“See?” Chadeev looked down sadly at the television. “There is your brother.”

Gideon found the remote control and thumbed up the volume. “Remote control—another great blessing of Allah, praise be unto him.”

Wolf Blitzer’s voice echoed in the empty room. “President Diggs is expected to comment shortly on the seizure of the rig and its connection to the unfolding civil war in Mohan. But we do have information from the video put up on YouTube by the terrorists showing one of the hostages—”

Chadeev grabbed the remote. “All right. You see enough.”

Chadeev changed the channel. A woman with lots of blond hair and a bright red dress that looked like>Wo±€† 1980 came on the screen.

“Look!” Chadeev crowed. “Dallas! Is excellent show. You know who is big fan of Dallas TV show? Osama bin Laden. Seriously. He love Dallas. He got whole series on DVD.”

“Wait! Go back!”

“Go back? No way. Is Dallas! You know how long since I watch Dallas?” Chadeev held the remote protectively against his chest.

“Go back!”

“Fock you, man,” Chadeev said. “Look. Is ‘Who Shot JR?’ episode. Most famous episode in history of—”

“Give me the remote,” Gideon said.

“No.”

Gideon snatched the remote from the crazy Kabardian, changed the channel back to CNN. A grainy video now filled the screen. Standing before a group of masked and armed men was a woman wearing a brilliant yellow jumpsuit. She was in her early thirties, her long auburn hair framing a face that was beautiful even without makeup. She looked frightened but defiant as she read from the terrorists’ script.

“My name is Kate Murphy. I am the executive in charge of the Obelisk, which is now under the control of Abu Nasir . . .”

Gideon couldn’t quite process what he was hearing, some part of him still clinging to the possibility that there had to be another explanation. But then he saw one of the masked gunmen lift his arm to adjust his mask, and the denial he’d been clinging to fell away. On the back of the gunman’s wrist was a small tattoo. Gideon had seen that tattoo before. It was two numbers: an 8 and a 2. His brother had tattooed an 82 on his wrist the day he’d finished jump school with the 82nd Airborne Division. Gideon felt the truth twist and writhe in his gut. Tillman had betrayed him. He’d been behind the ambush and the subsequent attacks along the river. And now he had taken the rig and was threatening to kill dozens of hostages, including Uncle Earl.

“I want Dallas!” Chadeev said, grabbing feebly at the remote.

If the situation weren’t so bizarrely horrific, it would have been funny—two grown men fighting over a remote control in the middle of the jungle.

“Give me a minute,” Gideon said. “Then you can watch all the Dallas you want.”

Chadeev knelt next to a dead man. Draped over the dead man’s shoulder was an AK-47, held on by a worn leather strap. Chadeev yanked on the gun, but the strap caught on the dead man’s belt. Chadeev put his foot on the dead man’s neck and heaved.

On the television, Wolf Blitzer had replaced the beautiful hostage. “The South China Sea has seen a sharp increase in piracy over the past year, but this latest situation clearly has broader geopolitical implications. The consensus among foreign policy experts is that any capitulation to Abu Nasir would be seen as a victory for the insurgency—”

“Give me remote.” Chadeev had finally freed the AK-47 from the dead man and was pointing the barrel at Gideon’s head.

“You’re gonna shoot me over . &±€†Dallas?” Gideon said.

“Remote!” Chadeev screamed, a tiny bead of spit flying from his mouth. “Give me focking remote!”

Gideon's War and Hard Target

“Fine.” Gideon slid the remote across the floor then backed...

Chadeev smiled broadly and changed the channel to Dallas. Chadeev set the gun down on the floor, then squatted in the middle of the room full of bodies, a placid grin on his face, and began to drink another beer.

Gideon walked out into the ruined camp, reeling from what he’d just seen and heard, yet still unable to completely shake the hope that there had to be some other explanation, some missing piece of information. Whatever that might be, he knew there was only one place he would find it. On the Obelisk.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

GIDEON SCOURED THE SMOLDERING village until he found a military-grade shortwave radio in what had until recently been a communications room. The casing was scorched and cracked, but when he turned the switch, it crackled to life. He thought briefly about General Prang, who was supposed to have given him a radio but had only managed to give him a map before he’d been killed. Written in grease pencil on the reverse of the map was the emergency frequency Gideon was supposed to hail if he needed to order an emergency evacuation.

Gideon dialed the frequency on the radio, then spoke into the microphone.

“This is Gideon Davis. Can you read me?” he said.

“Clear this frequency,” a man’s voice said, followed by a long silence. Finally the voice came back. “Please give us the confirmation code.”

Gideon squinted at the code Prang had scrawled on the back of the map. “Circuit Alpha Nine Zero One Zero Seven. I repeat. Circuit Alpha Nine Zero One Zero Seven.”

Another pause. “Confirmed,” the voice said.

A second voice came on. “Mr. Davis. We thought you might be dead.”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“I’m with the home team.”

“Tell me what’s happening on the rig.”

“We’ll brief you in person. Please give us your location.”

“Dammit, just give me the sitrep—”

“Your location, sir,” the voice insisted.

“I’m in Kampung Naga.”

“Are you injured? Do you require medical attention?”

Gideon realized he’d have to wait for any answers about the status of the rig. “I’m fine.”

“Are you under fire?”

“No.”

“Are you aware of any hostiles in the vicinity?”

Gideon’s mind went to Chadeev. “Negative.”

“Please stand by, sir. We’ll have a chopper to you in one hour, sir.”

The voice was replaced by white noise. Gideon listened to the static as he released a deep breath he’d been holding in his chest. The moment he sat down, he felt himself being swallowed by fatigue. Adrenaline had been masking the physical toll the last twenty hours had taken on his body, but even more draining for Gideon was his increasing disorientation. Rather than finding answers, he’d only gathered more questions.

The chopper hit the ground fifty-six minutes later. It didn’t bear military markings, but Gideon recognized it as a military model. A tall black man wearing a tropical suit stood in the doorway, an MP5 submachine gun in his hand. He beckoned furiously with his hand for Gideon to come toward him, but Gideon needed no prompting.

“We were afraid we’d lost you, sir,” the man with the MP5 shouted over the whine of the twin turbojet engines. “I’m Gary Simpson, cultural attaché from the embassy.” Cultural attaché being an obvious CIA cover.

They shook hands, but before they exchanged any more pleasantries, Gideon wanted some answers. “Who hit this place?”

Gary Simpson frowned, but didn’t answer.

Gideon pointed his finger at the CIA man. “And don’t give me any shit about how you don’t know.”

Simpson relaxed his defiant posture. “It was the Mohanese air force.”

“Did this happen after my brother made his deal with the Sultan?”

“No, sir. Before. Your brother contacted us after the air strike. We thought it was the thing that finally turned him around. Apparently we were wrong.”

Gideon studied the man, measuring his sincerity. Satisfied that the man was telling the truth, he said, “Tell me what’s happening on the rig.”

Simpson hesitated. “How much do you know?”

“Just what I saw on CNN. That my brother seized the rig and now he’s threatening to kill hostages. What’s the time frame?”