The Ethan Galaal Series: Books 1 - 3

by Isaac Hooke

  Wilkes nodded furiously. "You do that, Copperhead." He glanced at Bretta. "And Maelstrom, live up to your name."

  "I always do," she said with a feral grin.

  22

  Unknown Location

  AL SIFR MOORED his yacht at a private marina, between cruisers operated by rental companies and sailboats belonging to fishermen. There were no questions asked by the harbor personnel. They were paid not to ask questions.

  The temperature was brisk compared to what he was used to, but manageable—he had endured far worse. He boarded the waiting Hilux AT44. The driver drove the off-road vehicle through the city, and then onto the highway infrastructure that facilitated their journey. Two other big-wheeled Hiluxes followed behind, each vehicle giving the one ahead a berth of at least a kilometer. Though no Predator drones roamed the skies of that inconsequential country, old habits died hard.

  After one hundred kilometers the driver steered off the road and began the long trek over the rough terrain, navigating over dried lava fields and fording the streams of glacial outwash plains. A route of sorts had formed, thanks to the back and forth travel of the delivery trucks Al Sifr's little enterprise required—Iveco Trakker Evolutions were not light vehicles. Still, some segments were particularly bumpy, and he was jolted about. Al Sifr didn't mind. He considered it a test of fortitude.

  After some time, the off-road vehicle passed a familiar mountain range covered in black ash. Al Sifr gazed at the north-south trending ridge longingly. If he was younger, he would have been tempted to seek the highest peak in that range and climb it.

  Before he had gone to Afghanistan in the 80s he had made a name for himself as a climber in Saudi Arabia. He conquered nearly all the sub-three thousand meter mountains worth climbing throughout Saudi Arabia and nearby Jordan, and then visited other countries, tackling progressively higher mountains, eventually attempting the eight-thousanders. His first—and last—was Nanga Parbat, Pakistan's brutal 8,126-meter mountain, the ninth highest in the world, with an immense peak that rose far above the surrounding terrain. It had been nicknamed the killer mountain because so many who attempted it died. Like K2, it has never been summited in winter.

  The core of Nanga Parbat was a long, trending ridge of ice and rock. He and his climbing partner Omar had chosen the Kinshofer route along that ridge, which surmounted a buttress alongside the left portion of the Diamir Face to avoid the massive hanging glaciers and the potential avalanches those could bring.

  To acclimatize, he and Omar spent weeks climbing between base camp and camps one, two and three. The repeated journeys to higher altitudes, with rests at lower heights, forced their bodies to produce the extra red blood cells they would need to survive the low oxygen environment of the peak.

  After a month, he and Omar attempted the summit. After several days of climbing, they reached the peak dangerously late, at seven p.m.

  Ninety percent of climbing accidents happen on the descent, they say. It was true. On the way back to camp three, the weather took a turn for the worse. Running low on oxygen, he and Omar decided to press on. With the windchill, the temperature had plummeted to minus sixty. There was a chance they could bivouac a shelter out of the snow, but Al Sifr feared if they went to sleep at that altitude without bottled oxygen, when they awakened all of their energy would be sapped and they'd have no strength to continue. If they woke at all.

  They got lost in the near whiteout conditions. Omar was leading. Al Sifr could barely discern the outline of his body in the fading light and thick snowflakes.

  Without warning, the slack on the rope that connected him to Omar grew taut and Al Sifr was nearly pulled from the mountain. One of Al Sifr's crampons broke away as the ice just to his left separated from the rock. Apparently he and his partner had wandered into the center of the Diamir Face with its precariously clinging glaciers. The snow and ice had literally collapsed underneath his climbing partner, and had nearly swept away Al Sifr, too.

  Though he could not see Omar, Al Sifr knew he was still there because of the pull on the rope. It was an inexorable, insufferable weight, constantly tugging downward, threatening to drag him to his death. He shouted to Omar, but no response came. Even if Omar was still conscious, he wouldn't have heard Al Sifr in that howling wind. Al Sifr tried reeling in the rope, and managed to raise it a few feet before his strength gave out. Omar was like a deadweight, doing nothing to aid the ascent. Al Sifr tried again. And again.

  After an hour of that, feeling himself freezing to death, his strength slowly ebbing away, Al Sifr made the hard choice of cutting the rope. Free of the deadweight of his climbing partner, he ascended several meters, moving away from the center of the Diamir Face and back toward the upper ridge. Since he was still disoriented, he decided to risk digging a bivouac for himself in the snow, as it was foolhardy to continue in that blizzard.

  He woke up to find himself buried. Disoriented and terrified, he dug himself out of the bivouac and then lay there for several moments. The storm was gone, replaced by one of those pristine, calm mornings that were so beautiful in the Himalayas. But Al Sifr hardly noticed it. Because of the lack of oxygen, his mind was barely functional, and it took him several moments to realize where he was: clinging to life in the death zone of the brutal Nanga Parbat mountain.

  Finally he forced himself to rise. Panting and gasping, feeling like he was choking the whole way, he made his way down the left side of the Diamir Face, his descent slowed by the crampon he'd lost. By the time he made it back to camp three, he was nearly delirious, having no feeling in his lower extremities. He could still walk, so other climbers helped him back to base camp over the next several days. That was the key. If he hadn't stayed on his feet, the others would have left him. At that height, a man only had enough strength to save himself. Each night before he went to sleep, the climbers boiled pots of hot water to heat his extremities, however he was in such bad shape that none of them really believed he would pull through. They often referred to him as the "dead man" when they thought he couldn't hear.

  But Al Sifr survived the ordeal of course, and got lucky: he lost only a few toes to frostbite. The body of his climbing partner was never recovered.

  That climb was the first time Al Sifr had killed a man, and while perhaps the death was justified, it was also the hardest. The memory of that day haunted him. He had lost his innocence on that slope. For the first time, he had understood that life was precious, that he had a limited time on this Earth. He had thought himself invincible, climbing mountains without consequence. He realized then how mortal he really was. He wanted to make a difference with whatever years were left to him. Change things, for the better.

  The loss of his partner, and the closeness to Allah he felt in the days after, together were the spark that set Al Sifr on the path he had followed to this day. That doomed expedition was what caused Al Sifr to make his hegira to Afghanistan in the first place, setting in motion the long series of events that would lead him to the present moment. The network of people and contacts he would make, the arms dealers, the fighters, the smugglers, the brothers, he would have met none of them if Omar hadn't died that day.

  His climbing skills served him well during his tenure in Afghanistan, as the resistance fighters often hid in the White Mountains near the Khyber Pass. Al Sifr had gained renown among the men for his abilities, and soon he was teaching them all how to best navigate the steeper rock faces. That was how he met Young Falcon. The Iranian had come to him with his ragtag group and asked if Al Sifr could impart some mountaineering tips. Al Sifr showed them how to build primitive crampons from old boots and nails. He taught them how to use woodcutter's axes as ice-axes. He taught them how to create a piton from a bayonet and two grenade rings. He had never felt more alive than in those days, climbing mountains and fighting for a cause bigger than himself. Never. If there was a paradise, and he went to it, he would ask Allah only that he be allowed to relive that time again and again for all eternity.

  He blinked, tu
rning his gaze away from the towering range. That past was far behind him.

  His gaze involuntarily shifted to the stump of his left hand.

  I'll never climb again.

  With two armed guards closely at his heel, Al Sifr toured the main hangar upon arrival at the base. The place was a veritable swarm of activity. Packing personnel unloading the latest payload shipment. Maintenance crew topping up the fuel. Mechanical engineers double-checking the moving parts. Electrical engineers confirming the wiring. Aeronautics engineers running through their simulations again and again.

  He smiled. All of these men were working for him. Him. In his youth he had dreamed of employing men so. He would visit the shopping districts of Riyadh and think: "Someday I will own buildings like this, and all the shopkeepers will greet me when I walk by. Everyone will look at me with envy and respect." Though he had finally achieved a similar dream, he no longer cared about such petty recognition among men. He had far greater aspirations in mind at that point.

  He wondered vaguely if any of these men were undercover agents. He had vetted all of his employees personally, and had even recruited several of them on his own. It was possible, he supposed, though unlikely. If some government agency had discovered the existence of his compound, it would have been raided long ago. After all the precautions he had taken, the complex web of cells and shell companies spread across the world, he wasn't surprised that no governments, not even the local one, had found him. The world had Al Sifr's face and that was it. His hunters didn't even know his real name.

  Still, the message he had received the night before was troubling. One of his vineyards in France had fallen. That was another thing about the intricate funding network he had established: it also served as an early warning layer if things turned sour. The receipt of that message was precisely why he had moved up the launch date. He was waiting now mostly on the pilot.

  Young Falcon was due to arrive later that day. Al Sifr was tempted to ship him out again, if only to keep the pilot in line, but he thought better of it. He knew the pilot would not fail him. The brother of Young Falcon's murdered daughter-in-law wanted vengeance as badly as the rest of them.

  Al Sifr returned to the hangar door and went out onto the rocky area that served as the launch pad. A weather balloon had been placed in the center, secured by ropes.

  Three workman cut the cords at the same time and the weather balloon left the ground. Al Sifr smiled as it drifted into the sky. That balloon, and those launched before it, were key. The data they gathered would mark the end of American dominance in the world and the rise of the Caliphate.

  Over the past ten years terrorist groups had seized territory in different parts of the Middle East: Iraq, Syria, Libya, and so forth. Al Sifr had funded a few of those groups, including the latest upstart, the so-called Islamic State of Iraq and Shaam. But they were all bit players. None of them had the vision Al Sifr had, nor the resources and wherewithal to follow-through. Sham, indeed.

  He would lead the faithful to the true Caliphate. Once the Muslims of the world saw what he had done, they would flock to him in droves. He would be venerated. The true Caliphate would emerge to fill the vacuum left by the dying superpowers, with him at its head.

  Then again, maybe the leaders of the surviving countries would have him assassinated. Either way, it didn't matter.

  He thought of his son, lying bloodied and mangled in his arms.

  Revenge, sweet revenge, would be his.

  23

  Hong Kong

  THROUGH THE WINDOW, Ethan watched the buildings of Hong Kong International pass by as the charter jet taxied to its assigned stall at the HK Business Aviation FBO. After several minutes an official with the Hong Kong Customs and Excise Department, or C&ED, came aboard and stamped their passports.

  "Welcome to Hong Kong, Mr. and Mrs. Wellington," the official said.

  "Thank you, good chap," Ethan said.

  He and Bretta were playing rich New Zealanders. Ethan didn't like using an alias that matched the capital of New Zealand—it seemed too obviously fake to him—but Sam assured him no one in China would know the difference. It also bothered him that his alias wasn't more closely aligned to his exotic look. If he were playing a Greek national or something, it would have made more sense, but a New Zealander?

  He'd just have to work with it.

  "Good chap?" Bretta said when the customs inspector left. "New Zealanders don't say good chap."

  "Sure they do," Ethan said.

  "No New Zealanders I know."

  "Well maybe you should visit the country sometime," Ethan taunted.

  "Sure." Bretta shoved her way past him to the jet's door.

  Ethan debarked the Gulfstream, taking the airstairs to the tarmac. He noticed immediately that the air was thick with the vague stench of exhaust. Hong Kong was supposed to mean "Fragrant Harbor" in Cantonese. It wasn't so fragrant that night.

  A female Business Aviation employee dressed in a short red skirt and white blouse met them on the tarmac and escorted them inside the FBO terminal. While Ethan availed himself of the cheese and apple slice snacks, a male employee delivered their extensive luggage on a baggage cart. In those bags were brand-name clothes, perfumes, and other items the C&ED would expect a rich couple to carry—officials from said department had thoroughly searched the luggage, of course.

  Ethan allowed the employee to steer the baggage cart toward the waiting limousine. The unctuously smiling chauffeur loaded their bags after Ethan and Bretta piled inside.

  When he was finished, the chauffeur drove out of the airport and headed toward the hotel Sam had booked in Kowloon district, near the waterfront.

  Ethan peered through the rear window but didn't spot any obvious tails. Because Hong Kong was a former British colony, all the vehicles drove on the lefthand side of the road. The rest of China drove on the right.

  He stifled a yawn. He had slept on the jet, of course, but crossing timezones was always a little tiring. Through the tinted glass, he watched the colorful streets go past. Bright LED lights lined the cement walls of the roadways; each section was a different color, giving the streets a festive feel.

  Hong Kong was considered a "world city." A major global trade hub and financial center, it had the highest number of multimillionaires living in one place on the planet, and ranked fifth in the world for the number of millionaires per capita. That would explain the prevalence of luxury sedans on the roadways, as well as the occasional exotic thrown into the mix. He tried hard not to drool when a pair of red Lamborghini Huracans raced past.

  Of course, all that wealth attracted a lot of organized crime. Almost fifty transnational criminal groups were based in Hong Kong alone, comprising hundreds of thousand of members worldwide. Through ethnic Chinese diaspora, the Triads extended throughout the Chinese mainland, along with North and Central America, Thailand, and Australia. The Sun Yee On Triad, owners of the Lán Quān nightclub, was one of the biggest crime groups in China, with a member count upwards of fifty-five thousand. They made their money from unlicensed gambling, the heroin and opium trade, clandestine immigration, arms smuggling, diamond smuggling, counterfeiting, prostitution, and extortion.

  The multicolored lights that outlined the buildings across the harbor started flashing, signifying the start of the nightly "Symphony of Lights" light show. Proclaimed by Guinness World Records as the largest—and most wasteful, electricity-wise—permanent multimedia show, it integrated the surrounding skyscrapers into an impressive fifteen minute presentation. Choreographed music thumped in time to the flashing buildings, while laser lights shot skyward in dazzling cones from the rooftops. The profusion of lights reflected from the waters of Victoria Harbour, adding to the ambiance. Cellphone cameras in hands, crowds lined the promenade and recorded it all for social media bragging purposes.

  At the Ritz-Carlton hotel, the chauffeur called the hotel reception to send down a bellhop. While he waited, Ethan was careful not to gawk too long at the towering skyscr
aper the hotel resided in, called the International Commerce Center. He had to crane his neck to see the top of the building half a kilometer up. The Ritz-Carlton occupied floors 102 to 118, making it the highest hotel in the world. The skyscraper apparently had its own light and music show, staged to run before and after the Symphony of Lights.

  The bellhop arrived and loaded their luggage onto a baggage cart. They took the elevator to the hotel arrival lobby on the 9th floor, walked past the settees and receptionists to the express elevators, and fifty seconds later found themselves in the main lobby on the 103rd floor.

  "You are lucky you check in so late," the bellhop was saying. "If you come earlier in the evening, you have to queue with the tourists who come to Ozone Bar, 118th floor. It has the best view of Hong Kong. And best Sunday brunch."

  After check-in, the bellhop brought them to their room on the 116th floor. Ethan gave the man a crisp red banknote that had a sleepy-looking lion on the front. The bellhop accepted the bill and Ethan shut the door.

  "I think I'd like to take a peek at this famous view from the Ozone Bar," Bretta announced when the bellhop was gone.

  "We're here to work," Ethan said. He grabbed a piece of luggage and went to the bathroom to change and freshen up.

  He removed his existing clothes and then opened the luggage to select the luxury items he would wear. A neatly pressed pinstripe shirt. Skinny tie with silver clip. Silver cuff links topped with lapis lazuli. A Rolex Submariner watch in stainless steel and yellow gold, blue dial. "Manhattan Richelieu" waxed alligator lace up shoes by Louis Vuitton.

  "If you're going in there, you better dress to the nines," Sam had told them over the sat-phone.

  The Black Armani suit, pre-cut to his measurements, was lined with carbon nanotube material. The nanotubes hardened when struck by a projectile, preventing certain bullets from penetrating—the rating was only IIa however, meaning it could stop .22, 9mm, and .45 caliber rounds. He would have preferred to wear a vest fitted with steel trauma plates under the suit, but apparently the club doormen scanned all clientele with metal detectors. He doubted they would let him in if they discovered a bulletproof vest under his clothes, so the nanotube-lined suit was the best option.