by Peter Nealen
Brannigan met Hart’s eyes and nodded. That had been well done. The fact that each of them had bribery money on him, just in case, had already come in handy, and they’d barely been on the ground for fifteen minutes.
Unconsciously falling into a bit of a loose wedge, the Blackhearts headed for the terminal, hoping to find some transportation.
***
Customs was, predictably, a nightmare. There was a single Customs officer behind a desk, backed by half a dozen Chadian police with AK variants and one Beretta M-12 held in their hands as if they knew very well that they were the ones with weapons and the outsiders trying to get into the country weren’t. Which Brannigan was sure they did.
He handed his passport over to the Customs officer, a fat, sweaty-looking man, who glanced up at him before looking down at the passport. “Bag there,” the officer said, pointing to the nearby X-ray machine.
Brannigan dutifully put the duffel on the conveyor. There was nothing incriminating in it; all of that would have been airdropped in the boonies the night before. But he was reasonably certain that the Customs people would find something. Or an irregularity with his visa, even though it had been expertly forged—there hadn’t been time to go through the full process of getting a Chadian entry visa. It was the way the game was played in this part of the world.
Sure enough, the Customs officer looked down at his passport for a long minute, chatted with one of the police officers in a patois of French and Arabic, put the passport down, and left for a moment. When he came back, it was with another officer, an even fatter man with an officious frown on his wide face.
“This is your passport?” he asked in accented English.
Brannigan made sure that it was the same one that had been sitting on the desk before he nodded. He’d seen shadier things tried by Third World Customs officials. “Yes,” he said. “Is there a problem?”
“There is an irregularity,” the fat official said. “What is your purpose in our country?”
“We’re here as part of an international observer group,” Brannigan said. “There have been new outbreaks of violence around the refugee camps out of Darfur. We’re here to observe and report on them.”
“Report to who?” the official asked.
Fortunately, that dovetailed nicely with the original plan. He pulled an envelope out of his back pocket, containing glossy, professional-looking documentation about their completely fictitious NGO, along with about sixty thousand CFA francs. He handed the official the envelope. “We’re a new organization, dedicated to making sure that humanitarian crises don’t simply get swept under the rug.”
The official glanced at the brochure, then handed the envelope back, minus the stack of francs. He nodded to the desk officer, who proceeded to stamp Brannigan’s passport and hand it back to him.
“Welcome to Chad, monsieur,” the fat official said. Brannigan just smiled tightly and walked through the Customs post, grabbing his bag on the way.
It was the way of the world. It didn’t mean he had to relish it. It was just the cost of doing business.
***
It took almost twenty minutes to get the rest of them through. Curtis looked particularly incensed that he had to pay the bribe, too, but the officials were getting loud and the police were looking quite anticipatory, so he finally paid up.
“You’d think they’d give a brother a break,” he muttered as he rejoined the rest.
“They don’t give each other a break,” Flanagan pointed out. “What makes you think they’d give a rich American a break, just because he’s black?”
“It ain’t right, that’s all I’m saying,” Curtis griped.
“All right,” Brannigan said. “First thing is transportation. Then Jenkins, Curtis, and Hart, find us a base camp. The rest of us will head out to get the gear. And keep your eyes open.”
“I have been,” Wade said as they walked out of the terminal, looking for a taxi into the city. “Any of the rest of you notice the meat eaters that the Humanity Front has for their PSDs?”
“Humanity Front?” Jenkins asked.
“Yeah, the snooty-looking NGO types in the high-end vehicles with the Greek statue on the doors,” Wade said. “They’re rolling heavier with their protection details than I’ve ever seen a humanitarian aid outfit. Seems a little weird for a bunch of bleeding hearts.”
“I saw ‘em, too,” Flanagan said. “Looked like every one of them was on cycle and loaded for bear. I wonder how they got the weapons into the country.”
“I missed it,” Brannigan said, looking around. There were several buses that appeared to be open for business. “How could you tell what they were packing? I didn’t see any Westerners kitted out openly.”
“They weren’t,” Flanagan answered, scanning the Chadian soldiers and the other contractors and Westerners milling about. “But one of them had his door open and I saw what looked like an F2000 leaning against the center console.”
“Hmm,” Brannigan said, frowning, as he picked a bus and headed for it. Cash wasn’t an object; Van Zandt’s shadowy government backers had once again provided plenty for operational expenses. The biggest problem was that the exchange rate between the US dollar and the CFA franc was significant enough that they were carrying a lot of bulk in just money. “That is pretty heavy for an NGO’s security.”
“You think they’re actually Price’s people?” Bianco asked.
“They were sure watching us like hawks,” Wade said. “Like they’re suspicious as hell about something.”
“Well, if you were on a PSD in a country like this, you’d probably be paranoid as hell, too,” Flanagan pointed out.
“We just don’t know enough yet,” Brannigan said. “Once we get settled, I’ll shoot Mark a message, reporting on what you guys saw. If any of Price’s interests has a contract with the Humanity Front, he should be able to find out.” But something about it was still bothering him.
What the hell would Price want with the Humanity Front? And if he is somehow connected with the disappearing doctors, then why? None of this makes much sense.
He climbed into the bus, and through a combination of pidgin speech and pointy-talky, got it through that they needed to go somewhere where they could buy vehicles. The driver finally got the message, backed up by a fat wad of francs, and sent the bus lurching and swaying down the poorly-maintained road toward Abeche itself.
***
“Shao Xiao?”
Lung Kai looked up from his laptop. “We are contractors here, Xu Jie,” he reminded his junior lieutenant again. “We do not have military ranks, remember?”
Shao Wei Xu Jie stiffened a little, shamefaced. It was not the first time his commander had needed to remind him. He was new to this operation, and Lung Kai had to keep that in mind. Xu was new to the People’s Liberation Army in general, for that matter, and still had a great deal to learn.
Why did the Central Military Commission send me a completely untried junior officer? This is not the place for him. He needs to be seasoned in the regular forces first. Or, at best, assigned as a security force commander for one of the oil fields. Not something this sensitive.
“Report,” he said, when Xu appeared to have frozen up in the doorway.
That seemed to snap the junior officer out of his fugue. “A group of seven Westerners arrived at Abeche airport this afternoon,” Xu reported. “They apparently claimed that they are part of a non-governmental reporting agency, but they appeared to be soldiers, according to our observers.” The Chinese had a good working relationship with the local Customs officials, lubricated with large stacks of CFA francs, so Xu had gotten the story straight from Chadian Customs themselves.
“Were they in any kind of uniform?” Lung asked.
“No, sir,” Xu replied. “They were wearing western clothing, though of the…” he seemed to be searching for the description.
“Not a uniform, but close enough,” Lung finished for him, thinking. “Interesting. Did they meet with the �
��humanitarians?’” The quotes around the word “humanitarians” was evident in his voice. Lung had long since noticed what Wade had; that the Humanity Front’s protection details had the feel of a special operations unit rather than the usual PMSC.
But Xu shook his head. “No, sir,” he said again. “They hired a bus and headed into the city. They were observed by the NGO contractors, but did not make contact with them.”
Lung stared at his laptop, and the unfinished report that he had yet to encrypt and send to Beijing. “Even more interesting,” he said. “I wonder if our target called for reinforcements.”
Xu had nothing to say to that, for which Lung was grateful. The youngster didn’t have much of anything to add in any case, and Lung would have simply had to snap at him. He had yet to determine if Xu was just immature and unseasoned, or if he really was as dull as he seemed to be.
“Was surveillance set on them?” he asked. He already knew the answer from the near-panicked look on Xu’s face as he spoke. His eyes narrowed and his face hardened.
“We were not in position or ready for them, sir,” Xu stammered. “By the time we were able to mobilize, they had already disappeared into traffic and into the city.”
“You realize that they could have led us to the target?” Lung demanded. “The entire reason you and your squad were stationed at the airport was for this very purpose!” He clenched a fist, even as he thought. There was no call to bring this to the Central Military Committee’s attention. It wouldn’t go into his report. In fact, until he had more information, he wouldn’t mention the newcomers at all. If there was one thing he could be sure of, it was that if this went wrong, he would be the one to pay the price, not Xu.
“Get the drones up,” he said. “Did someone at least get photos?”
“Yes, sir,” Xu replied, “though not very good ones.”
“As long as they are good enough to identify them on the ground,” Lung said. “Get the drones in the air and start sweeping the city. Find them.
“If we can locate them and get surveillance on them, we might still be able to secure our target in a timely manner. The Central Committee will be pleased, then.”
Otherwise, I might find myself in the same position as the last hapless bèn dàn who went up against the target. Except that I don’t have a Zhong Jiang as a father to just get me sent to an undesirable posting. I’ll end up in a reeducation camp.
Chapter 8
It was a long, hot drive out into the desert, making for the first cache. If Van Zandt had been on the money, it should have everything the advance team needed. The second drop would be backup, along with extra gear and weapons for Hancock and the rest who were supposed to follow in the next few days.
Brannigan kept a close eye on the rear-view mirrors as they drove, but the clouds of dust kicked up by the tires soon made observation of their back trail all but impossible. They’d have to stop and let the dust settle to make sure they weren’t being followed.
The vehicles were hardly in the best shape, but they blended in with the locals, at least those locals who could afford vehicles. The vast majority of the Chadians, black and Arab, seemed to walk everywhere. They’d managed to get two Toyota Land Cruiser pickups and a truly ancient Land Rover Defender, that rattled alarmingly just sitting there idling. Brannigan had, rarely, pulled rank and grabbed one of the pickups.
“Pull up and stop at that outcropping,” he said, pointing to the nearly perfect cone shape of the hill ahead. Wade nodded, his pale eyes flicking to the indicated terrain feature.
“Security halt?” he asked. They were still a good click from the planned drop zone.
“Yeah,” Brannigan replied, staring at the dusty side mirror. Not that there was a lot they could do about it if they were being followed. It was wide open, empty country, most of it flat and dusty. A tiny village of thatched mud huts was visible on the horizon, squatting amidst the barren desert. They were deep in the Sahel, right on the southern edge of the Sahara, and this was one of the less-grassy areas. It was dust and rock and scrub brush for the most part.
And without the weapons in that drop, they were really sticking their necks out. But there was no other way.
It took a couple more minutes of driving to reach the hill. Once there, Wade drove partway up, getting a few meters of elevation, before turning the truck sideways and stopping, leaving the engine idling while the dust slowly settled around them.
The other vehicles followed suit. They didn’t even have radios; those were also in the drops. Brannigan had thought about bringing some cheap walkie-talkies, but had decided not to pack anything that might have raised suspicions. Sure, NGOs used radios too, but it was still risky.
Finally, all three vehicles were gathered in a sort of loose wedge on the hillside, the dust cloud slowly settling. It was a hot, still day, even as the sun dipped toward the western horizon. There was no wind to blow the cloud away, so they just had to wait, though visibility started to improve shortly after stopping.
None of the rest got out, and Wade didn’t speak, just watching his own sector while Brannigan scanned their back trail.
Nothing. The Sahel was empty and stark, the sunset turning the landscape a brilliant orange. There were a few dust plumes in the distance, but nothing that appeared to be moving in their direction.
Still, Brannigan waited. He wasn’t going to get complacent out here. Just being in Africa again had his hackles up. And while it was imperative that they get to the drop soon, before some herder found it, if they got discovered before they could unload it, that could mean just as much trouble.
The only sound was the rumble and rattle of the engines. He might have been able to hear Curtis, though the other man’s voice was dim enough that it was little more than a mumble to his ears.
Finally, after about five minutes, he waved ahead. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Wade put the truck in gear and started back down toward the flat ground, as the sun touched the horizon.
***
They reached the planned drop site as what little twilight there was was fading from the sky. Only to find that the drop had been off. There was nothing there.
“Start at this point,” Brannigan said, “and we’ll circle out. I doubt Van Zandt’s guys were quite that inaccurate, so it’s got to be within a klick of here.”
“Sure wish we had some NVGs already,” Wade muttered. “It’s dark as six feet up a well-digger’s ass out here.”
“Just try not to drive over the container,” Brannigan said. He glanced at the blackness around them. The headlights were casting cones of illumination ahead of them, but they would also be glaring beacons to anyone out there, announcing that someone was driving in the wilderness at night. He knew that there wasn’t often a lot of activity after dark in places like this, but their lights might draw the curious.
Or the predatory.
***
Three hours later, they still hadn’t found the drop.
“How could they be that far off?” Wade snarled. He’d been driving the entire time, and was clearly getting a little pissed about it. “Are we sure they even dropped it? Or did they decide to let us hang in the wind this time? Since it’s ‘just a reconnaissance mission?’”
“Mark can be an arrogant bastard,” Brannigan said. “But he’s not the kind to go that far. For one thing, he’s not that stupid.”
“How so?” Wade asked, apparently catching some of the grim tone that had crept into Brannigan’s voice.
“He knows me,” Brannigan said after a long moment of thought, as the truck bounced hard over a bit of microterrain that Wade couldn’t quite avoid. “He knows that, despite our new working relationship, I still remember the role he played in the end of my career, and that I don’t particularly like him or trust him. And he knows that I’m in no way, shape, or form desperate for his approval, and if I think we’re being screwed, I’m going to go back to Abeche airport, buy tickets with the rest of the operational cash we’ve
got, and get the hell out of here.”
Wade nodded slowly. “I guess I never heard that you two had a history,” he said. “At least not that kind.” He paused. “It’s none of my business, though.”
Brannigan thought back to the confrontation over VTC after that fateful night off the coast of East Africa. When he’d done what he’d needed to do to save hostages and keep his Marines alive, but it had offended a government of thieves and murderers, so he’d been quietly tossed out of the Marine Corps on his ear.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he said, finally. “It was a long time ago, and we’ve generally come to terms with each other since.” He felt slightly guilty about that; he usually didn’t like hiding information from his men, but while the history between him and Mark Van Zandt was a cloud hanging over them, it was just between the two of them, and as much as he often disliked the other man, he knew that Van Zandt was still enough of a professional that he wouldn’t let it color his actions any more than Brannigan would.
And Brannigan was the one who had reason to let it.
“Let’s push out another hundred yards and circle around again,” he said after a moment of heavy silence. “We need that gear.”
***
Even as he spoke, eyes were focused on the lights moving in the desert. The knot of men gathered around an ancient HiLux pickup with an equally ancient RPD machinegun was slowly growing as the word spread.
Those were not local villagers circling around in the night, showing so much light. None of the Chadian villagers had vehicles. They were outsiders, and clearly far from where they were supposed to be.
Lifting his AK, the leader climbed into the passenger seat of the truck and gave an order. The rest piled into either that HiLux or the wheezing Foton midsize next to it. Leaving the headlights off, they started trundling toward the lost Westerners in the night.
Maybe they had something of value. Maybe they were looking for something of value that they could be forced to find and hand over before they were killed. Or maybe they could just die, for the glory of Allah.