Countdown: The Liberators-ARC Read Online Free PDF Page B

mostly devoid of plant life, it wasn't hard to understand why here, as in Saudi Arabia, green was something between pleasing and divine.
    Because the local people shared considerable affinity-culture and blood, both-with the Arabs on the other side of the Red Sea, the floors were covered in carpets and cushions, with the dominant color of the former being red. Between the red and the green, and the gold of some of the cushions, the overall effect was not displeasing to the local eye, though a westerner might have found it garish, even Christmassy.
    Few or none of the locals, of course, celebrated Christmas. This close to Mecca and Medina, Christians were few and far between. Of those few, the bulk were slaves. Nonetheless, the ambient mood in the room was as joyous as any western Christmas.
    "We've got the little bastard," exulted Gutaale, chief of the Habar Afaan and ruler of this little experiment in anarchy. His ample belly, so unusual among his people, shook with unrestrained mirth. "Let, Khalid, that Marehan boy buggerer"-a charge even Gutaale knew was false-"balk us now!"
    Despite the back slapping, the laughter, the cheers, one of Gutaale's advisors seemed very subdued. Old, thin to the point of emaciation, nearly bald and gray where hair remained, Taban, one of the senior of the sept chiefs, just made a frown while staring at the red carpet and rubbing his hands together, worriedly.
    "What's the matter, Taban, old friend?" Gutaale asked.
    "Precedent, Chief," Taban replied. "I'm worried about precedent."
    "Well, I'm not," Gutaale said. "I'm more concerned with stopping the endless war among us while getting our people their just due."
    "Nonetheless, you have set a precedent," Taban said.

CHAPTER THREE

    A dream, too, is from God.
    -Homer, the "Iliad"

    D-126, San Antonio, Texas

    Neither the sun nor the chickens were quite up by the time Wahab had almost finished his story. Traffic had picked up a bit though; so much Stauer could hear from the streets and the nearby intersection. Even then, the traffic was much lighter than it would have been even a few years prior.
    "So they have your chief's son," Stauer shrugged. "So what?"
    "Not just his son, Wes," Wahab corrected. "His only son and his heir. They've got him-my chief, I mean-by the balls. We just don't do these kinds of things back home. At least decent people don't. That someone has is frightening."
    "And you've no idea where the boy is being held?"
    Wahab shook his head, sadly. "We don't even know for a fact what continent he's on; Africa, Europe, even maybe still here. And none of the governments that are friendly to our faction have been able to find a trace. We asked for help. They all said the same thing: ‘Tell us where he is and we'll be glad to help you retrieve him.' Oh, yeah, that was a big help."
    Stauer stood up from the leather couch on which he'd been seated and walked across the room to the bar. There he poured himself another drink and held the bottle up in query of Wahab's desire for another.
    "No thanks, Wes," the black said, holding up one hand defensively. "I'm a bad enough Moslem already and another would be pushing the willingness of the Almighty to forgive. Besides, it's a little early, isn't it?"
    Stauer shrugged off the question and returned the bottle to its place on the bar counter. He said, "I don't see where I could be a ‘big help' either. I mean, sure, if I knew where the boy was-this is what you were getting at, right?-I could probably assemble a team out of personal friends to get him back. But if I knew that it would be because you knew that. And if you knew that, any of a dozen countries with first class special operations forces would be willing to help. Maybe even for free." Provided one doesn't attach a monetary value to influence, anyway.
    "Money wouldn't be . . . wouldn't have been a problem," Wahab assured his friend. "I mean, this is my chief's only son. Despite having four wives and a dozen concubines, all he throws are