Free Raven Strike by Dale Brown and Jim DeFelice

bases or centers back home, just like the Predator and Global Hawk pilots.
    Scratch that envy, Turk thought.
    “Tigershark, we have a tanker en route. It’ll be about an hour,” said Colonel Freah, coming back on the line.
    “I’ll wait,” he told Danny. “Give me the tanker frequency and his flight vector, if you can.”
    “Stand by.”

Chapter 3
    Western Ethiopia
    N uri needed to gear up to go into Duka. The first thing he needed was better bling. An arms dealer could get away with shabby clothes, but lacking gold was beyond suspicious. At a minimum, he needed at least a fancy wristwatch. Transportation was critical as well.
    Most of all, he needed American dollars.
    Which was a problem. The CIA had temporarily closed its station in Addis Ababa, the Ethiopian capital. The nearest officer was in Eritrea somewhere.
    “Use the cash the existing operation has,” said Reid. “I’m sure they have plenty.”
    Reid seemed grouchy, probably because of the hour. D.C. was eight hours behind eastern Africa, which made it close to two in the morning there.
    “I’m not getting a lot of cooperation,” said Nuri.
    “Shoot them if they don’t cooperate.”
    It didn’t sound like a joke.
    “Get back to me if there’s still a problem,” said Reid before hanging up.
    Melissa had gone to rest in her quarters, one of the smaller huts farthest up on the hillside—not a coincidence, Nuri thought, as she had undoubtedly chosen it for the pseudo status its location would provide.
    From a distance, all of the buildings looked as if they had been there for ages. But up close it was obvious they were recent additions—the painted exterior walls were made from pressboard, relatively rare in this part of Africa.
    Even rarer was the door on Melissa’s hut, all metal. Nuri knocked on it.
    “What?” she snapped from inside.
    “You awake?”
    “I’m awake,” she said, pulling open the door. Her right arm was in a sling.
    “Can we talk?”
    Melissa pushed the door open and let him in. There was a sleeping bag on the floor. A computer and some communications gear sat opposite it, pushed up against the wall. The only other furniture was a small metal footlocker. A pair of AK-47s sat on top, with loaded magazines piled at the side. A small, battery-powered lantern near the head of the sleeping bag lit the room.
    “I need some cash,” Nuri said.
    “And?”
    “I need money.”
    “Why do you think I have money?” snapped Melissa, sitting down on the sleeping bag. She pushed back to the wall, spreading her legs in front of her. She was wearing black fatigues.
    “Look, I just got off the line with my boss,” said Nuri. “He told me I should shoot you if you didn’t cooperate. And he was serious.”
    “Give me a break.”
    “I know you got a stash of money,” he said. “Nobody works in Africa, especially out here, without bribe money. Piles of it.”
    “Why do you need money?”
    “I’m going into Duka and nose around. I have a cover as an arms dealer.”
    “I have a few thousand, that’s all.”
    “It’s a start.”
    “I go with the money.”
    Nuri shook his head. “Ain’t gonna work.”
    “It has to.”
    “Nope. Come on. I have a cover here I’ve established. I go in with an American girl—I’d be dead.”
    “You don’t exactly look like you belong,” said Melissa. “You’re the wrong color.”
    “I’m from Eritrea,” said Nuri. His cover story wasn’t that far from the truth, if you went back two generations. “I’m an Italian. Don’t make a face—it worked for months. I can speak most of the tribal languages, including Nubian, as well as Arabic.”
    “I’ll bet.”
    “You want Lango or Madi?”
    “Nobody speaks Lango up here,” said Melissa.
    “No shit. That wasn’t my point.”
    “Look, we can work together,” she told him. “We don’t have to be enemies.”
    “Just give me the cash.”
    “You’re stuck if I don’t. There are no cash machines outside of the capital, which is