But that’s what Africa did to you. It shriveled you to nothing. It was terrible to foreigners, but just as hard on the natives; everyone he met had an empty look in their eyes, as if their souls had drilled through their skulls and fled.

A pile of clothes lay at the foot of the bed. Kimko took a five euro bill from his wallet and dropped it on the clothes. Hopefully, the woman who owned the clothes would be gone before he returned.

Chapter 18

Western Ethiopia

The Whiplash team was quiet the entire way back to Ethiopia. Even Sugar, who normally could have been counted on for a dozen wise cracks and half as many put-downs, said nothing.

Red, who’d been closest to the IED when it went off, had been cut in several places and badly bruised, but was spared more serious injury by his helmet and armored vest. A large piece of shrapnel had sliced past the outer fabric into the carbon-boron layer, exposing the intricate web of the protective material. He stared at the slice the whole trip back.

“I’m sorry, Cap—I checked for wires and didn’t see anything,” he told Danny after they hopped out of the Osprey. “I looked underneath, in the back—I didn’t see explosives in the seat or anything—I just—I don’t know.”

“Forget it,” Danny told him. “Focus on the mission.”

“Lettin’ him off easy,” said Boston, watching Red head toward the hut the team had taken over for quarters.

“The bomb kicked him harder in the butt than I could,” answered Danny.

“I doubt he checked it right,” said Boston. “His helmet should’ve picked something up, even if it was a grenade.”

“I’m sure he forgot to reset it inside,” said Danny. “He won’t forget next time. That’s what counts.”

The Whiplash helmets had embedded chemical sniffers designed to warn of IEDs, or improvised explosive devices. But these could easily be confused in a combat situation, where the detection threshold was fairly high—you didn’t want your own grenade or explosive pack setting off the alarm. So the settings could be dialed back, or what the designers called “normalized,” with a reading taken before the actual operation. That reading was supposed to pick up the presence of the chemicals already in the group making the assault. That reading set the threshold for subsequent readings. Roughly speaking, the gear would see that the team had twelve ounces of PETN before the action, and the chemical sniffers would sound the alert only when a thirteenth was detected.

In the situation inside the warehouse, the helmet should have been reset before the truck was examined. This took up to ninety seconds, and in the heat of battle was often forgotten. But there were other reasons the explosive could have missed, and Danny saw no point in calling one of his team members a liar.

“Whoever set the bomb was pretty smart,” he told Boston. “He’s a couple of steps ahead of us.”

“I guess.”

“Has to be their Mao Man, Li Han.”

“I agree.”

“Put the prisoners in separate tents,” Danny told him. “I’ll get Nuri and we’ll talk to them.”

“You got it, Cap. Hey, heads up—storm headed our way.”

Boston pointed toward the small huts. Melissa Ilse, right arm in a sling, was striding in their direction, moving at a speed that clearly indicated she wasn’t pleased.

Danny kept up his own deliberate pace toward the main building. “Ms. Ilse, what can I do for you?”

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I didn’t know I was your alarm clock.”

“Listen, Colonel . . .”

She took hold of his right arm. As Danny turned toward her, Melissa’s glare reminded him of a look his wife had given him when he told her he wasn’t running for Congress. Ever.

Not a good memory, that.

“I’m in charge of this operation here, Colonel,” said Melissa. “This is my op.”

“No, Ms. Ilse, I’m afraid—”

“Melissa.”

“Right. This is a Whiplash operation. I’m in charge.”

“You’re supposed to help me. Help.”

“I really don’t care to argue.”

Danny started walking again. She fell in next to him.

“Obviously, you didn’t recover the UAV.”

“That’s right,” he said.

“I insist that you involve me in any other operation. Do you understand?”

“Your arm better?” asked Danny.

“Colonel, I insist.”

She followed in a huff as Danny entered the main building. Nuri was inside, talking with someone on a satellite phone. Jordan was fussing with the coffeepot.

“Your guys are all right?” asked Jordan, glancing over as he came in.

“Yeah. Just barely,” said Danny.

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Melissa?”

“No thank you,” she said frostily.

“A little strong,” said Jordan, handing the coffee over.

“I’ll say,” said Danny.

“Keeps me awake.”

Nuri finished his call and came over.

“I’m sorry,” he told Danny.

Danny nodded. Nuri was sincere; he wasn’t an I told you so kind of guy.

“My drugs are on the way,” said Nuri. “They should be here by first light. I’ll go back and nose around.”

“They’re not going to connect you with tonight?”

“Nah. They may think you were coming to get me. I’m a criminal, remember? That’ll only help my reputation.”

“I think Li Han was behind this,” said Danny.

“Could be.”

“I think that’s a very good guess,” said Melissa. “I’m sure he’s still in Duka.”

“I think it’s kind of hard to be that definite,” said Nuri. “We thought he was in the warehouse.”

“He’s still in Duka.”

“What do you think?” Danny asked Jordan.

“I don’t know. Booby-trapping the truck would be very much like him. Finding the transponder? Definitely. But anything’s possible. These people aren’t stupid; they’ve lived by their wits out here for a long time.”

“We brought two guys back,” Danny told Nuri. “Maybe you can get something out of them.”

“Sure,” said Nuri.

Melissa followed them out of the building.

“Unless your Arabic’s a lot better than mine,” Nuri told her as they neared the tent, “I think you ought to stay outside. The less people who see you, the better.”

She gave him a scowl but didn’t argue.

Nuri adjusted the MY-PID ear set and followed Danny inside the tent. A teenager lay on the floor, arms and legs bound by zip ties. The tent was illuminated by a 150-watt bulb in a work lamp hanging from the peak.

Nuri knelt next to the prisoner. The kid was so still that even though his eyes were open, Nuri thought he was sleeping.

“As-Salamu Alaikum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuhu,” Nuri said in Arabic. May the One True God’s Peace and Blessing Be Upon You.

The young man’s eyes opened a little wider, but he said nothing.

“Why did you try to kill my friends?” asked Nuri. When he didn’t get a response, he switched to Nubian, the dominant tribal language of the North, and repeated the question.

Nuri’s Nubian wasn’t nearly as fluent as his Arabic, and the differences in the dialects added considerable difficulty. He would at least have no trouble translating: MY-PID could handle it instantaneously. Indeed, as soon as the Voice heard him use the language, it would make suggestions, allowing him to refine his speech as he went along.

The computer’s help proved unnecessary.

“You think I don’t know English?” said the prisoner.

“I didn’t want to insult you by using it,” said Nuri.

The kid made a face.

“How old are you?” asked Danny.

“What kind of question is that for a warrior of God?” snapped the boy.

“You’re not fighting for God. You’re trying to get Dr. Thorika into power,” answered Nuri, referring to the opposition figure supported by the Brotherhood.