Executive Intent

“Understood,” Patrick said. There was a slight pause; then: “I studied your work with Task Force TALON, Colonel-tough, fast, gutsy, a lot like the Air Battle Force ground teams,” he went on. “And of course I’ve had a chance to work with the CID units on a number of occasions. Fantastic technology. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jason said, “although it’s never been fully explained to me how you as a civilian managed to get them.”

“I’d like the opportunity to explain it to you, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Perhaps we’ll have a chance to work together in the very near future.”

“Apparently we already have been, except I didn’t know it,” Jason said. “Exactly what is it you do, sir?”

“Oh…a little bit of this, a little bit of that,” Patrick said. “I help out when and where I’m needed.” And Patrick hung up.

SOCOTRA AIRPORT, SOCOTRA ISLAND, REPUBLIC OF YEMEN

DAYS LATER

The Yemeni customs inspection official looked surprised and more than a little indignant as the tall, beefy, white-skinned man carried an enormous blue-and-white nylon bag, a briefcase, and a backpack over to his inspection station. Although this Felix Air flight had originated in the Yemeni capital of Sana’a, visitors to Socotra Island, an oval-shaped, rocky island two hundred miles east of Somalia in the Indian Ocean, were required to have their bags and travel documents reinspected. “Salam alaykum,” he said in his rough, low voice reserved for European visitors, holding out his hand. “Jawaz as-safar, min fadlak.”

The big man fished out travel documents from his backpack and handed them over. The customs officer was pleased to see the man wore a long-sleeved shirt and long pants-they were not as strict about Muslim clothing customs on Socotra Island because it depended so much on tourism, and shorts and short-sleeved shirts were allowed near the water and on hotel properties, but in public, even men and especially women had to cover their heads and bodies. He expected courtesy and respect for Muslim customs from every visitor-at least until they got to the hotel and beaches, where he enjoyed watching scantily clad Western, Asian, and African women just as much as the next guy.

“Wa alaykum as-salam,” the man said in extremely clumsy and heavily American-accented Arabic. He was tall, with closely cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a light complexion. Socotra was a remote but popular destination for European tourists, so the customs agent played his favorite game and tried to guess the man’s nationality-German or Scandinavian descent, he figured, although the accent was definitely American, maybe Canadian. At least he gave Arabic a try, the customs officer thought.

“I speak English,” the agent said with a slight thank-you bow for giving his language a try. The passport was American. He had flown to Yemen aboard Emirates Airlines via London and Dubai; the tags on his backpack and large duffel bag verified all the previous destinations. “I am required to inspect your bags, Mr… Wayne Coulter,” he said.

“They told me you might have to do that,” the man named Coulter said.

“It is required.” His documents were all in order, with a visa procured in Washington -getting three-month tourist visas at Yemeni airports was not always reliable, especially with the current hostilities. Flipping through his passport, he found a folded twenty-dollar bill stuck inside. The customs officer locked eyes with the man, then held out the open passport. “That is not necessary here,” he said disapprovingly.

“Sorry,” the man named Coulter said, although he certainly didn’t sound apologetic. He took the bill and stuffed it into his pocket. “I don’t know how that got there.”

“Of course.” The passport was a couple years old, a few trips to Europe and Asia-this was his first trip to the Middle East. “Your occupation, sir?”

“Mechanical engineer. I design industrial robots, you know, to build cars, trucks, things like that. I’m demonstrating a robot to help fishermen.”

“I see.” If this man was an engineer, the agent thought, the sun would certainly set in the east tonight. He was definitely military. Everything looked in order, but he still did a couple of suspicious double takes at the photograph and a few of the pages to see if the man would react. He did not-a very cool customer indeed, he thought, a man trained and experienced in keeping cool. “How has your travel been, sir?”

“Fine,” the man said. “I had to sleep in the airport last night. They canceled a couple flights because of the Chinese and Russians in Aden and because of the weather.”

“I am sorry you were inconvenienced. The monsoons have come early this year, and of course the trouble with the Chinese…ma sha’ Allah. God’s will be done.”

“I hope I can still get some diving in.”

“I think so.” He flipped through the passport. “May I ask the purpose of your visit, please?”

“Demonstrating a machine for the Yemeni Fish Company Limited,” Macomber said. “I want to do some diving, too. I’m told it’s like the Great Barrier Reef of the Indian Ocean.”