The Threat

Dan pushed in too, using the satchel to bulldoze soldiers out of the way, and saw as the flap lifted De Bari being backed against the serving line. The protective detail closed up. But within seconds, in the close, food-smelling, near-dark confines of the tent, the result was a struggling knot of muscular bodies behind which the president was just visible trying to say something amid rising shouts and the clatter of mess trays on rifles from outside. Gritty dust milled, beaten off uniforms, scuffed up from the dirt floor. A stack of cups collapsed with a deafening clatter.

Dan wedged into the scrum, yelling at the troops to back off. Elbowing men out of the way, he came face-to-face with McKoy. The head of the protective detail grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around. Now, facing out, not in, he felt himself propelled from behind, the satchel gripped like a shield in front of his chest, like the front hoplite in a Spartan phalanx. The rest of the detail had their feet braced and were shoving, turtled around De Bari. When Dan glanced back, the president’s cheeks were flushed. He’d never seen the guy mad before. Or was it fear?

When he looked around again he was face-to-face with an angry-looking soldier with a dark complexion, black mustache, and stubble on his cheeks. He was shouting in Dan’s face, but with a foot or two still between them, when someone behind him shoved the trooper forward.

Dan grabbed with one arm, missed, but McKoy was ready. Big palms wide in front of him, when the soldier crashed into him the agent pushed back so hard the thump of his hands against the man’s chest echoed through the tent. Staggering back, the soldier made a sudden involuntary movement. One hand went, perhaps by chance, to his combat vest.

Dan saw his fingers close around a grenade.

Without even appearing to move McKoy had his pistol out and leveled at the trooper’s head. With a simultaneous dip and thrust all the Secret Service men — they were all men on this forward-base visit — had theirs out too. Everyone froze, staring at the weapons. Somebody muttered, “Oooh … shit.”

A light blazed on at the tent entrance. The glare of a videocam flood limned shocked eyes, gaping mouths, capturing them all in a suddenly frozen tableau.

“Clear the tent. Clear this fucking tent!”

General Wood, as pissed off as Dan had ever seen a human being. The troops recoiled. Cursing noncoms grabbed at uniforms, web gear, hauled them out bodily. Within seconds the tent was empty, except for the panting Secret Service men, Wood, Dan, and the president.

Dan lowered the satchel to the scuffed dirt, breathing hard. He couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. He’d never seen American troops act like this.

He remembered the hate-filled eyes, the hard, tanned faces. The legionaries of the Border. Would the first emperor come from among them?

19

KHARTOUM, SUDAN; GOMA REFUGEE CAMP, EASTERN ZAIRE

He’d expected a feeding frenzy when the video hit, but to his surprise only a couple of outlets mentioned the incident. He watched it in Air Force One

’s pressroom twenty thousand feet above the North African desert. It came across as a confused scuffle in a dark tent, not as the mass and open disrespect he’d experienced. Somehow Ringalls, Holt, and the rest of the president’s men had put the well-known De Bari spin on the story.

He didn’t believe the troops would actually have used their weapons. The one who’d grabbed the grenade had done so by reflex. But what they’d been saying was another matter. He couldn’t believe American troops would express open contempt of the commander in chief like that. He had to go back a lot of years for anything like it. To when officers were getting fragged in Vietnam.

* * *

Khartoum was a chaotic, run-down sprawl that smelled of paranoia where khawaja—foreigners — were concerned. Dan advanced the visit with a sinister-looking colonel who described himself as an “aide.” Lenson suspected he was more likely head of the secret police. The streets reeked of diesel exhaust, shit, and an ancient dry dung-stink that seemed to come from the very bricks.

He helped Gunning set up the comm relays, then carried the PES for De Bari’s first meeting with “President” Omar Hassan Ahmed el-Bashir. Dan, the Sudanese colonel, McKoy, and the rest of the protective detail drank cardamom tea in a corridor while the Sudanese bodyguards scowled at them. That afternoon he went along with the first lady and the president for a boat trip on the Nile — which was short, as the river was low and the black mud stank horribly. McKoy had vetoed the visit to the Souk Arabi, fearing anyone could run out of the market crowd, fire a shot at close range, and disappear back into the thousands of beggars, refugees, day laborers, tribesmen, and women in black chadors and leather masks who thronged the juice stalls and spice shops.