clock tower, the Roman arch of Marcus Aurelius, the Italianate cathedral.
As they cruised the mostly empty streets, Volman offered up a running commentary from the front seat. “The whole country’s stuck in this weird form of suspended animation. No one knows what’s going to happen next. Take this city, for example. There are over two hundred different militias controlling various neighborhoods, claiming they’re trying to enforce order. Some are small neighborhood committees, others are bigger and more aggressive. You’ve got the Zintan, which controls the airport, the Misurata managing most of the refugee camps to the south.”
“They fight?” Crocker asked.
“Sometimes. NATO commanders and most U.S. embassy officials will tell you that violence is under control and the NTC is getting its act together. But most of our reps here only talk to the top guys in the NTC, who tell them what they want to hear. The reality is different. The NTC is basically trying to figure out how to divide up the revenue from the oil exports. The whole country is walking on eggshells. More and more people are showing up dead and tortured. The security situation sucks.”
“Thanks, Doug,” Davis said, “for painting such a rosy picture.”
“My parents were refugees from Hungary. They taught me to call things the way I see them, no matter how unpleasant they might be.”
Seconds after Volman said this, a peal of automatic fire echoed through the narrow streets to their left. Mustafa turned into an alley as more gunfire erupted in front of them, lighting up the night sky.
Crocker said, “It’s probably better to keep moving.”
Volman nodded. “Yeah. Let’s head back to the coast.”
Mustafa backed up and turned right, burning rubber. Volman crouched down in the passenger seat and pointed out a dark building surrounded by a high metal fence on their left.
“That used to be the women’s military academy.”
Crocker saw no women on the streets, only a handful of men who ducked into buildings and vehicles seeking cover. Storeowners quickly pulled their wares inside and closed up their shops.
The gunfire, which seemed to be coming from the south, grew closer.
“How far are we from the Sheraton?” Crocker asked. He and Davis were unarmed.
Volman’s hands trembled as he spoke. “I’m getting tired of this shit.”
“How far away are we?”
“Maybe a quarter mile.”
A huge explosion illuminated the street in front of them and lifted up the front of the SUV. It came down with a crash, tossing the four men up and down like bouncing toys.
Mustafa and Volman both lurched forward and smacked the windshield. The former started bleeding from his nose; the latter held his head and moaned. Crocker climbed over the seat to check them out. Neither wound looked serious.
“Hold your head back,” he told Mustafa. “Squeeze here,” showing him where to pinch his fingers near the bridge of his nose.
Volman complained that he couldn’t find his glasses and couldn’t see without them. Crocker pushed Mustafa to the back seat, got behind the wheel, shut off the headlights, and gunned the engine.
“Direct me to the hotel,” he shouted.
“I told you, I can’t see.”
“Help me out, Mustafa.”
“Straight ahead, sir.”
He tried several times, but couldn’t shift the vehicle out of second gear. Secondary explosions lit up the sky.
“What’s the problem?” Davis asked.
“The clutch is fucked. Keep your heads down.”
Volman said, “The Japanese embassy is nearby. We can find shelter there.”
“Forget the Japanese embassy. Direct me to the hotel.”
“Stay on this road, sir.”
Closing in on the Mediterranean, they entered a cloud of orange-gray smoke. Directly ahead of them a fire was burning. Flames shot up above the buildings and turned the sea beyond a sinister shade of red.
Off the Corniche, down a side street, Crocker saw the shattered front of what looked like a modern eight-story hotel. Three
As they cruised the mostly empty streets, Volman offered up a running commentary from the front seat. “The whole country’s stuck in this weird form of suspended animation. No one knows what’s going to happen next. Take this city, for example. There are over two hundred different militias controlling various neighborhoods, claiming they’re trying to enforce order. Some are small neighborhood committees, others are bigger and more aggressive. You’ve got the Zintan, which controls the airport, the Misurata managing most of the refugee camps to the south.”
“They fight?” Crocker asked.
“Sometimes. NATO commanders and most U.S. embassy officials will tell you that violence is under control and the NTC is getting its act together. But most of our reps here only talk to the top guys in the NTC, who tell them what they want to hear. The reality is different. The NTC is basically trying to figure out how to divide up the revenue from the oil exports. The whole country is walking on eggshells. More and more people are showing up dead and tortured. The security situation sucks.”
“Thanks, Doug,” Davis said, “for painting such a rosy picture.”
“My parents were refugees from Hungary. They taught me to call things the way I see them, no matter how unpleasant they might be.”
Seconds after Volman said this, a peal of automatic fire echoed through the narrow streets to their left. Mustafa turned into an alley as more gunfire erupted in front of them, lighting up the night sky.
Crocker said, “It’s probably better to keep moving.”
Volman nodded. “Yeah. Let’s head back to the coast.”
Mustafa backed up and turned right, burning rubber. Volman crouched down in the passenger seat and pointed out a dark building surrounded by a high metal fence on their left.
“That used to be the women’s military academy.”
Crocker saw no women on the streets, only a handful of men who ducked into buildings and vehicles seeking cover. Storeowners quickly pulled their wares inside and closed up their shops.
The gunfire, which seemed to be coming from the south, grew closer.
“How far are we from the Sheraton?” Crocker asked. He and Davis were unarmed.
Volman’s hands trembled as he spoke. “I’m getting tired of this shit.”
“How far away are we?”
“Maybe a quarter mile.”
A huge explosion illuminated the street in front of them and lifted up the front of the SUV. It came down with a crash, tossing the four men up and down like bouncing toys.
Mustafa and Volman both lurched forward and smacked the windshield. The former started bleeding from his nose; the latter held his head and moaned. Crocker climbed over the seat to check them out. Neither wound looked serious.
“Hold your head back,” he told Mustafa. “Squeeze here,” showing him where to pinch his fingers near the bridge of his nose.
Volman complained that he couldn’t find his glasses and couldn’t see without them. Crocker pushed Mustafa to the back seat, got behind the wheel, shut off the headlights, and gunned the engine.
“Direct me to the hotel,” he shouted.
“I told you, I can’t see.”
“Help me out, Mustafa.”
“Straight ahead, sir.”
He tried several times, but couldn’t shift the vehicle out of second gear. Secondary explosions lit up the sky.
“What’s the problem?” Davis asked.
“The clutch is fucked. Keep your heads down.”
Volman said, “The Japanese embassy is nearby. We can find shelter there.”
“Forget the Japanese embassy. Direct me to the hotel.”
“Stay on this road, sir.”
Closing in on the Mediterranean, they entered a cloud of orange-gray smoke. Directly ahead of them a fire was burning. Flames shot up above the buildings and turned the sea beyond a sinister shade of red.
Off the Corniche, down a side street, Crocker saw the shattered front of what looked like a modern eight-story hotel. Three
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