Killer Elite (previously published as the Feather Men) Read Free Page B

herds of cattle and valleys, hidden by junglelike vegetation, cutting between the grasslands like the veins of a leaf.
    More than sixty adult males of the Bait Jarboat tribe from fourteen family groupings were present in the Ghar of Qum. Millennia of erosion and flash floods had cut deep fissures into the limestone cliffs of the Qum Valley. Continued roof falls had opened up a cave as big as a school gymnasium. For three hours either side of noon this south-facing amphitheater was irradiated by the sun. The floor, deep in goat dung, sloped gently upward to meet the innermost limestone walls. Several groups of
jebalis
sat, squatted or leaned on their rifles. One or two wore army-issue trousers and cotton shirts, and many mixed
jebali
shawls and
wizaars
with Western clothing. To a man they carried weapons, mostly Belgian FN rifles donated by the government to ex-communists, but here and there was an AK47, a Kalashnikov assault rifle as used by the PFLO.
    Amr’s younger brothers and their teenage sons were grouped about a wood fire within the cave. All rose to greet the new arrivals. Tea was taken and news exchanged. Everyone knew why they were there but for a while the topic was avoided.
    Baaqi’s eyes were active. He categorized each visitor to the cave. All were interrelated. He knew who hated whom, which man had killed and tortured for PFLO’s Idaaraat execution squads in the early seventies, who had committed adultery and, more important, who might support Amr to continue as the tribal sheikh at this vital time. The fighting was coming to a head and the new sultan would, if victorious, offer great riches to the tribes—especially to the sheikhs whose loyalty he wished to woo.
    “Amr, you must assert yourself now.” Baaqi’s words were loud enough within the little group for all to hear and every man nodded his assent. Amr merely smiled and murmured, “I will think about it. Nothing need be said as yet, for the judgment will start tomorrow after midday.”
    Some miles to the northwest of the Ghar of Qum, as the shadows lengthened over the
jebel
, a lone Dodge water truck trundled west between two government outposts. It belonged to the government’s Civil Aid Department, which had been set up to help
jebalis
in areas supposedly freed by the army from PFLO control.
    A PFLO killer unit ambushed the defenseless Pakistanis in their Dodge. Their first missile, an RPG7 rocket, missed the target but a bullet killed the driver, and the Dodge slewed to a halt.
    The
adoo
, as sultanate soldiers referred to all members of the PFLO, were members of the Lenin Regiment. Their leader, a Masheiki, walked down to the road. The Pakistanis were speechless with fear. One ran away but his legs were shot away from under him and his life was ended with a bullet through the back of the neck.
    The survivors were prodded into a line beside the ditch and dispatched one by one.
    Satisfied with the success of their evening’s work, the
adoo
separated to return to their various villages. Two headed east toward the Ghar of Qum.
    Amr lay awake, unable to sleep. He should be working out a plan for his survival at the conference on the morrow. Politicking had once been a skill he had enjoyed, and perhaps if he tried hard enough he could find a way around this immediate problem. But his thoughts returned inevitably to his dear lost Shamsa, to her supple warmth and her elfin smile. She had been so proudwhen he became sheikh of the Bait Jarboat and likely
tamimah
. But ever since her death, the chess game that was tribal mediation had held no pleasure for him.
    If it were a straightforward matter of demotion, loss of his number-one rank, Amr would have felt little or no unease. But Hamoud and his group of erstwhile Marxists, Amr knew, would wish him permanently out of the way. His crime was simple. His three dead sons, both the children of his first marriage and his first child with Shamsa, had been killed during the past six years in the fighting