Whiplash

They didn’t. While a few were jealous that a foreigner would be allowed to cut in line, they also knew the reason. The foreigner represented money, to both the customs agent who would expect a “fee” for the convenience, and to the country, which collected for an instant visa whether he had one already or not.

The natives watching, on the other hand, were merely a nuisance.

“Papers,” said the customs officer.

Da

The bill disappeared into the agent’s palm so quickly Da

“What is your purpose here?” asked the man in English.

“I am on a dig,” said Da

“Hmph.” The customs agent could not have been less interested. “That bag is all you have?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Open it, please.”

He gestured toward a table nearby. Da

The customs agent stood over him as he unzipped the small black case. He was not looking for additional money, but rather, doing his job. In his mind, the hundred dollar bill was a tip from a beneficent westerner, accepted custom rather than corruption. It would not influence him one way or another. If he found any contraband—literature against the regime, a gun, drugs of any sort, including prescription medicine—he would arrest the American.

The bag contained a change of clothes, extra socks, and two pairs of sunglasses. Nothing illegal.

“You are listening to an iPod?” asked the official, pointing to the headphone.

“It’s off.” Da

“Go,” the man said, dismissing him with a wave.

Da

A stocky black man in a long Arab robe approached Da

“Welcome to the hell-hole capital of the world,” said Ben “Boston” Rockland as he took Da

“How you doing, Boston?”

“Good. I was begi

“Me, too.”

“Don’t use too much English around here. The natives are pretty restless as it is.”

Boston had been in Port Sudan for several hours, more than enough time to form an impression of the place. He had seen two muggings in that time, one by a police officer. There surely would have been more, but most of the people in the city were too poor to bother robbing.

“The thing is, this is the good part of the Sudan,” he told Da

DANNY AND BOSTON HAD FIRST MET AT DREAMLAND SOME fifteen years ago, when Boston replaced one of the original members of Whiplash who’d been killed during an operation. Though the sergeant had an impressive record, he also had what some of his superiors politely termed “issues with authority.” He’d seen action in the first Iraq war, where he served as a pararescuer. He’d also done time as a combat air controller and was “loaned” to the Marines under a special program that put combat veterans on the front lines with other services. But Boston had also nearly come to blows with at least two officers in the past three years, one of whom pressed but then dropped formal charges against him.

“A misunderstanding,” said the captain on the record. Off the record, the captain called Boston a hothead but said he’d also saved three men in combat the day after the incident, and so the captain decided to forget the matter out of gratitude.

Serving with Da

It hadn’t been easy wresting Boston away from his assignment, a cushy job as senior Air Force enlisted man in Germany. Not because he didn’t want to go—he started packing as soon as Da

After the briefest introduction possible to the new Whiplash concept, Boston had shipped out to the Sudan to scout out locations for a base. Da

“You’re going to love this bus,” said Boston. “Got a port-a-john and everything.”

“As long as it runs.”

“Walks more than runs. But it’ll get us there. When’s the rest of the team showing up?”

“Couple of days.”

“Nuri’s waiting for us. Interesting fellow.”

“Why’s that?” asked Da

“Just interesting. Knows a bunch of stuff. Pretty good cook.”

“Yeah?”

“You should taste what he does with goat and garlic.”

“Can’t wait,” said Da

“You’re also going to need this.”

Boston held out a pistol. It was a large Dessert Eagle, more than twenty years old.

“Got it in town,” he said. “Everything else I saw was just peashooters, .22s and revolvers, pretty useless to stop anyone. I figured it would do until we’re settled. No spare ammo, though.”

Da

He slid the gun under his belt, tucking it beneath his jacket.

The bus was an old French municipal bus, converted to private service. It came with a driver, Amid Abul, an Arab who had lived in Derudeb for ten years, occasionally hiring himself out to the CIA as a driver and local “consultant.” Nuri had hired him to provide transportation to their base in the hills to the south, and to help in whatever capacity seemed practical.

Nuri had dealt with Abul before, but even he didn’t fully trust him; it would have been foolish to do so. Though as the owner of a bus, he was relatively well off, the inhabitants of the war-torn country were so poor that most would gladly give up a relative to a sworn enemy for a year’s supply of food and water. Nuri had given Abul a cover story, telling him that his friends were paleontologists. Abul, who knew Nuri was CIA, was smart enough not to ask any questions.

Da

“Plenty of bones, Doctor,” answered Abul. “But all of men.”

The buildings and houses they passed were mostly black shapes barely discernible in the darkness of the night. They faded as the bus wound its way beyond the city, illusions conjured by a stage manager designed to convince an audience that Port Sudan was a real place.

The landscape, harsh and mostly barren during the day, looked surreal at night, the endless darkness punctuated by black stalks and hulking mounds, silhouettes of gray hills and mountains.