Chapter Four
Ahmad ben Fatah felt very good about himself. He thought of a famous line in an old American show: “I just love it when the details of a plan come together.” He continued with another American idiom: the puzzle was shaping up. The pieces were falling in place quite well, thank you.
Since he was alone, he had no need for pretense. So, he opened a new bottle of Scotland’s most famous product, poured a sizable quantity of the clear liquid into a glass, and added some water. He could now relax and plan his next move. Emerson was on his way; he was positive of that. Where would he land? The obvious countries would be Israel, Egypt, or Chad. He would deal with those traitors after he had disposed of Emerson who would be here tomorrow or the day after. Fatah would be ready. The terrorist spat out the name like a snake spitting out killer venom. How he hated the man who had been instrumental in subverting his last operation. There would be no escape this time, no place to retreat, no place to hide. Allah would see to that!
Fatah’s face turned bloodthirsty, his dark beard darkened, his black eyes glittered, he honed his teeth in hate and fury. His hand gripped his glass so hard he did not realize it when it broke into a thousand pieces.
The hostages began to feel that the world was right side up as they gathered in a large dining hall to receive their first hot meal in six days. All felt refreshed after a bath and a change of fresh clothing. All vowed to forget their surroundings, but they could not, not really. There was no news of the outside world; there was no information about the exchange plans. For all the prisoners knew, they were still incarcerated in a foreign land by someone who had no qualms about getting rid of them at any time, even if a ransom was paid. The Americans ate quietly. There was no talk; they were all engrossed in black, agonizing private thoughts. Summer gave in to her misgivings. She was certain they would all be killed. The girl thought again of Scott Emerson. She sighed in despair as she realized she had been wrong in her accusations and follow-up divorce. Now it was too late to tell him.
The object of her concern had his own troubles. The ill-defined road forced Scott to drive slowly and cautiously. At one point he braked to a stop. He walked to the following truck and spoke quietly to the driver. Both men picked up ropes and tied the three vehicles in tandem. Headlights piercing the full darkness afforded some kind of comfort to Scott as he renewed the driving. When the faint sunlight appeared over the mountains to the east, Scott drove through the village of Adré and, a short distance from it, ordered a halt as he estimated they were close to the border. He, Miller, and Dalton reviewed the plans. All agreed once more that Scott was to do the talking. The team members were now a bit more acclimated to the heat, so they became more alert.
An agent took over the driving. Scott relaxed and planned his dialogue with the border guards. He did not feel as confident as he looked. His stomach played games with his mind as the confrontation loomed closer and closer.
His heart flip-flopped as he saw the signs of a border checkpoint—soldiers, guardhouses, and the ubiquitous barricade. The leading truck rolled to a stop as requested by a fierce looking Sudanese soldier. Scott stepped down and addressed the man in Arabic. He followed him into the small hut. What transpired next would always remain in the driver’s mind. He was able to see Scott, through the sand-blasted window, waving his arms in peculiar motions, pacing back and forth in the tiny room, walking to the door, and pointing at the three trucks, showing papers to the interested officer. What really caught his attention was seeing Scott reach in his pants pocket and extract a roll of money. Then all was quiet.
Scott came out, entered the truck, and said to the driver, “Take off before those clowns change their minds.”
An hour past the border the small convoy reached the outskirts of Al Junaynah, a village bordering on an oasis. All gratefully stepped down from the trucks, stretched their muscles and took a needed rest along with some food and water. Scott and Miller huddled around the radio and finally received the news they expected.
The final details confirmed Scott’s hunch: the transfer was to be made in Al Ubayyid. Emerson took a deep breath. At last, he would be face to face with the man he had sworn to kill. This would be the final showdown indeed. But he cautioned himself with the old saying: never hate your enemies; it affects your judgment.
Scott asked for opinions.
Dalton expressed his views, “We are about six hundred miles from our destination. We can’t make it in one day. Even if we do succeed, we’ll be too tired to be of any good. I propose we drive halfway, lay over for the night and move on tomorrow.”
Scott consulted the map. “The road branches off at this spot. The main one seems to swing down further south. It seems to be well traveled, so we might hit some curious people on the way. On the other hand, the road going straight might be less traveled, but might be in worse shape than this one. If we move along smartly, we could be in the village of —Bad Wandah, possibly two hundred miles from our target, by nightfall.”
Miller agreed. “We have no map of the city, however. How do we target Fatah?”
“There was no mention of a meeting place. That means that one of us, me, will move into the open, possibly into the marketplace where someone will contact me. I’ll take a truck first thing in the morning with three agents and the money along with the Applebee woman. I should get there at noon. One agent will be my backup. One will send you the location of the hiding place and you come running. Most likely Fatah will scout us out and will know the truck’s position. You hopefully will arrive just before sundown. Let’s hope Fatah does not expect us so soon. Fuel up and check everything before you leave. You’ll make a left turn on the main road at a place called An Nahud. Dalton speaks Arabic, so let him do the talking. Get there, Dave.”
Both men went along with the idea. It seemed the only sensible thing to do.
Miller admonished Scott, “Be extra careful yourself.”
The road was devoid of human or vehicular traffic and ran through high sand dunes and around the small mountain of Jubal Marra, the highest point in the Sudan. A broiling sun turned the canvas tops into excellent conductors of heat. Hot winds flowed through the open sides causing nerves to fray as simple annoyances turned into major “seas of troubles”. Sand filtering up through the floorboards caked the occupants’ faces in a soft mud color. Simple talk turned nasty as tempers flared. Only the steel discipline of the team members prevented total disintegration. One by one the rescuers accepted the situation and became silent.
By nightfall the convoy drove through the village of Bad Wandah and camped on the outskirts.
Scott doubled the guard detail. There was no necessity for it, however. The entire team spent a restful night and awoke at dawn refreshed, ready for what lay ahead. At seven Scott took to the road with two men and two women, heading East. One of them was the Applebee woman carrying the money. Miller left three hours later.
For the first time the terrorist leader felt uneasy about the situation. He had received little news from his informant since the team’s departure from the States. That could mean that his accomplice had been discovered or had had no time for a transmission. He had no way of knowing. Fatah relaxed. He felt confident in his aide’s ability and secure in his hiding place; he did not expect Scott’s arrival until tomorrow. He wondered again how his old enemy had handled the news of his ex-wife’s involvement. It had been an ingenious idea as suggested by his companion. Involve the woman in the cause, lure her to the Sudan out of a sense of guilt and then take her hostage, thus forcing Emerson to come to her rescue impelled by the archaic, old-fashioned Western idea of male protectionism of women.
Ahmad ben Fatah burst into deep laughter. Things would go well. Allah had smiled on him.
Summer and her fellow prisoners had finally received some news. They were told that the American government had been notified and that it had agreed to the terms of exchange. There were no further details. Summer felt queasy. Something nagged at her memory. Then she remembered. Scott had been on the last rescue where the government agents had worked things out. But he told her that a double-cross had taken place. She had not believed him. Could he have been right? She had never known him to lie, had never even caught him in a lie. Summer shivered even in the heat. She kept her misgivings to herself. Once again she thought of the man who had once loved her. Did he love her still, did he care for her enough to help her one more time? Summer could never blame him if he had refused. Her whole thinking process was born of futility. She gave it up.
At nine o’clock Scott swung southeast, cut through another small village and followed the road straight into the immediate distance. Scott was now clear of the hills that had formed a shoulder to the north. He looked to the left and right, saw nothing but open desert broken now and then by grotesque rock outcroppings. He could not understand his unease. It was there. He could sense it. A feeling rolled through him and prickled his flesh, a strange sensation that had no apparent origin. Scott stopped the truck and sat still. A bolt of static electricity ruffled his damp hair. He looked north again and realized his worst fears. Darkness covered the distant sky. The air became motionless, and the sound of the truck’s engine grew louder in the thinning air. His face felt drawn and tight, so he rolled up the window. His body had reacted to the change in the weather. Scott looked at his front seat companion, one of the female agents by the name of Annie O’Keefe and advised her to close the window. She complied without a word, her large blue eyes in a pretty face showing no fear.
“You will be my guide. Keep an eye on those poles. Let me know if we drift too far to the right. It’s time to earn that fantastic civil service salary of yours.”
Scott checked his map. He noticed he was equally distant from the town he had left to the next one. He faced a decision. There was a storm developing. Should he turn back or push ahead? Scott looked at the girl. She stared back, emotionless. He checked out the location of the telephone poles that ran on the south side of the road. They would be his only guides when the storm hit. He made up his mind. Scott released the brake.
“It’s show time.”
The truck moved forward.
Nothing disturbed the warm air around him. Northwards, the height and breath of the clouds guaranteed a tremendous wind rushing forward—and behind the clouds marched a spreading blackness promising nothing but disaster. As long as light lasted Scott could follow the road but when the storm brought on darkness, he could only orient himself by the poles. He turned around in his seat and advised the rear occupants to tighten down the side canvas walls and the back tailgate cover.
At nine-fifteen Scott could see the road. At nine-thirty the light disappeared, and the air became still. Through the stillness Scott heard the distant rushing of wind, like the rumbling of a hundred-car freight train, like the distant roar of a tidal wave. Blackness moved over the sky, and he heard the first rumbling of the wind. He watched the gray wall, looking like giant waves reaching from ground to heaven, move in on the solitary truck. As the blackness enveloped him, he heard the voice of the storm reaching out to him like the screams of a thousand tortured souls. The full pressure of the storm hit the heavy truck moving at fifty miles per hour. Then the sand smashed into the vehicle and threatened to upturn it.
Scott gripped the wheel tighter and kept straightening the front wheels as the truck drifted to the right. He silently thanked the Italian engineers who had built such a machine. The truck’s heavy weight kept it on track. He cut the speed down as the sand whirled around the truck, trying to overwhelm it. Luckily, the wind forced the sand across the road so there was no built-up on the road. He turned on the windshield wipers and the headlights.
He checked his companion. She had her mouth open, obviously trying to counter-balance the pressure. The plucky agent gave Scott a weak smile, and then focused her attention on the poles.
Scott deliberated on the possibility of pulling over behind some cover, but could see nothing of any value. The sand rang against the side and front windows with the energy of a million Nolan Ryan fastballs hitting at one time. The sound of the wind threatened to unnerve him. The girl touched his arm from time to time while pointing to the right. He noticed that they were close to hitting the poles. He immediately moved the wheel to the left, thus increasing the possibility of over-compensating and running the danger of going off the road. In that case all would be lost; he could never get the truck out of the soft sand. His hands shook as he exerted more and more strength to keeping the truck on the road; his eyes watered from the concentration; the mother of all headaches split his head.
The intensity of the sand blasting into the truck served as an excellent sandblaster wiping out all traces of paint. The wind increased to a crescendo that approached the sound of a million demons wrestling for his soul. He thought he was losing it. Scott worried that the window would crack, thus crippling the entire operation. But the glass held. He checked his watch. They had been in this living hell one hour. He needed a break and soon. It came shortly. Scott spotted a rock outcropping off the left side of the road. He stopped the truck but remained on the road. He checked his back passengers. They waved slightly. The wind lost its intensity; the sand no longer ravaged the truck; light returned to the tortured land. Scott stopped the truck, and all took a breather.
At two P.M. Scott reached his destination. He turned the truck away from the road and drove it behind an empty house. He knew the journey had just begun. A message went back to Miller; Scott hoped the team would be in place at the right time. He then buried the radio at a posted location.
