by Peter Nealen
“That’s pretty steep,” Hancock said. “Two hundred fifty thousand.”
“This is a negotiation, not a souk bargaining party,” Dmitri said, his voice suddenly cold. “Do not insult me. Four hundred thousand, or you can try to make that seventy-five nautical miles in rubber dinghies.”
Which would be a long shot, at best, Hancock knew. The boats that Brannigan had procured had limited legs, even more so since they had only managed to get one fuel bladder for each boat. Trying to cross from Dubai to Khadarkh that way was probably not going to work.
Hancock made a show of considering it, but Brannigan had already given him the go-ahead to procure transportation from the Russians. He just didn’t want to give Dmitri the satisfaction of knowing that.
“Four hundred thousand it is, then,” he said. He reached out a hand, and the Russian shook it firmly.
“Good,” Dmitri said. “We will have your weapons and equipment aboard the dhow. Meet me at the marina on the tip of Al Mamzar, this time tomorrow night. We will board a yacht and sail out to the dhow; it is rather too old and run-down for most places around Dubai itself, at least if you want to avoid being spotted by the Syndicate again. They have people all over the main docks, and they are going to be hungry for blood for some time, after you killed Al Fulani.”
“Al Mamzar,” Hancock repeated. “Looking forward to it.”
“As am I, my friend.” Dmitri grinned, then pointed out the window. “Here is your stop. Tomorrow night. Be sure to bring the money.”
Hancock got out, and the Hummer rolled away down the street. He watched it retreat with narrowed eyes, then turned and started walking in the opposite direction. They had made a large loop, and he was now only about four blocks from the Royal Arms. He stepped into a shadowed side street, and a few moments later, Flanagan and Childress pulled up in the Land Rover.
“We’re going to have to ditch this vehicle pretty soon,” Flanagan commented, as Hancock got in and pulled the door shut. They had barely stopped at all. “Somebody’s going to notice that it looks an awful lot like one of Al Fulani’s vehicles.”
“There are a ton of Land Rovers around this city,” Hancock replied. “And we already switched the license plates.” That had been an interesting bit of skullduggery, as they’d had to slip out to Kizad in the middle of the night after the debacle in the warehouse, and swap plates with a couple of hopefully still-unknowing Kia van owners.
“Still,” Flanagan said. “Good fieldcraft, and all that.”
“Did we get a deal?” Childress asked.
“We got a deal,” Hancock replied. “We’ll just have to be even more prepared for a double-cross this time.”
***
By the time they pulled up to the marina the next night, both Land Rovers had been carefully wiped down for prints, and every man was wearing black nitrile gloves, pulled from spares that Doc Villareal had in his massive trauma kit. He had the big pack stuffed inside a rolling suitcase. He could draw the pack out once they were away from prying eyes.
The AKS-74Us were loaded and ready in backpacks, pistols were similarly concealed around the men’s persons. Brannigan had the AKMS broken down in his own pack, which was, fortunately, just big enough to contain it. They had little enough ammo for any of the weapons, but hopefully it would be enough, if things went sideways.
If the entire deal was an ambush, they were probably dead. There would be no way to get the rifles out and into action fast enough on the pier. They’d make the Russians pay in blood, but they would still probably all go down before it was over.
Dmitri was waiting on the quay, next to a yacht that was probably extremely expensive, but was still somehow only vaguely middle-of-the-road in Dubai. It wouldn’t attract much attention, either from being too ostentatious or too poor.
Hancock led the way, since he’d been Dmitri’s point of contact. Brannigan and Curtis hovered just behind him, hands never far from the FiveSeven pistols in their waistbands. But Dmitri only shook Hancock’s hand with a grin, waved to the rest of them, and led the way onto the yacht.
The rest of the mercenaries followed cautiously, checking their corners as they went through hatchways and carefully watching the Russian crew of three.
“Is this all?” Dmitri asked, a jocular note in his voice. “I thought you wanted enough for fifty men.”
“We do,” Hancock said. “Don’t worry about it. You’re still getting paid.”
Dmitri grinned again. “Yes, about that…”
Santelli swung the big duffel down off his shoulder and unzipped it. He pulled back the flap to show the tops of stacks of pink, blue, and tan 1000-dirham notes. Dmitri nodded again, apparently pleased, and barked an order at the crew in Russian. Moments later, the engine purred to life, and they were pulling away from the quay.
The yacht motored out into the channel, and headed out past Al Mamzar Park, which was a low, dark line of trees on the horizon, pricked by the glowing bulbs of the path lights in the night. In moments, they were out past the mouth of the channel and heading out into the Gulf.
No one talked. The mercenaries had nothing to say that they wanted the Russians to hear. The Russians weren’t being chatty, either. Even Dmitri seemed to have suddenly become all business.
Slowly, the lights of Dubai receded behind them, though they still formed a brilliant splash against the horizon to the southeast. Ahead lay only the darkness of the ocean and the night.
Then a light flickered to life in the darkness, a few hundred meters in front of the yacht. The radio crackled with a voice speaking Russian, and Dmitri answered. A minute later, they were pulling alongside the most ancient, rattletrap-looking dhow Brannigan had ever seen. And he’d spent some time in the Middle East.
It was a big one, with a large cabin at the rear. Paint was peeling off the hull, and even the dim light from the yacht, it was hard to tell where paint ended and rust began. Bumpers were put out as the yacht pulled up alongside the dhow, and a ladder was lowered. The ladder, at least, seemed to be in decent repair. The Russians just wanted the dhow to look like it was about to fall apart.
“We have dinghies,” Dmitri said, as they climbed up over the dhow’s gunwale. “Since our means of getting out here precluded loading your own.”
But Brannigan shook his head. “After your meeting with Roger, here, we had them delivered to the Khalid Port, Sharjah,” he said. “If we can sail up there, we can pick them up and load them. Will that be a problem?”
Dmitri shrugged. “As you said, we are still being paid. Smart thinking, though. The Suleiman gangsters will be looking for you on shore, not coming in from the Gulf.” He chuckled. “And this dhow will not stand out so much in Sharjah.”
He went up to the pilot house to give orders, and then another Russian, a sallow, beak-nosed man in a tracksuit, beckoned them to follow him. Hands still hovering close to pistols, they complied.
He led the way down a rickety ladder into the hold. The hold stank of open bilges, and it was pitch-black until the Russian flicked on a fluorescent lantern. Wordlessly, he pointed to the crates and equipment cases strapped down in the center of the hold.
With Curtis and Aziz hanging back to watch the Russian, Brannigan led the way and started to open the first crate.
True to Dmitri’s word, everything that Hancock had asked for was there. Fifty AK-12s, the newest Russian service rifle, were packed in two crates, with seven hundred fifty magazines in another. There were even fifty PKU-2 red dot sights, with batteries for same. The requested pistols turned out to be Bulgarian Makarovs, and about a third of the magazines were badly rusted. Two PKP machineguns were stuffed in another crate. Still more crates held ammunition and explosives. The NVGs weren’t the latest, contrary to Hancock’s specifications; the PNV-57Es had been developed in the ‘80s, but they would do for what the mercs needed them for. Hopefully. Other cases held the chest rigs and combat vests.
Flanagan was pulling some of the weapons out, grimacing slightly as he handled
the Russian rifles. Flanagan was something of a patriot when it came to firearms; he’d always preferred American firepower to “Communist, stamped-metal crap.”
“Looks like we’re in business, boys,” Brannigan said, hefting one of the AK-12s and checking it over, keeping one eye on the Russian, who was still standing back by the ladderwell. It certainly seemed like Dmitri and his brodyagi had come through, but that didn’t mean they were going to start letting their guard down.
The mercenaries would be “in the red” until after the hostages were rescued, and they were back Stateside.
***
Getting to the port and loading the rubber boats was another production, and all of the mercenaries were just as tense as before. On the pretense of being ready for a Suleiman Syndicate ambush, all of them had broken out and loaded AK-12s, though they hadn’t had a chance to zero, or even test fire them yet. That would have to happen en route to their insert point, off the coast of Khadarkh.
Once Brannigan made contact with the Arab seller who was making delivery, and ensured both that the goods were there and that the last of the payment was handed over, loading became simply a matter of hard work and some time. They threw their all into it, getting the boats loaded and stowed in near-record time. All of them were acutely conscious of just how little darkness they had left, and none of them wanted to spend an extra day and night with the Russians aboard the dhow, though as midnight came and went, Brannigan was starting to think they might have to. Making landfall in daylight was not going to be a good idea.
With the boats loaded, they put Dubai behind them once again, and motored out into the Gulf.
***
Test firing and zeroing took longer than anyone would have liked. The Russian optics weren’t quite as easy to get used to as their American equivalents, and not all of them worked. When Hancock pointed this out to Dmitri, the Russian only shrugged and grinned.
“That is why you asked for fifty, nyet?” he said. “If you had fifty men, then you might have more reason to complain.”
Flanagan had shot the man a glower, that seemed to have no effect on the gangster. He had his money.
Finally, the last of the red dots were zeroed, the best-working NVGs had been selected, the PKPs had been checked and tested, magazines were loaded, and gear was packed and ready to go. Unfortunately, the sun was starting to rise by then.
“We’re going to need to go to ground for the day,” Brannigan said, hating to say it.
“That greedy Russian bastard is going to want more money,” Hancock pointed out.
“I’m sure he will,” Brannigan answered grimly. “I’m sure he’ll also realize that at this point, our mission is more important than maintaining good relations with the Russian mob.” He glanced up at where Dmitri was standing in the pilot house. “If we have to kill all of them and take the dhow, then we can, and we will.”
***
There turned out to be no need to take the dhow by force. Dmitri didn’t even argue that hard. They dropped anchor off the coast of Sir Bu Nair and prepared to wait out the day.
CHAPTER 8
The lights of Khadarkh City cast a faint glow against the sky on the other side of the looming, black escarpment that formed the southern tip of the island. Brannigan was briefly surprised that they were still on, given everything that had happened on the island, but then decided that it was probably in the Iranians’ best interest not to stir up the populace unnecessarily. From Chavez’ intel reports, the loyalists were not happy that their King was in exile in Saudi Arabia while the Iranians held the island by force of arms. Turning off the power would only exacerbate the unrest.
He turned his attention back to the task at hand. Launching the boats was proving more difficult than anticipated. While launching from a larger dhow like the Russians’ was certainly doable—Somali pirates did it all the time—with the outboard motors and the fuel bladders it became somewhat more difficult. And the dhow didn’t have a crane that could swing the boats out over the side and lower them to the water, either.
The course of action they had decided on while they’d waited and baked in the sun off the coast of Sir Bu Nair was kind of messy, but it was the best they could come up with, given the resources at hand.
“One, two, three!” With a shove, Curtis and Santelli sent the rubber boat sliding over the gunwale. Brannigan, already in his combat vest, heavy with loaded mags, grenades, and med kit, his AK-12 slung across his chest, watched the boat hit the water bow-first. Fortunately, it was at such an angle that it slid down onto its keel instead of flipping over. That would have meant more work to get it righted, though since the commercial dinghy was considerably lighter than the Zodiac Combat Rubber Raiding Craft that most of them had trained on, many moons ago, that wouldn’t have been as difficult as it could be.
With the boat in the water, both Curtis and Santelli climbed over the gunwale and hung on for a moment, looking down at the water to make sure they weren’t about to hit the boat itself. Santelli let go first, dropping out of sight. Curtis hung on for a second longer, grimacing, then vanished. A moment later there was a splash, then the two men were clambering aboard the dark green boat.
Brannigan could hear Curtis complaining. “Why the hell did I let myself get talked into a fuckin’ amphibious operation?” he was muttering. “I hate the fuckin’ ocean. Fuckin’ sharks and shit.”
Santelli hissed at him to shut up, and then they were paddling the boat closer to the side of the dhow, while Brannigan and Villareal hoisted the outboard motor up to the gunwale.
This wasn’t going to be easy. Flanagan and Hancock were both holding onto the rope that they’d gotten from the Russians and tied around the motor, and Brannigan and Villareal were going to lower the outboard slowly, but it was still likely to swing, and possibly clang against the side of the ship. The noise wouldn’t necessarily be catastrophic, as far out in the Gulf as they were. They were still fifteen nautical miles from shore, and hadn’t seen any sign of Iranian patrol boats. But Brannigan wasn’t about to let himself start thinking that that meant there weren’t any. Quiet would be the rule from there on out.
Slowly, a few inches at a time, they lowered the motor over the side. Flanagan and Hancock moved toward the side, inch by inch, lowering the motor by the rope. The rope creaked, and a faint gonging sound rang through the hull as the motor brushed the side. But finally, the rope went slack, and Santelli stage-whispered up that they had it.
With one boat in the water, the second boat went next. Brannigan didn’t want to risk reducing the number of hands on deck any more than necessary before all of their gear was in the water. The Russians hadn’t made any hostile moves or even looked as if they were plotting any more than normal, but it didn’t pay to take any of that for granted. So he wanted to keep Aziz and Childress on security until both boats were in the water, with motors and fuel bladders, and they were ready to go.
Santelli and Curtis had time to get their boat out of the way while Brannigan, Villareal, Flanagan, and Hancock manhandled the second boat to the side. With four of them working at it, it went over easily. Unfortunately, it went over at a steep enough angle that it struck the water bow-first, teetered for a moment, then dropped, hitting the water with a slap, its keel pointed toward the sky.
“Hey, Joe,” Curtis hissed up from the first boat, “it’s upside-down!”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Flanagan replied through clenched teeth. “Shut up before you bring the whole Iranian Navy down on our heads.”
“Get a line on that boat,” Brannigan instructed. “Don’t let it float away. We’ll get the rest of the gear down, then we’ll worry about righting it.”
Santelli steered the first boat over, and Curtis, not without a certain amount of grumbling, got a line lashed to the bow tie-down. Then the men still up on the dhow started manhandling the next boat over the side.
Finally, after a lot of grunting, cursing, and struggling, there were four boats in the water, loosely conn
ected into a sort of pontoon raft, with four outboards, fuel bladders, and fuel lines sitting in them. One boat had to hold two sets, since the second one was still capsized. Only then did Brannigan and the rest begin to descend the ladder to get in the boats.
Brannigan himself turned to Dmitri, who was watching from the bow. “Can we trust you to be back here for pickup?” he asked bluntly.
“Of course, my friend,” the Russian replied, sounding wounded. “We accepted your money. The deal was made. We will come back here at the same time for the next three nights.” Even Brannigan had to admit that if they didn’t make it back out in three nights, they probably weren’t going to make it at all.
“Glad to hear it,” Brannigan said, in a tone of voice that said, louder than words, that he’d believe it when he saw it. He was far too old to believe in honor among thieves, and the Russians were definitely thieves, among other things.
Hell, if there had been honor among thieves, the Russians probably would never have made the deal in the first place.
He clambered down the ladder, swinging off and into the nearest boat, which Santelli was holding somewhat steady with a paddle. He was the last one off the dhow, so Santelli reached out with the paddle and shoved the boats away from the side. Dmitri waved from the gunwale above them, and then the dhow’s engines started to rumble more deeply, white water beginning to gather at the bow as she surged away. The Russians weren’t going to stick around until it was time for pickup.
As the dark shape of the dhow dwindled into the night, the mercenaries set about getting the second boat righted. That meant Villareal clambered over to get on top of the upturned keel, while Childress lowered himself into the water and grabbed ahold of the handles on the gunwales.
Villareal took hold of the righting line that ran down the length of the keel, stood up, and leaned backward. The boat creaked and bent, then flipped back over handily, Villareal going in the drink while Childress sprawled across the top of the gunwales. The lanky hillbilly hurried to get the paddles out and untie the bow line, lest the twisted rope cause more problems. Villareal clambered back aboard, hauling himself and his gear over the gunwale, against the pull of the salt water now weighing down his clothes and boots.