Weapons of Mass Deception

by David Bruns

  He shook himself and started back to the car. The cabin was tiny: two small bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom. The original structure had been a one-room log cabin, and he braced a knee against the horizontal logs that made up the face of the building as he unlocked the front door.

  He spent the next hour getting settled: stowing groceries, splitting firewood and starting a fire, making up a bed. When he was finished, he sat on the porch and drank his Dr. Pepper. He checked his mobile phone. No signal. Not surprising. The phone companies had promised better service out here for years, but nothing ever came of it.

  Brendan grabbed his bag of Swedish fish and set off into the woods, heading for a rocky bluff that overlooked the lake. He walked slowly, chewing the candy and allowing the quiet to take him.

  The trip to the cabin was just what he needed. It was time to do some thinking about his life, decide what he wanted. His service commitment would be up in another year and he hadn’t given one thought to what was next. Stay in? Get out and get a job? One thing was sure: the loneliness of San Diego was not for him. He needed something more.

  Like Don Riley. He’d known Don would eventually find his niche, and it looked like the CIA was the right place for him. A kid that smart would do well with the spooks. Don knew what he wanted out of life.

  “What about me? What do I want out of life?” A startled squirrel chattered at him from a high branch.

  Brendan finished the last of the Swedish fish and crushed the bag in his hand. He stepped out onto the bare rock bluff and threw out his arms. “Brendan McHugh!” he yelled, laughing as the sound echoed back to him from across the lake. He and his brother used to scream out their names before they jumped off the ledge into the lake below. He peered over the edge to the ice-crusted water.

  He found his jumbled thoughts turning to Liz. He hadn’t spoken to her since graduation. She’d left Marjorie’s early the next morning without even saying goodbye, off to Quantico to become a Marine.

  He hadn’t called her. Call it pride, call it stubbornness. Whatever the reason, it seemed easier to just not try, and he’d let Liz slip out of his life.

  Brendan pulled his phone from his pocket. Up this high, he had one bar of mobile signal. Just enough to make a call.

  Maybe she was lonely, too. Maybe she was wondering what to do with her life. Maybe they could figure it out together . . .

  He texted Don Riley. Do u have Liz mobile?

  The squirrel he had disturbed earlier decided that Brendan’s presence near his tree was an invasion of his privacy. It settled on a nearby branch and heaped chattering abuse down on his head.

  The phone beeped. Sure. 202-789-6578. Call her, Brendan.

  Brendan’s fingers shook as he dialed the phone. It rang once . . . twice.

  “Hello?” The male voice was a warm baritone, and it sounded like he had just been laughing.

  Brendan’s heart sank when he heard Liz’s voice in the background saying, “Who is it?”

  “Hello?” the male voice said again.

  “Sorry. Wrong number.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Fray Bentos, Uruguay

  15 February 2008 – 0600 local

  Rafiq leaned against the rail and breathed in the early morning air.

  Jungle and river water. After the last three months, he almost missed the tang of sea salt in his nostrils. The muddy brown Uruguay River slid beneath the keel of the Lumba. The captain jabbered on the radio in a blend of broken English, Spanish, Portuguese, and Malay.

  The ship heeled slightly as the captain made a broad turn around the final bend in the river, and the city of Fray Bentos came into sight. Rafiq studied the shoreline. This was as far as they could go with the ship; the river beyond was not deep enough to allow them to continue. They would meet their South American contact here, a man he knew only as Dean.

  Rafiq had eventually gotten used to the never-ceasing motion of the ship, but it had taken about a week. A very long week. His hand went to the scar on his right bicep, a reminder of their encounter with the Somali pirates.

  The first few days at sea found Rafiq barely able to stand, let alone take his turn guarding their cargo belowdecks. Just the thought of going back down into the hold made his stomach lurch.

  So he slept, and slept. When the gonging noise sounded in his ears, Rafiq thought it was part of his dream. The ship’s cook had given him a dose of some horrendous-tasting home remedy for seasickness, and ever since he’d been wrapped in a series of fantastic dreams, each wilder than the last.

  The gonging sound was just part of the dream, he told himself. The part where a giant monkey beat on a drum in perfect time with high, ringing peals.

  Then came the gunshots.

  Rafiq’s head snapped up. Gunshots were not part of his dream—they were real.

  He staggered to his feet, the room wavering in his vision. He gripped the wall for support and peered out the window of his cabin. Blue sky, flat ocean, bright sun, no sign of anything amiss.

  He leaned down to pick up his rifle. The gun had been sitting under an air conditioning vent and the cold metal chilled his clammy flesh. He slipped a Colt Commander into his belt at the small of his back, then eased the door open. The narrow passageway beyond was deserted, lit only by lights at knee level that shone down on the linoleum in glossy puddles.

  Rafiq struggled to remember the layout of the ship. He’d spent almost the entire time since they’d left port passed out in his bunk. Think, dammit. He decided the bridge was to the right and one deck up from his current position. He moved down the hall, rifle at the ready. His feet seemed like they belonged to someone else, and his hands shook, not from fear, but from the seasickness. He gulped in the dense air, nearly gagging on the ever-present scent of diesel that seemed to pervade everything on this stupid ship.

  He reached the ladder, and did a quick look upwards.

  Clear. He crept up the metal rungs until his eyes were level with the deck above him.

  He’d guessed correctly. The door ahead of him was labeled BRIDGE in bold letters, followed by AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY in three different languages.

  Rafiq crept to the door and pressed his ear against the faux wood. A muffled exchange of broken English was going on in loud tones a few feet away.

  “How many crew? How many?” a voice asked. High-pitched, borderline screaming, in English with a flat East African accent.

  The captain was pretending he didn’t understand, replying only in Malay, punctuated with the occasional, “No speak English, no speak!”

  The interrogator seemed to be losing his patience. There was a smacking sound and the captain let out a wail. The man in charge barked out a few orders in a language that Rafiq didn’t recognize.

  He pictured a map in his mind and where the ship would be after—how many days had he been out of it? Two? Three? The answer bloomed in his mind.

  Somalia. They were being hijacked by Somali pirates.

  A mixture of rage and adrenaline coursed through him. The dull ache in his stomach went away, the feeling of deadness in his limbs evaporated, and the fogginess in his mind was pierced by a sharp white light. He stood up straight.

  “Psst. Boss.” Jamil’s head poked up from the stairwell.

  Rafiq crept closer to him.

  “Five pirates. Three on the bridge, two searching the ship,” Jamil whispered.

  “The cargo is safe?”

  Jamil’s stoic face offered up a faint smile. “Farid’s on watch.”

  Rafiq chewed his lip. “You take out the roamers—quietly. Then give me a distraction. I’ll handle the bridge.”

  Jamil nodded and his head disappeared back down the ladder. The man was efficient, Rafiq had to give him that much. Within three minutes, Rafiq heard the rattle of muffled automatic weapons fire. It was a long blast, undisciplined. Jamil was putting on a show.

  Cries of surprise came from the bridge as Rafiq shouldered open the flimsy door. The muzzle of his AK-47 found the first pirate, a
rail-thin man with wild hair and a wisp of a goatee. One short blast and the man went down.

  The Malay captain and his two mates were on their knees in front of the large round wheel they used to steer the ship. The man who stood over them looked up at Rafiq’s entrance, his mouth open. Rafiq took two steps forward and smashed the butt of the rifle into the man’s face. He collapsed to the deck.

  Rafiq could sense the other pirate turning toward him, the man’s weapon coming to bear. The pirate was a half-second ahead of Rafiq, so he dove to the floor behind the chart table. A stream of bullets ripped through the stack of charts, and strips of paper floated in the air like confetti.

  Rafiq’s ears rang as silence settled over the bridge. The Malay captain’s hand reached across the space to grip Rafiq’s arm. His lip was mashed into a pulp and he seemed to have even fewer teeth than before. “Bastard pirates. You kill! You kill them!”

  Rafiq licked his lips and stroked the stock of his AK-47.

  “You come out now. I’ll not hurt you! We just want to leave,” the remaining pirate called.

  “Okay, I’m coming out. Unarmed.” Rafiq stood, his arms raised.

  The pirate was no more than a boy, really. His hair was cropped close to his head and he didn’t even have a beard. He held the AK-47 in an awkward manner, halfway between his shoulder and his hip, but the muzzle was aimed at Rafiq.

  “He’s my father. Let me leave with him and we’ll be gone.”

  “You speak English well, boy.”

  “I’ve been to school.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  The muzzle of the boy’s weapon wavered. “My father owes a debt to a warlord. He’s paying it off with ransom money.”

  Rafiq kept his eyes on the boy’s face, but he saw the shadows shift on the wing of the bridge. “Tough way to make a living.”

  The boy swallowed hard, and the muzzle of the rifle drooped a little more. He opened his mouth to reply, but he never got the words out—his face exploded in a mass of red that painted the bridge. When the boy’s body fell, Jamil stood behind him, grinning at Rafiq.

  “Nooo!” The scream came from behind him.

  Rafiq sensed rather than saw the flash of a knife deep in his peripheral vision on his right side. He brought his arm up to block the cut and felt the blade bite deep into the flesh of his bicep. He clamped his hand down on the hilt of the blade so the man could not get another cut. When Rafiq head-butted him, his forehead sank into the mushy wetness of an already-broken nose. The man fell back to the floor, crying.

  Rafiq pulled the knife out and clamped his hand over the cut. It was deep, but his arm still worked. His flesh would heal; his pride, not so much. He could feel Jamil’s disapproving eyes on him. Rafiq should have killed the man while he’d had the chance. Dead men don’t fight back.

  The captain stood and began kicking the pirate, his sandaled feet making wet smacking sounds against the man’s flesh. Rafiq pulled him back and motioned for Jamil to take the radio from the man. They needed to make sure they took care of the pirates’ boat. No loose ends.

  Rafiq knelt down next to the lead pirate. “Listen to me. I don’t want any more killing. Call your boat in, and I’ll set you free.”

  The man looked up at him, his eyes streaming with tears, his nose a squashed mass of red blood and snot. The eyes registered comprehension, hope. “You let me go?”

  Rafiq nodded and handed him the radio. The Malay captain screeched, but Rafiq pressed him back against the chart table. He palmed the handgun from his belt and pressed the muzzle against the captain’s stringy neck. “You will stay out of this, Captain. You’ll be paid for your cooperation.”

  The captain’s yellow eyes grew wide. He nodded and his shoulder relaxed in Rafiq’s grip.

  Rafiq turned back to the Somali and offered him a hand up. The man stood slowly. He was older than Rafiq had first thought, his head covered with thinning gray nap and his face lined with wrinkles. He handed the radio to the pirate. “Make the call.”

  The man walked out to the port wing of the bridge, stepping over the body of the first pirate Rafiq had shot. Jamil covered his movements with his rifle. Rafiq could hear the Somali talking on the radio. He waved his arm, and the radio squawked in reply. “They come,” he said, reentering the bridge.

  He limped to the far side of the room where the body of his son lay. He looked at Rafiq. “I take him with me?”

  Rafiq shrugged and motioned for the two Malay crewmen to carry the body down to the main deck. The men grumbled, but did as they were told.

  The Somali pirates’ transportation came along the port side of the Lumba. Rafiq had ordered the captain to go dead in the water, and the freighter rocked gently in the light swell. The motion didn’t bother Rafiq. His stomach rumbled with hunger.

  But first he needed to conclude this business.

  The pirate boat was a large open craft, some sort of fishing vessel, Rafiq guessed, with an immense motor attached to the back. One of the Malay deckhands threw a rope ladder over the side as the boat bumped against the hull. The outboard motor idled into a slow burble.

  The pirate leader stopped at the rope ladder. “I need some help to get my son’s body into the boat.”

  Rafiq stepped forward. “Allow me, sir.” He gripped the boy’s shirt in his hand and heaved the body over the side. It made a splash as it hit the water.

  The pirate’s eyes widened. “You said you would let me go.”

  “No, I said I would set you free.” Rafiq kicked the pirate in the chest and the man fell over the side. Rafiq turned to Jamil. “Take care of the boat. I’m hungry.”

  Jamil leaned over the railing, spraying the pirate’s boat with bullets, ripping holes in the hull. The pilot slumped to the floor of the boat, bloody water washing over his ankles. The boat began to drift away as it slowly filled with seawater, the outboard engine chortling in a low rumble. Jamil loaded the grenade launcher on his weapon.

  It took three grenades to sink the pirate boat, but it was good practice for Jamil.

  The Malay captain whistled to get Rafiq’s attention, then pointed at the furthest dock. Rafiq nodded, and lifted his hand to shade his eyes. A few dock hands lounged along the pier, dark-skinned men dressed in ratty T-shirts, shorts, and flip-flops.

  A smaller boat was docked at the extreme end of the pier. This craft looked more like a motorized yacht with a long, sleek hull and a broad fantail. Unlike the cluttered deck of the Lumba, this power yacht appeared clean and professional. Rafiq spied a man in a white shirt and shorts making his way across the deck, carrying a tray.

  The door to the cabin opened and a woman stepped out. She plucked a pair of sunglasses from a mass of dark hair and covered her eyes as she watched the freighter approach the pier.

  The men of the Lumba sprang into action around Rafiq. For days, they had spoken of nothing but women and sex. When the ship had sailed past Buenos Aires, the little Malay captain had a near riot on his hands when he told his men they were not stopping. Rafiq had quelled the issue with a ten percent bonus for the crew, but the tension was still there. These were men ready for shore leave.

  The lines went across to the pier and the ship was snugged to the dock in no time at all. The crew of the Lumba was already lined up, ready to go ashore. The Malay captain screamed down at them from the bridge, but the men ignored him.

  The brow made a loud clank as the crane dropped it against the gunwale. The two men closest to it secured it with chains, but no one rushed down the gangway. Instead, they stepped back to allow a woman to board the ship, the same woman Rafiq had seen on the deck of the pleasure craft.

  The crew looked at her with barely disguised lust in their eyes. The one closest to her sniffed the air as she walked by and licked his lips. If she noticed his behavior, she didn’t show it.

  She was dressed in faded blue jeans that hugged her slim hips and disappeared into a pair of worn cowboy boots. A white muslin blouse, open at the neck, was tucked loosely i
nto her jeans, and Rafiq caught a glimpse of white lace in the plunging neckline. He felt a tug in his groin. Maybe the crewmen weren’t the only ones in need of some release.

  The woman picked her way across the deck with easy movements, aware the eyes of all the men were on her. It took Rafiq a second to realize she was approaching him.

  She stopped in front of Rafiq, a ghost of a smile on her lips. She pushed her sunglasses up into her dark hair. Her smoky gray eyes crinkled at the corners as her lips widened into a smile.

  “You must be Rafiq.” Her voice was low and husky, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. She put out her hand.

  “I’m Dean.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Green Zone, Baghdad, Iraq

  03 July 2009 – 0730 local

  Liz watched the UH-60 Black Hawk settle to the ground in a cloud of dust. She pulled her shirt away from her sweaty back. Even this early in the morning, the Baghdad heat was already stifling. Between the dust and the heat, she probably looked a mess—but she was only stopping in the Green Zone for a day, and she had to see him.

  The door of the helo rolled open and a group of SEALs jumped to the ground. They guided out three prisoners, hooded with their hands zip-tied behind their backs. Liz squinted at the SEAL team. They all looked the same, like dusty, well-armed cavemen with scraggly beards and dark sunglasses. The column moved in her direction.

  “Alright, gentlemen, let’s get our guests to their new accommodations,” called the lead man. Liz’s heart skipped a beat. That was Brendan’s voice.

  All of a sudden surprising him didn’t seem like a good idea. They hadn’t talked in what, six years? And her idea of a reunion was to show up in a war zone looking like something the cat dragged in. Her hand went to her hair, brushing off the fine layer of dust she knew was all over her head and tucking the loose strands behind her ear.