THE JUNGLE ROOM

  Major Oktar "Tazi" Mohammed Ahhamid was a man with too much on his mind.

  He retreated to his jungle room at the rear of level three within the bunker. It was decorated with bamboo and teak furniture upholstered with the skins of real lions and leopards. It was much like the famous room at Graceland in Tennessee. The major visited Elvis' home many years before and vowed to have a room like the King's one day. And now it was a refuge from his wife and mother-in-law bickering over what to pack and what to leave behind when the convoy arrived. The children had done nothing but cry for weeks and all the women did was argue. It was more depressing than the drum of bombs and shells overhead.

  Who thought it would ever come to this? They had been the unquestioned masters of Libya as long as Tazi had been alive. They had money, power, influence and fear on their sides. His cousin had done everything to keep the rule of the family in place here, even crawling to the ferangi of the West after the towers came down in New York. It was all business as usual. The oil flowed out and the money flowed in and the people knew their place.

  That was until the mullahs stirred the pot and got the young people worked up into a righteous fury. And Tazi blamed the mullahs for this. Their crazy beliefs and their madrassas. He had warned his cousin not to tolerate the Quran quoting bastards. A little religion was good. It helped make the people content with less if they thought all would be theirs in Paradise. But the Wahabis were trouble and had been for decades. His cousin the Colonel's complacency led to open revolution here in Libya as it had in Syria, Tunisia and Egypt. He had been as much asleep as those in the West had been.

  And it would spread elsewhere. If the Saudis and all their emirs thought they were safe, they were wrong. This was no Arab Spring. It was an Islamic awakening fueled by the ignorance of the idiots in the streets and markets, and it would sweep the Arab world from the Persian Gulf to Dakar. His cousin once claimed to be the Mahdi, the leader who would unite the world of Islam and return them all to their days of glory ten centuries before. But then so had Saddam Hussein. And so did Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.

  Fools.

  Well, if the world of Islam was to burn, then Tazi would find some other place in which to live his life. But first he must plan his escape from this stinking burrow in the sand.

  And, until then, he could not even enjoy these few moments alone in his own private Graceland because the lights had gone out. Again.

  He had no flashlight. He had no candles. All he could do was sit in his tiger skin recliner and fume until one of his men came looking for him.

  And they would come looking for him. He was the sole authority here. They would want answers. They would seek his guidance and his strength as the world that was once theirs came down around them.

  The thump of explosions from below could be felt even through the four feet of reinforced concrete and steel of the floor. His men told him they had been invaded from below by a force of rebels. Well, that is what he hired the black for. Let them die in their filthy warren two levels down. They were paid well to fight and all they had done the past month was eat his food and drink his beer. Let them deal with the intruders. And from the sounds of grenades and gunfire trembling the carpet beneath his feet, that is precisely what they were doing. In any case, it would make for fewer men to carry away when the trucks came.

  So much to think of. He needed to determine which of his belongings would stay and which would go when the trucks arrived. His wife and children would go, of course. His mother-in-law he wished he could leave behind for the rebels. There were his paintings, coin collection and his cash reserves of hoarded foreign currency. They would be held in case the stand at Bani Walid failed and he would need to buy safety and freedom elsewhere in the world.

  And the Chinese. He must safeguard Sunny Kai Wei from harm. Not only could the man be valuable in saving his skin if things came to a hard place. But the Colonel wanted the Chinese intact in order to use his knowledge of the remaining stockpiles of weapons for the retaliation to come. Cousin Muammar did not trust anyone within his army or his family, so often one and the same, with the locations of his massive weapons inventory. Instead, he allowed this foreigner to hold the keys to those secrets. Were Tazi to show up in Bani Walid without the chubby little man, it would go very unpleasantly for him. His bloody-minded cousin did not deal well with disappointment.

  Not for the first time Tazi wished he could hand all these responsibilities off to another. Only his authority and ruthlessness held his shrinking force together this long. He punished desertions swiftly and publically. And insubordination was treated with a tazer and ice water baths. The major's word was law just as his father's had been. They both had all the power that sharing blood with al-Gaddafi could give them. Now that same blood made all of his brothers and himself into targets for the filthy shopkeepers, workmen and traitors who made up the mobs of rebels.

  His brother! Where was Rukanah? He was due at the compound two days ago. Tazi had been phoning and phoning but with no answer. His asshole little brother never picked up his cell phone.

  Cell phone!

  Tazi dug in the pockets of his military tunic and dug out his phone. He snapped it open and the dim light of the monitor was enough to allow him to see his way across the room.

  He cursed when he struck his knee on the heavy arm of a chair carved with the likeness of a lioness. He moved into the nimbus of feeble light from the phone's screen with greater caution until he came to the door of the jungle room. The glare of a spotlight greeted him as he pushed the door wide.

  "We are almost finished with gathering your inventory of belongings in the garage area, Major!" snapped an eager young corporal.

  "Are the trucks here?" the major asked and shoved the light from his eyes.

  "Not yet, sir!" the corporal said. "But they are expected soon!"

  "And how do you know this?" the major asked.

  "I trust in God it will be so," the young man said with certainty.

  "There is an old saying," the major spoke wearily. "Trust in Allah, but tie up your camel."

  "Is that Al-Jayyani or Ibn Abi Usaibia?" the young man asked, naming two great Arab scholars.

  "I heard it in a movie once," the major answered and brushed past the corporal to return to the din of shouted orders and the stamping boots.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  LEVEL THREE

  Things were looking up as they moved closer to the surface.

  Level Three was a residential level that could have been a Holiday Inn in Kankakee except for the lack of windows. The walls were plastered, the ceilings tiled and the floors carpeted. Make that a Holiday Inn that had seen better days. The walls had long cracks running down them. Tiles had fallen from the ceiling. The carpet was tracked down and matted with sodden dust. Somewhere a water line had broken; a soil line most likely. And the whole level stank like a bus terminal men's room on New Year's Eve.

  Chili was point man now and raised a fist to bring the others behind him to a halt. There was a lot of activity ahead. He motioned for the others to remain and crept along a wall to find the unseen source of the sounds and light around a corner at the end of the hall. He laid down on the wet carpet and fished a small mirror from a pocket of his ammo vest. He held it angled low to the floor so he could see the room without exposing himself. They had more sophisticated devices to perform this kind of task but left them behind. Your average Libyan rebel wouldn't be carrying cutting edge tech.

  In the reflection in his palm Chili saw men in uniform carrying goods away under the direction of armed men with flashlights and high-wattage spotlights. They were humping all kinds of shit from a stack piled in the center of a broad lobby type area. They worked like ants to reduce the pile of boxes, totes and suitcases. One soldier walked off with a huge stuffed Spongebob under one arm and a Big Wheel in the other hand. Two guys were carrying a life-sized statue of Elvis. Vegas Elvis.

  It was moving day. The Gaddafi relatives who called this place home were getting out of Dodge. No way to know if this was a planned move or if the SEALs attack brought it on. Chili preferred to think they were the ones who made this happen. But it could just as well been coincidence.

  He drew back the mirror and retraced his steps toward where Manny and the others hung by the door. In front of him a door flew open and a dude in brigade camos backed into the hallway with a mini-flash clenched in his teeth and a pile of boxes balanced in his arms. Chili took the guy by the hair and dragged him back to turn and slam him against the far wall of the hallway. The contents of the boxes scattered over the floor. DVDs. Chili drove the point of his dagger up into the back of the man's neck where the base of the skull met the top of the spine. He stirred the knife briskly to scramble the man's brains and let the corpse drop to the floor.

  A sharp intake of breath behind him made him turn to find a uniformed man, a kid really, sixteen maybe, standing in the still open doorway holding an Xbox with a stack of games atop it in his hands. The kid's mouth opened to shout and then he dropped the game console to the floor and jerked against the doorframe before collapsing to the carpet.

  Manny strode up the hallway holding his silenced automatic in his fists. He and Chili dragged the bodies into the room the men had just exited. Heath and Flame joined them and they shut the door behind them to find themselves in what looked much like a hotel room. Three twin beds, nightstands and a TV armoire.

  Chili crouched by the dead men and pulled full thirty-round magazines from the ammo vests they wore.

  "How many?" he asked and held magazines up. Manny took five. Heath four. Flame only needed two.

  "You maintaining, Flame?" Chili said. His teammate's eyes were wide and the pupils enlarged.

  "Yeah," Flame said with some effort. "I keep thinking about Mo. That's not good, is it?"

  "Just maintain. Stay by the door, okay, bro? Just stay ambulatory."

  "Aye, aye, bro," Flame shrugged and moved toward the door.

  "We can't stay," Heath said. "We need to move or we'll get ourselves in a bind. If this group's leaving, there's a strong chance the Chinaman's lined up for departure. But only a chance. The day is not over."

  "We could pull a rose out of this shit after all," Chili added.

  "We have time to call in," Manny said and pulled the satellite phone from a disguised compartment on his vest. "We'd better take the opportunity. A picture of what's going on topside can't hurt."

  Heath and Chili moved close to listen in and make their own contributions. Flame leaned on the wall by the entrance and trained his rifle on the door.

  "Varmint Colorado to Ladylove Gloria," Manny said after entering the proper sixteen digit code on the phone's keypad, opening a direct link to Langley. The random word generator came up with a mouthful this time. They were using communications brevity codes generated specifically for this mission.

  "Sign, Varmint Colorado," came the voice of Dana Morton through the speaker.

  "Whiskey tango nine nine eight twenty jay," Manny answered.

  "Repeat phrase ‘identical splendid catapult.'"

  "Identical. Splendid. Catapult."

  "Confirmed. Good to hear from you guys. Lost you for a while but you're on the grid again." They would be speaking in military and agency euphemisms and generalities even though their connection was heavily encrypted. There was no sense in taking chances this late in the game.

  "Nearing topside," Manny said. "Need an update."

  "New arrivals. Technicals and military traffic. Best guess. Hostile personnel preparing evac to Site Six." Site Six was the mission-specific agency designation for Bani Walid. "Full coverage overhead. We have eyes in the skies." They would have aerial surveillance and even limited air support

  "Evac window?" Heath broke in.

  "Vehicles arrived within prior twenty minutes. Safest assumption is that events will move quickly. What's your status, Varmint?"

  "One wounded. Nothing life threatening. We will be moving immediate. Position marginal. Any more for us, Ladylove?"

  "Request for mission goal update." Even through the distance and interference, the guys could hear Dana's irritation. None of them had ever met her. They only knew her through their contact during missions. But they knew what they needed to know about her and that was that she was stand-up. Someone was breathing down her neck for results and she didn't like it. The SEALs didn't care for it either.

  "No sign of Frodo," Manny said. The mission designate for Sunny Kai Wei. "Have been in heavy engagement since arrival."

  "Godspeed, Varmint. Call if you need us."

  "Thanks, Ladylove. Ending contact. Continuing mission." Manny ended the call.

  "So, we stick or move?" Heath asked though he knew the answer.

  "We move," Manny said. "Chances are these clowns are more concerned with saving their asses than anything else. We roll up on them and see if we can find our Chinaman. If not, we find the best way home."

  "Just run between the bullets," Heath said with a grin. "Right across downtown Sirte in broad daylight."

  "Only way out is up," Manny said and re-holstered his handgun.

  "I have just one question," Chili said. "Where's Flame?"

  The door from the room was slightly ajar. From beyond they heard renewed gunfire.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  DEPARTURE

  "Get your clothes on!" a disagreeable man shouted from the open door of Sunny's suite. He was wearing sergeant's chevrons on the sleeves of his uniform. The man swept the room with a bright spotlight that Sunny could see through his eyelids.

  "What did you say?" Sunny asked. He rose from his bed where he'd fallen asleep in his underwear. He blinked his eyes to adjust to his room dimly lit by candles.

  "You are leaving! We are leaving! Get dressed and quickly!"

  "What's it like outside?" Sunny asked but the sergeant was gone.

  Perhaps his influence was at an end. It was usually the major himself who advised Sunny on changes in status. Now it is a man of lower rank. Sunny wasn't sure how he felt about this alteration in protocol. It might be that they had greater concerns than a Chinese citizen of uncertain value. That would be a good thing for him, he supposed. Major Ahhamid would no longer be tempted to trade him for any benefits from the enemy. But then he would need the protection of the brigade if he were to get out of Libya in one piece.

  He dressed hurriedly, starting with a money belt stuffed with neat bundles of Euros and American and Canadian dollars along with multiple passports and visas identifying him as a computer programmer from Malaysia, a pharmacist from Taiwan, and a restaurateur from Toronto. Then he layered on clothing to carry as much on his back as he could. Into his pockets went his Blackberry and iPhone along with a notebook and his wristwatch which he felt would not be safely worn on his arm.

  Sunny waited in the gloom, seated on the edge of his bed until he got the creeping sensation that he had been forgotten; left behind like a child no one wanted. He decided to stand in the doorway until the sergeant or some other escort returned for him.

  In the hallway outside his room, men raced by carrying all manner of objects. Plastic totes, metal boxes and canvas bags were being carried past him. One soldier carried an ornately framed painting covered in bubble wrap. Another was weighed down under a double armload of books and behind him a man with an electric guitar in each hand. Yet another wheeled a dolly with a filing cabinet strapped on it. The hall was lit by the shuddering glare of multiple hand held spotlights. Armed men shouted instructions and urged the burden carriers to more speed. A constant harangue from these men echoed from everywhere on the level.

  From somewhere, the major's gruff voice called everyone to silence and the men doubled their speed without speaking. In the quiet that followed, Sunny could hear a muffled staccato sound. It was like a ripping noise that would stop and start. It was gunfire. It was coming from somewhere below them. Were they under attack? Wouldn't that be coming from above? Was the major dealing with traitors in his ranks? Or perhaps they were eliminating unessential personnel? Sunny instantly regretted showing himself in the hallway.

  "Wei!" the major said and flashed a grim smile as he strode out of the dark with armed men in full uniform by his side. Ahhamid was wearing body armor over a black uniform piped in silver. He had an ivory handled revolver in a shoulder holster under his arm and carried a Russian made Skorpion machine pistol. He looked more dressed to play a villain in a movie than a man preparing a run for his life.

  "We are leaving?" Sunny asked in a tiny voice.

  "As I told you," the major said and threw an arm around Sunny's shoulder and together they followed the column of men carrying armloads of goods away down the hall.

  "You have no luggage?" the major said.

  "I thought it best to travel light," Sunny said,

  "Good man! Very wise!" the major said with a bark and increased his painful grip on Sunny's shoulder. "It is best to travel light. It makes a man more agile, more able to move swiftly."

  Sunny forced a smile in response and did not remark on the fact that the major was leaving with what looked like every object he owned. Instead he asked:

  "Where will we go?"

  "Bani Walid. We go to join my cousin's convoy heading west." His cousin. He meant Gaddafi. "We will leave Sirte behind for the jackals. We will go to Bani Walid and find refuge in its walls. We have many weapons there; weapons you have helped us purchase. From there we will plan our revenge. From there we will strike and every dog that raised his hand to us will die."

  "Yes," Sunny said. The man was mad, delusional. He spoke in romantic platitudes as if they were about to embark on a glorious enterprise. Rather, they would flee into the desert to die. He had to break away. He could not join this doomed exodus. He would not trade an airless cell in one place for a less luxurious, airless cell in another. He would rather take his chances in whatever chaos was raging above. On television he saw mobs of people celebrating, singing and dancing in the streets all over Libya. He would slip away while the mood was still high. He had enough money to make an escape. He would find his way to the consulate in Tripoli or perhaps find a boat to carry him to Greece or Italy. Anything was preferable to accompanying this lunatic and his maniac cousins to an apocalyptic final stand in the desert.