The Golden Hour by Todd Moss Page B

There are still half a dozen loosely affiliated separatist groups that want independence from the south, but we don’t think they represent a majority. They are, however, operating in the same physical area as the real terrorist groups. But the Tuareg should have no good reason to want to draw unwanted attention and force the Malian military to get involved.”
    “Or us,” Judd added.
    “Right. Or us.”
    “Okay, Larissa. But you know that’s not how our counterterrorism guys will see it. They will see smugglers and ungoverned spaces and want to start dropping large exploding things from planes onto camels to make sure al-Qaeda doesn’t find anywhere to hide.”
    “Ansar knows this, too,” said Larissa. “They will probably try to integrate into civilian Tuareg society. So they can blend in. Maybe gain a foothold for the long jihad.”
    “Then our goal has to be to drive a wedge between them. We can’t let our goals of fighting terrorism get conflated with local Tuareg politics.”
    Larissa nodded in agreement.
    “What about our uniformed guys? Do they get this? Colonel Houston said something about Special Forces embedded with the antiterrorism unit. Have you got them corralled, Larissa?”
    “Yeah, we’ve got our people placed with Mali’s counterterrorist strike forces as part of Operation Sand Scorpion. Houston has positioned his guys all over the country.”
    “Is that a good idea?”
    “I’m having him pull them all back to Bamako until we know what’s going on with the coup. Those guys are still running around up in Timbuktu, Kidal, Mopti, and Gao.”
    “Jesus, Larissa. That sounds like a mess. We’ve got a coup by the Malian military and they’ve got boots in every corner of the country. DoD must be having a fit.”
    “That’s why I’m pulling them back.”
    “You better do it quick. The Senate is going to have some difficult questions for the Pentagon if we don’t get this coup turned around right now. Wait until the Senate Foreign Relations Committee gets wind of this. Chairman McCall wants some scalps over our secret CT programs that don’t seem to be bearing the fruit he wants. And now this. McCall is going to have an absolute fit.”
    “Judd, Bryce McCall is going to have other concerns when he hears of the coup. His daughter is one of our Peace Corps volunteers. In a village up north. Near Timbuktu.”
    •   •   •
    Judd hunched over his desk examining satellite photos of the Mali-Algeria border. Across the top of each threatened a SECRET label. The photos, date-stamped that morning, were light brown, almost sepia, pictures of sand dunes, in succession of increasing amplification.
    The last photo showed a cluster of darker-brown squares, with what were clearly three pickup trucks parked in a straight line. A bright red circle surrounded the encampment and vehicles, with a helpful arrow pointing to the center and a label: POSSIBLE TERRORIST CAMP . It looked like many other similar photos Judd had seen of mobile camps in the desert. It could have been Ansar al-Sahra. Or Tuareg. Or Malian military.
It could be terrorists. Or nothing at all.
    Serena interrupted, “Dr. Ryker, I have the other Dr. Ryker on line four.”
    Push. “Hey, Jess, how’s it going? I’ve been meaning to call you. Sorry, it’s just gotten crazy.”
    “I’m sure it is. What’s the news? Is it a coup?”
    “Still trying to figure that out. Are you at the beach?”
    “Sure. The kids are trying out those boogie boards you got them. You still don’t know what’s going on in Bamako? How is that possible? What did the embassy say?”
    “They’re working on it, too. Look, it’s starting to get complicated. I don’t think I’m going to be back today. I’m sorry this is ruining our vacation.”
    “I blame Mamadou Idrissa, not you, Judd.”
    “Well, we don’t even know yet who is behind the coup. Or if it’s really a coup at all. Is it hot on the beach?” Judd imagined Jessica, lying on a towel,