by Cliff Happy
Martin was aware of Masrata’s money problems and had used this knowledge to make one final score from the Libyan general before the weapons store that had been Libya for so many years was potentially closed with the arrival of a new government. The fact that Masrata was broke wasn’t a surprise. He had unusual appetites, and Martin had helped the general acquire his particular needs over the years as part of their mutually beneficial arrangement.
“Splendid,” Martin announced appreciatively. “What about the gripstocks and infrared receivers?”
Masrata led him to another pallet he’d brought from one of the base’s armories. The general pulled a tarp off the pallet to reveal two dozen launch systems. He then pointed at two large suitcase-like boxes. “The test equipment is in there.”
“Always a man of your word,” Martin said with delight. “Have your men place them in my truck.” He returned to the Toyota, clapping his hands to get the attention of the four Libyan drivers he’d brought along. They were poor beggars, all of them desperate to feed their families, and more than willing to do whatever Martin asked, considering the money he was paying them. “Let’s go!” he barked in Arabic.
The men scrambled from the back of the truck and removed the rolled-up fabric cover in the bed of the truck. Made from dozens of hastily sewn together white linen bed sheets, the complete assemblage was large enough to cover the entire bed of the tractor trailer. A large red—freshly painted—cross had been added to the top of the covering to hopefully fool any NATO aircraft overhead. Martin reached into the cab of the Toyota, removed his briefcase and set it up on the hood as Masrata stood beside him. Dmitri stayed in the shadows, watching everything and protecting Martin’s back, as always.
In the briefcase was a laptop as well as an Explorer 700 portable satellite receiver to provide him broadband Internet service anywhere. Martin looked over at Masrata, noticing the fifty-something year-old Libyan sweating profusely. He was still dressed in the uniform of a general, which Martin thought was a bit strange. Then again, Masrata had always liked his flashy uniforms. The general’s vanity was just another vice Martin had been able to exploit over the years.
Once on-line, it took Martin a few seconds to log into one of his business accounts and set up the transaction. All that was needed was an account to send it to. He turned to Masrata. He didn’t particularly like the general, but he felt he understood him. The general was a businessman. His entire government had been corrupt—like most governments Martin dealt with—and the general had seen that his only path to success was by cutting out his own little piece of the pie. It made Masrata predictable, but also trustworthy as far as Martin was concerned. As long as Martin fulfilled his end of every deal, Masrata had been dependable. A very satisfactory business arrangement.
Too bad it was about to end.
“Okay, General, just type in where you want the money to go, hit the enter key, and it’s all yours.”
Masrata wiped his sweaty hands on his uniform trousers. Martin thought he looked a bit more nervous than usual, but considering Libya was collapsing around him, he thought it not odd that Masrata appeared a bit desperate. The general typed in the bank routing and account numbers, then hit enter. As the computer processed the request, he looked at Martin.
“I was afraid you would kill me,” he confided.
Martin understood the feeling. Betrayal and treachery were part and parcel of the business he’d chosen years earlier after leaving his former life as a trader at the New York Stock Exchange. Wall Street had been rife with deceit, and the lessons he’d learned there trading in stocks and bonds had transferred nicely to his current business. But not all lessons had come from Wall Street. “Cheating customers is hardly a good strategy for expanding one’s business,” Martin confided, remembering a Yale Business School professor’s advice.
Martin closed up the satellite link, placed it in the briefcase, returned it to the cab of the small truck, and then turned to face the three soldiers standing nervously outside the hangar.
“What are your plans for getting out of here?” Martin asked curiously, not really caring. With a new regime coming to power and Masrata’s long history of brutal treatment of the Libyan people, he would be lucky to escape Libya alive. He’d killed thousands of people within the last few months trying to suppress the rebellion, and God only knew how many people he’d murdered over the decades.
“That is hardly your affair, my friend.”
“True enough,” Martin responded and checked his watch. There was a brief window where there were no satellites overhead. Just two hours, and by the next pass he wanted to be long gone. Of course, he reminded himself as he checked the skies around them, there were spy drones that could already be orbiting his position, ready to unleash a Hellfire missile into the bunker killing all of them.
Such were the risks of business.
The white sheets and the red cross weren’t the best camouflage, but they would have to suffice. Martin motioned toward his four men. They were nervous. Untrusting. They were smart. He gestured for them to get into the trucks. Two climbed into the cab of the rig and fired it up while the other two tentatively got into the back of the Toyota. Martin then turned his attention to the three Libyan soldiers standing just inside the shade created by the ammunition bunker.
He didn’t care for senseless violence. Murder was a dirty business that often had unforeseen repercussions, so he avoided it when possible. But the three Libyan soldiers had no loyalty to Masrata. They were simple conscripts who were literally trembling with fear. NATO teams were already in the country securing key weapons facilities, and it had been through a combination of luck, his connection with Masrata, and a close friend in Washington that had allowed Martin to plan this final score in Libya before folding up his tents and moving on. Those NATO teams would be arriving here soon, and these men would talk. Martin allowed an unhappy sigh to escape his lips. “Are those three soldiers important to you?”
Masrata shook his head. “I found them loitering on the base. They are deserters who ran from their units when the fighting started.” Masrata said this last with disgust, as if the three young men trying to save their skins were somehow less noble than what Masrata was doing. “I told them they were traitors and unless they did what I told them, I would have them shot.”
Martin turned his head toward Dmitri. A barely perceptible nod. Hardly a gesture at all.
“Can I give you a lift anywhere, General?” he asked as he turned his back on the three unfortunate soldiers.
The staccato burst from the FN SCAR caused Masrata to jump and turn abruptly as Dmitri opened fire, killing the three hapless deserters with a short burst. The big Lithuanian then stepped closer and delivered a coup de grace to each of the men, ensuring they were dead.
Masrata removed a package of cigarettes, his hands trembling. Martin understood. The general feared he’d outlived his own usefulness. Which he probably had, but Martin knew the general would never talk; and besides, the odds of his escaping Libya were remote.
Andrew raised a lighter, steadied his longtime supplier’s shaky hand, and lit the cigarette. “Get in.”
Masrata climbed into the passenger seat while Dmitri got into the bed of the truck. Once more, Martin drove, returning the general to the shade of the tin guard shack outside the ammunition dump. Martin pulled up to the small building and looked at Masrata. The general hesitated, afraid he would be murdered like the others.
“General, if I was going to kill you, I’d have done it before I paid you five hundred thousand dollars,” Andrew pointed out.
Masrata nodded and offered a sweaty hand. Martin shook it. “Best of luck to you, Amadou,” he said in goodbye, using the general’s first name.
“Thank you.”
Dmitri slipped into the cab beside Martin, the assault rifle between his legs. The general withdrew to the guard shack and Martin pulled away.
Dmitri turned up the air conditioner and then glanced back to make certain the t
ractor-trailer rig was following them. He then turned his attention to the road ahead. They drove in silence for several minutes, Dmitri watching the skies for any hint of NATO aircraft and the road ahead for the telltale signs of an ambush. Libya was in chaos, like many of the places Martin travelled to.
After they’d cleared the base, Dmitri broke the silence. “You should have killed him, Martin,” Dmitri said in heavily-Lithuanian-accented English.
Dmitri was one of the few people in the business who knew Martin’s real name. It was necessary, since he went nowhere without the Lithuanian giant. Martin shook his head, “It’s bad for business. The last thing we need is for our other friends to believe we aren’t to be trusted.”
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Copyright: © 2013 by Cliff Happy
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Edition: Second Edition, July 1, 2013
Cover Design: Angela Oltman @ angieocreations.com
Ebook Formatting: Pilcrowphile Productions
Contents
Seawolf: Mask of Command
Books by Cliff Happy
Connect with the Author
Copyright and Credits