by Nick Elliott
‘I agree. And the CIA today is not the same outfit as it was back in the seventies and eighties, believe me.’
‘I hope you’re right, Grant.’
Chapter 13
We flew from Lisbon to Casablanca, then on to Pointe-Noire in the Republic of Congo, courtesy of Air Maroc.
‘Did you get to see Claire last night?’ Grant asked as we sipped champagne.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘She’d just had a four-hour operation. She was barely conscious. She wasn’t making much sense.’
In fact she had made some sense. Holding my hand she’d asked me to tell her about the mill conversion on the island. ‘I want to hear everything,’ she’d said. ‘When I’m better take me there and I’ll help you furnish it. I’ll make it a home.’ If you get better, I’d thought.
‘Claire’ll make it, Gus. Don’t worry. Just focus on what we gotta do right now.’
‘I’ll do that, Grant.’ Thinking about the job in hand made it easier not to think about Claire. Thinking about nothing at all would have been better still.
From Pointe-Noire the journey became less conventional. An unmarked Pilatus Porter STOL aircraft was waiting on the far side of the runway and we were ushered directly from our incoming flight across the tarmac by a man in overalls who hauled our bags behind him. There was no sign of Immigration or Customs.
Our pilot, a lean, deeply tanned man in his mid-sixties, neatly dressed in a white shirt with epaulettes, introduced himself as Carlos Cordeiro.
‘Hey! I wouldn’t have recognised you, old buddie,’ cried Grant.
After much hugging and back-patting between the two of them Grant and I boarded the little aircraft. Cordeiro walked around the plane conducting his pre-flight checks. Since he’d only just flown in I wondered whether this was done to reassure us of his competence or because he really was a pro. Since he’d survived wars in Laos and Angola I decided on the latter. The transfer had taken less than twenty minutes but in the sweltering heat of equatorial Africa my clothes were sticking to me. Grant was wearing an expensive-looking khaki safari outfit tailored from a lightweight material, which was already losing its shape in the heat and humidity.
‘You alright there, Gus?’ he asked as we took our seats. He was keen to include me in all his high-spirited camaraderie.
Cordeiro boarded the aircraft and began his pre-flight, start and pre-taxi checks before taxiing down the runway.
‘I’m just fine thanks. How long’s the flight?’
‘About four hours,’ Cordeiro answered from the cockpit in front of us. ‘Beers in that cool box behind you. Help yourselves.’
We took off with all the noise and drama of a small, single-engine aircraft on a potholed runway and headed out into the Atlantic before turning south towards our destination. I reached for a cold beer and offered it to Grant. He declined saying it was important to keep a clear head. I opened the can and took a long swig, at which point Grant suddenly changed his mind and opened one for himself. Then he moved forward to sit beside Cordeiro in the cockpit.
The runway at Pointe-Noire had been smooth as silk compared with that of the euphemistically named Kazunda International Airport, but Captain Carlos took it in his stride and we touched down just as the equatorial night had fallen from the sky like a damp dark shroud. We bade farewell to Cordeiro with Grant promising him he’d be in touch and again, with no time to look around, we were whisked across the runway, this time by a couple of burly Americans in overalls emblazoned with the logo of Sea-En Oil & Gas, Inc. A small four-seater Robinson helicopter with similar company markings was waiting with its rotor blades turning. This time the pilot was José, a friendly, overweight local Kazundan who’d been trained in the US. Within minutes we were strapped in, luggage aboard, life-jackets and headsets on, and airborne again on our way out to the Sea-En Resolution, nine miles offshore.
‘Smooth journey so far,’ Grant remarked as we gained height. ‘What do you think of Cordeiro?’
‘Seems okay.’
‘That’s pretty damn non-committal even for you.’
‘What were you two talking about? Pick up anything new?’
‘Mostly talking about Laos back in the day. It was the largest paramilitary operation ever undertaken by the CIA – over three hundred pilots and eighty-odd aircraft.’
‘Weren’t they supposed to be involved in drug-running? Opium for some general’s heroin plant in return for him supplying local soldiers from his Hmong tribe?’
‘Hah! That was the rumour but I never saw any evidence. You’d need to ask Cordeiro that one.’
Then we were in sight of the oilfield. I counted a dozen rigs all lit up like Christmas trees, spread out across the dark sea ahead of us. And in the centre was one bigger and brighter than the rest.
‘There she is, ready and waiting for us.’
‘Rather conspicuous isn’t it?’
‘I told you, Gus, stop worrying for Chrissakes.’
I’d remember those words for a long time to come. We were well out from the shore, still five or six miles south-east of the floatel and in plain sight of it when a bolt of white light shot across the night sky. As we watched it struck the side of the floatel’s superstructure with an explosion of light followed by a muffled boom clearly audible above the racket of the helicopter.
‘Jesus Christ!’ yelled José.
‘Missile!’ shouted Grant. Flames engulfed the floatel as we watched, lighting up the sky and the sea around it.
‘It’s going over!’ And we could see the blazing mass of steel slowly keeling over before our eyes as José spoke the words.
‘Lose height, José, and approach it,’ I shouted. ‘There may be survivors in the water.’
The helicopter dropped close to the water heading towards the rig. For a few tense minutes none of us spoke as we raced a few feet above the sea’s surface. As we came round the far side of the rig José transitioned from forward to hover. We were close enough now to feel the heat from the inferno. The thing was burning white hot, the sea ablaze in patches where pieces of wreckage had been blown from the superstructure by the explosion. The whole area was bright as day. But there was not a soul in the water.
‘If you want me to land on the sea we have an emergency float system I can deploy,’ José shouted, ‘but very dangerous to do.’
‘No,’ Grant replied. ‘Just hover here for now.’
No sooner had he spoken than a second missile struck sending more flames shooting into the sky. A blast of hot air pushed the helicopter violently over to one side.
‘Where’re they firing from?’
‘I don’t know, Grant. How long do you want to hang around here for?’
‘This is futile,’ he said. ‘No one’ll survive that and I’m not going to compromise the mission any further. We’re outta here. José! Head for the coast, but head south first, away from the direction of fire.’
José needed no further encouragement. Gaining height he transitioned again from hover to forward and, still flying low, headed south-south-east.
And Grant didn’t need me to tell him that whatever happened now, the mission was already critically compromised. None of us spoke. We knew that whoever had targeted the missiles at the Sea-En Resolution might have us in their sights now.
‘See the lights ahead?’ I said. ‘That’s the coast south of the city. It can’t be far.’
But before he could reply there was a loud whoosh and we were blown forcefully sideways again as a missile shot past. Only now it was aimed at us. José weaved, ducked and dived hurling the little helicopter around in an attempt to evade what we knew was coming. I was beginning to think we’d escaped when the next missile struck.
José shouted: ‘It’s hit the tail rotor.’
As it lost its thrust the helicopter began to spin. There are those who will tell you that an emergency landing can be made in such circumstances, but that’s not what happened to us. We just plunged into the sea hittin
g the water in a cascade of spray and a cacophony of noise as the machine ripped itself apart. Any hope that we had sufficient buoyancy to keep us afloat long enough to escape in an orderly fashion was soon dispelled. And as we went down I realised we were turning over too. We were upside down in the water, strapped into our seats, sinking fast – and in complete darkness.
An emergency light came on casting an eerie glow around the cockpit. As I unbuckled my seat belt José yelled: ‘We must wait until the water equalises inside before we can open the door. There are life jackets under the seats. Put them on now!’
Water was gushing in fast as we sank into the darkness. I looked at Grant. He turned to me: ‘This is it, Gus.’
‘Just unbuckle, grab the life jacket and turn yourself the right way up. We’ll be fine,’ I added without much conviction. The water was already sloshing around our heads.
We managed to get disconnected from the straps and manoeuvre ourselves the right way up. Only then could we put our life jackets on. The water rushed in and rose around us. And as it reached our necks José yelled: ‘Get ready to take a deep breath and pull yourselves out of the door!’
It took an interminable time before he got the door open. He went out first and hung outside ready to haul us out. But Grant was still struggling to get his life jacket on, a look of panic frozen on his face. I shook his arm and leaned across to help him. He suddenly came to and not bothering to fasten the device, kicked and dragged himself to the door. In a state of near panic we both fought our way out of the sinking coffin, our lungs already bursting.
We broke the surface, José first, followed by Grant and myself. It had been a miraculous escape. Disorientated, we trod water while assessing our situation and realising our troubles were by no means over. Behind us was the flaming wreck of the Sea-En Resolution. Ahead we could make out the surf as it hit the shoreline, perhaps a mile away though it was difficult to tell in the dark.
‘You both okay to swim ashore?’ José called out.
‘No choice,’ Grant replied, still struggling to fasten his life jacket.
‘Take it slow. We must save our strength,’ said José as we struck out. ‘There is a current. Don’t try and fight it, but it will take us further south.’
It was further than I’d imagined. We were in the water for an hour before we even heard the sound of the waves crashing onto the beach. Grant was tiring and I swam behind him giving him what encouragement I could. The water wasn’t cold but that was little comfort knowing there were tiger sharks in these seas which would attack without provocation.
But after another half-hour the breakers finally swept us onto the beach and we lay on the coarse sand panting and coughing up seawater. When I sat up and looked back at the floatel it was still engulfed by fire. A column of black smoke rose from it up into the sky, lit up by the flames before disappearing into the black night.
‘There’ll be no survivors from that,’ said José.
‘Even if there are, there’s nothing we can do for them, poor bastards. So much for the citadel,’ Grant lamented.
I said: ‘There are eight drilling rigs close by. They have rescue craft so I guess they’ll be searching for survivors.’
I wasn’t going to get into a discussion just yet as to how the CIA and the US Navy SEALS with all their combined might and resources could have failed to protect the thing. That would have to wait.
We’d come ashore on a narrow strip of black basalt sand. I looked inland to where the beach ended with a low cliff above which was dark impenetrable jungle.
We trudged along the beach towards a scattering of lights we could make out to the north, all three of us shaken by the shock of the crash and witnessing the loss of the rig. Many, perhaps hundreds, would have died, others could just still be in the water fighting for their lives, though that was unlikely I told myself. Grant’s plan had gone up in flames along with the floatel. He looked ashen-faced and utterly beaten.
‘Where the hell did those missiles come from?’ I asked him. ‘Surely not from the Dalmatia Star.’
‘My best guess is they were fired from a sub. Those missiles weren’t Mickey Mouse jobs. Certainly the ones that struck the rig weren’t. They could have been fired from miles away in the Atlantic. And there’s only one actor with the motive and the capability.’
‘Are you implying that the Russians have committed a direct act of aggression against the US?’
‘Yes, that’s what I’m implying.’
‘I thought the rig was registered in Liberia.’
‘Yeah. And that’ll allow the politicos to prevent an escalation, for the time being at least, but this thing won’t go away any time soon, believe me.’
‘If the floatel was attacked by the Russians, someone who knew its real purpose tipped them off.’
‘You think that’s not what’s bugging me too? There’s a leak, Gus.’
We walked on, each wrapped up in our own thoughts. It couldn’t have turned out worse if we’d planned it. The only positive was that we’d survived – for now.
‘How far to the nearest settlement do you reckon?’ I asked José.
‘Maybe five or ten miles to Kazunda City.’
Our clothes were wet, but worse, our shoes were too – somehow we hadn’t lost them in the swim ashore – and it wasn’t long before we were all complaining. Our surroundings seemed very alien, at least to Grant and me. To our left was the Atlantic Ocean, its breakers crashing onto the black beach. On our right was the jungle, dark and menacing and filled with the sounds of insects, birds and other unknown creatures.
‘God only knows what lives in there,’ said Grant as an animal scuffled about, uncomfortably close to the edge of the forest where we walked.
After a mile or so we saw flickering lights. We had reached a river estuary, where a cluster of pirogue fishing canoes was beached. This was the Rio Chitoka, Kazunda’s main arterial waterway running east then looping northwards for five hundred miles to its headwaters in the mountains.
A man broke away from the group who were squatting by a fire on the sand and lumbered towards us: tall, heavy, bullnecked. José approached with a wave of greeting and spoke to him. The exchange didn’t sound particularly friendly.
He returned and said: ‘He won’t take us across the river unless he gets paid. I told him we have no money.’
‘Here,’ I said taking off the cheap digital watch I was wearing, which had withstood submersion after the helicopter had ditched. ‘Give him this.’
I handed it to José. I noticed Grant had folded his arms to conceal the Rolex he was wearing. After further discussion José turned back to us.
‘He agrees,’ he said handing the watch to the fisherman who was now joined by two of his comrades. We followed them to where one of the pirogues was lying in the shallows. At their urging we jumped on board and the three men pushed the craft into deeper waters before jumping on themselves, one forward and two aft, one of them using his paddle to steer with while the other two propelled us forward. The river’s flow soon pushed us out towards the sea and the men used all their strength to control the primitive craft, little more than a hollowed-out tree trunk. But they knew the river and in no time we reached calmer waters and could make out the swampy bank clogged with mangrove trees ahead of us.
They found a stretch of beach clear of mangrove roots and guided the canoe in. As we clambered out they pointed to a dirt road running along the shoreline before branching off back into the jungle. We parted company and headed towards the distant lights of Kazunda City.
The three of us were tired, wet and dispirited. We’d been walking for what seemed like half the night but could have been no more than an hour when headlights appeared ahead of us coming from the direction of the capital. The vehicle pulled to a stop, its lights holding us in their glare. I could see it was a black four-by-four pickup. It had stopped right in front of us. The silhouettes of three men appeared, walking slowly towards us. All three were carrying semi-automatic rifle
s. They wore black battle fatigues and green berets neatly pulled over to the right and with a silver badge over the left eye. I could see now the word Policia emblazoned on the sides of the truck.
‘Policia Nacional,’ said José. ‘Bastardos!’
Chapter 14
They bundled us into the back of the truck along with two of the cops. The driver slammed the tailboard shut, climbed into the cab and took off in a cloud of dust, swinging round and driving towards the city. The two cops just stared at us belligerently, their rifles across their knees. Had they been tipped off by the fishermen?
‘What now?’ asked Grant.
‘I’ll do the talking,’ said José. ‘If they’ll listen,’ he added.
We arrived on the outskirts of the town as a grey dawn was breaking. Grant and I had left Lisbon at six the previous morning. We’d been travelling, if that’s what you could call it, for twenty-four hours. We were wrecked.
Kazunda City was a dismal place. The town, which Mariana had told me had seen virtually no investment in infrastructure since independence over forty years ago, was a mess of trash-littered, pot-holed streets. Those that weren’t paved, and all but the main street were not, were just red dirt tracks. We saw buildings that had been bombed or burned out, victims of various insurrections over the years. Others were pockmarked with bullet holes. Even at this early hour people squatted vacantly in doorways and there was no sign of electricity or running water; and no sense that the place was about to come alive.
We passed the Equatorial, which looked like it had once been the town’s top hotel, now a crumbling, decaying slum with burned-out rooms and no glass in the windows.
As we reached what looked like the town centre we turned off heading east inland for a mile or two before pulling up in front of a solid-looking concrete block. It was the police station.