read.
When the helicopter landed at Khartoum International Airport, Rafiq Khoury was collected by his ragtag security detail. The motorcade consisted of three vehicles—a well-worn Land Rover sandwiched between a pair of teknicals. The teknicals were both small Toyota pickups, one brown and the other probably white, though it was hard to tell through the shell of dust and grime. Armed with Soviet PK 7.62-mm machine guns, the two makeshift fighting vehicles were fast and mobile fixtures of warfare in North Africa.
The procession moved quickly—always preferred here—and snaked up the mile-long ribbon of asphalt that led from the main airfield to FBN Aviation’s hangar. The pavement was unusually high quality, as it had been laid down not as a road but rather a taxiway, a logistical tributary that connected the remote hangar to the main airfield. The hangar was no different from ten others that dotted Khartoum International, if one could ignore the fence and the armed men stationed around the perimeter. Roughly a square, it was two hundred feet in each dimension and fronted by a wide asphalt pad that fed the main doors, two massive sliding panels designed to accept aircraft as large as a Boeing 737. As had been the case for some months, however, the doors remained closed.
Khoury undertook his usual inspection as they approached the hangar. Two months ago, the place had been busier. Trucks, equipment, and crates moving in a regular flow. Now things were quieter, the onlyconstant being his men. For the moment, he saw them positioned correctly and looking alert. But then, they had known their imam was coming. He doubted they were so vigilant at other times, when his signature parade was not bearing down. A few likely remained watchful, held in line by the constancy of their faith, but they were the exceptions. It all mattered little to Khoury, because in his mind they were guarding against a threat that could not possibly exist. The Americans might search from above with their spy satellites, or—he mused—their high-tech drones, but there was no chance of enemy agents infiltrating this place. Khoury had far greater worries.
The Land Rover slowed as they approached the hangar, and he turned to his driver. Hassan had become a permanent fixture, at his side for many months now. In truth, the relationship had been forced on Khoury, yet he had quickly leveraged the circumstance to its fullest use—the Nubian might not be his most trusted man, but he was certainly the largest. The Land Rover was not a small vehicle, yet Hassan fit into the driver’s seat like a walrus into a fish tank. His far shoulder was wedged against the window and, on most of the local roads, his melon-like head banged continuously against the roof, though this seemed to have no effect to the detriment of either Hassan or the vehicle. The top half of the steering wheel disappeared in his hands and his knees were bent awkwardly underneath. To an even greater degree than with the general, Khoury’s slight stature was magnified by the monstrous Hassan. The man had the added benefit of being an experienced soldier, and as such, Khoury allowed him a free hand in managing his followers.
“Have we found any new recruits?” Khoury asked, the Rover nearing the gate.
Hassan nodded and pointed to a skinny young man who was trying, quite unsuccessfully, to look sharp with his Kalashnikov. “That one, sheik.”
Concern washed over Khoury’s face. “You have already issued him a weapon?”
Hassan smiled, an awkward undertaking where his massive jawline came creased by furrows of flesh. “It is not loaded, my sheik.”
“I see.”
Khoury’s little army was growing, steadily gaining strength, yet he had not crossed the threshold where legions offered themselves to do the bidding of God. Soon that would change, if all went as planned. But today Imam Khoury was still taking his followers one by one. Taking them as they came.
The Rover pulled to a stop,
When the helicopter landed at Khartoum International Airport, Rafiq Khoury was collected by his ragtag security detail. The motorcade consisted of three vehicles—a well-worn Land Rover sandwiched between a pair of teknicals. The teknicals were both small Toyota pickups, one brown and the other probably white, though it was hard to tell through the shell of dust and grime. Armed with Soviet PK 7.62-mm machine guns, the two makeshift fighting vehicles were fast and mobile fixtures of warfare in North Africa.
The procession moved quickly—always preferred here—and snaked up the mile-long ribbon of asphalt that led from the main airfield to FBN Aviation’s hangar. The pavement was unusually high quality, as it had been laid down not as a road but rather a taxiway, a logistical tributary that connected the remote hangar to the main airfield. The hangar was no different from ten others that dotted Khartoum International, if one could ignore the fence and the armed men stationed around the perimeter. Roughly a square, it was two hundred feet in each dimension and fronted by a wide asphalt pad that fed the main doors, two massive sliding panels designed to accept aircraft as large as a Boeing 737. As had been the case for some months, however, the doors remained closed.
Khoury undertook his usual inspection as they approached the hangar. Two months ago, the place had been busier. Trucks, equipment, and crates moving in a regular flow. Now things were quieter, the onlyconstant being his men. For the moment, he saw them positioned correctly and looking alert. But then, they had known their imam was coming. He doubted they were so vigilant at other times, when his signature parade was not bearing down. A few likely remained watchful, held in line by the constancy of their faith, but they were the exceptions. It all mattered little to Khoury, because in his mind they were guarding against a threat that could not possibly exist. The Americans might search from above with their spy satellites, or—he mused—their high-tech drones, but there was no chance of enemy agents infiltrating this place. Khoury had far greater worries.
The Land Rover slowed as they approached the hangar, and he turned to his driver. Hassan had become a permanent fixture, at his side for many months now. In truth, the relationship had been forced on Khoury, yet he had quickly leveraged the circumstance to its fullest use—the Nubian might not be his most trusted man, but he was certainly the largest. The Land Rover was not a small vehicle, yet Hassan fit into the driver’s seat like a walrus into a fish tank. His far shoulder was wedged against the window and, on most of the local roads, his melon-like head banged continuously against the roof, though this seemed to have no effect to the detriment of either Hassan or the vehicle. The top half of the steering wheel disappeared in his hands and his knees were bent awkwardly underneath. To an even greater degree than with the general, Khoury’s slight stature was magnified by the monstrous Hassan. The man had the added benefit of being an experienced soldier, and as such, Khoury allowed him a free hand in managing his followers.
“Have we found any new recruits?” Khoury asked, the Rover nearing the gate.
Hassan nodded and pointed to a skinny young man who was trying, quite unsuccessfully, to look sharp with his Kalashnikov. “That one, sheik.”
Concern washed over Khoury’s face. “You have already issued him a weapon?”
Hassan smiled, an awkward undertaking where his massive jawline came creased by furrows of flesh. “It is not loaded, my sheik.”
“I see.”
Khoury’s little army was growing, steadily gaining strength, yet he had not crossed the threshold where legions offered themselves to do the bidding of God. Soon that would change, if all went as planned. But today Imam Khoury was still taking his followers one by one. Taking them as they came.
The Rover pulled to a stop,
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