Tom Clancy's op-center_ acts of war - Tom Clancy [37]
"Yes." Mahmoud nodded. "I will lead you. It was Walid's dying wish. There is still a great deal to be done."
Ibrahim had never seen such sadness and then anger in his brother's expression. And it occurred to him then that perhaps this was something else Walid wanted. The fire of hate in the hearts and eyes of his soldiers.
As Mahmoud stood, Ibrahim handed him his Parabellum and a.38.
"Thank you, my brother," Mahmoud said.
"According to Hasan," Ibrahim said with quiet confidence, "we can reach Sanliurfa by nightfall. We can stay in the foothills and hide if necessary. Or there is some traffic in the region. Perhaps we can capture a car or truck."
Mahmoud turned to Hasan, who was standing a respectful distance away. "We do not hide," he said. "Is that understood?"
"Aywa," said both men. "Yes."
"Lead us, Hasan," Mahmoud said. "And may the Holy Prophet guide us to our home and to the homes of our enemies."
* * *
FOURTEEN
Monday, 6:29 p.m.,
Oguzeli, Turkey
Before coming to the Middle East, Mike Rodgers had done what he always did. He'd read about the region. Whenever possible, he'd read what other soldiers had said about a nation or people. When he was here for Desert Shield and then Desert Storm, he'd read T.E. Lawrence's Seven Pillars of Wisdom and reporter Lowell Thomas's With Lawrence in Arabia. They were two views of the same man and the same region. This time he'd re-read the memoirs of General Charles "Chinese" Gordon of Khartoum as well as an anthology about the desert. Something by Lawrence--the English author D.H., not the soldier T.E.--which had been published in the latter had stayed with him. That Lawrence had written in part that the desert was "the forever unpossessed country." Rodgers had liked that phrase very much.
Like the polar regions, the desert could be borrowed but not owned. Unlike the polar regions, where ice could be melted for water and there was relatively solid ground for construction, the desert had moods. Now broiling, now cool. Savagely windy one minute, utterly still the next. One had to bring not only water and shelter but commitment. Unlike the Arctic or Antarctic, a traveler didn't get off a boat or a plane, move inland a mile or two, take pictures or readings, then depart. From ancient times, when camel caravans crossed these regions, if a person came to the desert it was with the intention of crossing it. And here in these high, dry lands where the earth was not just sandy but parched, where travel was measured in yards instead of in miles, crossing it required luck as well as stamina.
Thanks to radios and motorized travel, traversing the desert or Turkey's dead meadows was not the purgatory it had been until the turn of the century. But they were still places of staggering desolation. After a half hour of riding on the back of Colonel Seden's motorcycle, Rodgers had noticed that even the ranks of insects had thinned and then dwindled to nothing.
Rodgers leaned forward on the big Harley. The wind knifed through his short-cropped graying hair and pushed hard against his shoulders. He looked at the small compass that was bracketed to the top of the dashboard, just above the tachometer. They were still headed in the direction where the helicopter had last been seen, along the outer perimeter of the flood. He looked at his watch. They should be arriving in another twenty minutes or so.
The sun was low behind the hills, its ruddy light fast fading. Within minutes the sky was as star-filled as any Rodgers had ever seen.
Colonel Seden half turned. "We are nearing the plains," he shouted back. "Above this region there are dirt roads. They are not well traveled, but at least the ride will not be so bumpy."
Those were the first words Seden had spoken since they left. That was fine. Rodgers himself wasn't a talker.
"A Navy fast-attack craft in rough seas is bumpy," Rodgers yelled back. "This is fine."
"If you can believe it,'' Seden said, "the temperatures in this region drop to near freezing before dawn. From