, each of us leading a group and the last led by whomever it appears is in charge of the newcomers . . .
*****
Gas tanks full to the brim, the convoy of Suburbans back-tracked a little through the town of Rafha, and just to the west of town the lead vehicle turned left off the paved road onto what Cameron saw was the familiar type of desert track he’d seen many times on weekend outings years ago. Wide, flattened by years of use, devoid of the low brush and scrub that grew here and there out of the flinty sand. He saw as his car passed it the large stone placed at its junction with the main road to mark it’s location—otherwise, he might have passed the track a hundred times looking for the damned thing and never found it. Maps out here were useless, and in the days ten years ago when hand-held GPS receivers were only available to the military and vehicle mounted systems an un-imagined future, the only way to find things like this was to have a narrative description in a book one kept, or inherited from someone who knew, that began at some landmark in Rafha in this case, and ran “ . . .turn West on the Tapline road, marking your odometer, and drive 3.7 kilometers. There look for a large flat-topped rock on the south side of the road, turn here . . .” or something to that effect.
This brought a wry smile and a bit of nostalgia. Despite the fact that it had been a long year, living in Riyadh without Elizabeth and the kids, working in the Saudi Air Force Headquarters, it had after all been fun. There’d been two other F-15 guys with him there: one who he knew well from before, the other who’d been a student under him at the F-15 school four years earlier. They’d got along extremely well, and together with a large group of radar controllers whose job in town was to fly with and train AWACS crews at Riyadh Air Base, they’d all been checked out in scuba diving and spent much of the year’s free time running all over the Kingdom. Scuba, good food and carpet shopping in Jeddah and up and down the Red Sea coast. Weekend day outings in the desert in every conceivable direction from Riyadh, finding tracks like this to the most remote places, but finding what was probably some of the most striking desert scenery in all the world, seldom seen except by expats working in Saudi since there were no tourists allowed in the country. Weekend “camps”, often with the Brits who especially liked to organize them and were exceptionally good at it, with huge fires, enormous dinners, prodigious amounts of moon-shined liquor, beer and wine. More rarely the camps with the Saudi officers, different in many ways and yet very special. And always the clear night sky that fairly blazed with the stars, a cold, hard desert sky that was more blue than black with all that blazing light. Staying up into the small hours, talking, drinking, telling stories, discussing religion and politics with the Saudis, their favorite topics, thinking often of home and yet enjoying the company.
The memory was pleasant, and anticipation welled in his mind. This would no doubt be a spectacular affair tonight—when he’d lived here he had not been that close with Fahd, and they had not camped together that he could remember. He was sure, however, that Fahd intended to show lavish hospitality, on the one hand because they were very close now, had been since School, and on the other hand because he was near his home: he had his family and tribe to do well by—it was a matter of family and tribal pride.
The town was behind them, beyond a low hill and a mile or two distant, and all around the little convoy was an unbroken sea of sand, an odd color: tan as one would expect, but there was just the smallest tint of red in it. Here and there it had drifted into dunes, some fifteen and twenty feet high. In other spots the ground was bare, hard, with scattered fragments of flint strewn on the surface. To the west the sun had touched the horizon which was beginning to glow red. Somewhere near the zenith overhead the sky turned a darker blue, blended through purple and was utterly black on the left away East. It looked like it would be a black night.
Another two miles, the track was mostly level, but now they were bouncing along a good deal as they crossed spots that had drifted over with fingers of sand a foot deep or so, and the pace had to slow. The driver shifted into four wheel drive, the convoy slowed to a snarling crawl. Fifteen minutes took them only ten kilometers down the road, a sad, painful, jarring, monotonous fifteen minutes that seemed much longer, but then a bend in the road with dunes to left and right, turning left between them, then right again as another dune loomed in front out of the growing dark, back left and there was the camp.
“Ah, we are here Paul,” Fahd offered matter-of-factly, but anyone could see he was pleased by the look on his face.
Pleased because of the look on Cameron’s. His mouth agape, Cameron was staring at the camp arranged in a broad rectangle, six enormous Bedouin tents ranged along four sides, with a gap facing north. In the center a large fire was burning high, along the inner perimeter there were electric lights on head-high poles at every tent corner. That piece seemed so out of place it took him a moment to remember a similar occasion, and he suspected that over beyond the dune to the east, or perhaps that one to the south, there would be a truck or a trailer with a very large generator to supply the power. He chuckled out loud. The last time he’d seen that, there’d also been another truck with a cabin on the back, the cabin containing four full bathrooms with running water and all the comforts of home.
“Well, Fahd, I am amazed,” was all he could say for now.
“Excellent, I’d hoped you would be.”
But now they’d parked at the western end of the camp, and they piled out with all the rest. Men were coming out of the tents, greetings flying everywhere, and Cameron noted some of the people made the shallowest of bows when they greeted Fahd. This went on in a confused lump for a minute or two, and then Fahd issued some instructions in a kindly voice. The camp men split into two groups, one heading for the tents on the north of the square—one had to be the kitchen tent, Cameron guessed—the others for the suburban with Fadia and the family. Soon baggage was carrying across the sand, the women were moving, swathed head to toe in black, and all disappeared into the tents the far side of the square.
Ripley came up and said quietly, “I don’t really think this counts as camping, Colonel. Where they hell are they getting the electricity?”
“Well, I’m guessing, but probably the other side of that dune, or that one, you’ll find a generator. They place them like that so you can’t hear it, works pretty well if the location is right. This is perfect.”
“Really perfect,” injected Allen, as he joined. “Very good site selection for defense, too. See how it’s covered on all sides by the dunes? And notice the lights have shades on tops, no light into the sky. I never even saw the place until we rounded the corner. These guys know their business. You think there’s going to be dinner, Colonel?”
“Oh, I should think we won’t be hungry at all, but it might be awhile. Saudis dine late. There should be some snacks soon, though—I think that guy over there is cooking pita bread. Let’s get our gear, gents.” He walked over to where Fahd was talking to one of his cousins, for cousin he was, and said, “Fahd, which tent shall I take with the other guys?”
“I was just asking Musa the same question, Paul. These two, closest to the vehicles, are for you and your people. The family and I will be across the way, other side of the fire. The servants in those two on the north, the rest of the men in the two end tents on the south, there. The middle tent with the side open to the fire is for the majlis.”
“Ah, so it is,” Cameron saw now that inside this tent there were carpets covering the sand, and its inner walls were lined with cushions.
“It is such a fine evening, though, Paul, I’ve suggested we dine outside. I hope you agree.”
“Of course. Now, let me and the brothers Grimm stow our gear, and we’ll meet you over there for some tea, I imagine.” He paused for an awkward moment. “Uh, Fahd, should we be armed, for any reason? I’m not sure of the situation, to be honest.”
Fahd laughed. “Right again—I had just gotten Musa’s opinion on that as well. No, I don’t think so tonight, Paul. They saw no one on the drive here from al-Ha’il, and Musa took the precaution of having a vehicle wait an hour or two at one point hidden behind a dune off the road, to see
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