Sahara

by Russell Blake

  Mediterranean Sea

  The bridge of the Comandanti-class patrol vessel Foscari was bathed in red light from the instruments as it navigated calm seas a hundred and twenty kilometers east of Sicily. The night watch crew had been on deck for four hours, and twenty minutes ago they had picked up a bogey on the radar twenty-eight kilometers away that was failing to respond to repeated attempts to hail it.

  The crewman assigned to plotting its course looked up from his chart. “It’s making ten knots, on a direct course for…Le Castella.”

  The watch lieutenant frowned as he watched the blip on radar. “Still a long way from it. Maybe he’s heading for warmer water?”

  “Anything’s possible, sir. But then why isn’t he responding to our hails?”

  “Maybe he’s got his radio off. Or he’s drunk and singing along with it.”

  The crew laughed at the image, and then the lieutenant grew serious. “Keep hailing him, and bring us about so we’re on an interception course.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The eighty-eight-meter ship executed a gradual turn and then accelerated to twenty-two knots. At that speed it would intercept the blip in forty-five minutes, at which point it could ascertain whether it was an innocent fishing boat or something more ominous, like one of the increasingly regular smugglers plying their trade on the route between Africa and Italy. While the Italian navy technically didn’t have jurisdiction outside its twelve-nautical-mile claim of territorial waters, due to a special charter, the Italian government was performing patrol duties well off its coast and could stop any vessel it could show presented a clear intent to enter Italian waters. While this stance had been challenged by a number of countries, in the end pragmatism ruled, as it was Italy that was the gateway for much of the illegal immigration taking place from Africa, and as such it was within its rights to attempt to stop as much of it as possible.

  Compounding its duties were the number of refugees who’d died attempting to make the crossing, which numbered in the tens of thousands over the last four years. The sheer magnitude of the deaths gave the Italians a valid humanitarian mission in the Mediterranean in addition to one of national defense. For this reason, it had been given latitude by its normally contentious neighbors and had taken de facto responsibility for policing the Mediterranean up to a hundred and sixty kilometers from its shores.

  The big patrol boat sliced through the moderate swells with ease and, when it closed on its target, continued to hail the suspect craft with no success. A spotlight on the Focari’s superstructure flickered to life when the boat was half a mile away, and locked on what turned out to be a fishing boat running without any lights – deeply suspicious under any circumstances, and more so with a navy cruiser approaching at high speed.

  “Looks like an African vessel, all right,” the lieutenant said.

  The ensign at the chart table stood, moved to the windows, and raised his binoculars to get a better look at the craft. “The name’s illegible.”

  “Probably scrubbed off. You know how this lot operates.”

  The lieutenant gave an order to slow to keep up with the fishing boat and approach from the port side so they could get a good look at it. The helmsman obeyed, and a few minutes later they were closing on it.

  The ensign raised his binoculars again as the spotlight played over the trawler’s hull, and when he lowered the spyglasses, his complexion was blanched.

  “It’s packed…with refugees. But…nobody’s moving.”

  The lieutenant frowned as he made his way to the ensign. “Asleep?”

  “I don’t think so. They look…they look dead. And like they crawled all over each other.”

  The lieutenant thought for a moment. “Launch one of the RHIBs.” He paused. “No. Belay that. Launch one of the drones, and let’s get some footage. If they’re dead, we don’t know what killed them, and I don’t want to risk any crew finding out.”

  The ensign did as requested, and when the drone hovered over the boat, it was obvious from the camera feed that his initial take had been correct. All of the bodies were twisted in agonized shapes, their orange life vests covered in vomit, their hands curled into claws clutching at the night sky. The spectacle was a glimpse into hell as the drone slowly pored over the length of the boat.

  “Switch to infrared. Let’s see if anyone’s still alive,” the lieutenant said, his voice hushed.

  The operator complied, but the screen remained dark except for the heat signature from the diesel engine. He looked up at the lieutenant and shook his head.

  “Nothing.”

  The lieutenant paced in front of the window before turning to the ensign. “Set up an emergency transmission. We’ll need at least one helicopter with a bioteam on board equipped with hazmat suits and test gear. I’ve seen footage of corpses like that before. Looks like a nerve agent. But whatever it is, we don’t want to get anywhere near it.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the ensign said, and moved to the radio to ready it.

  “I’ll go wake the captain.”

  Three hours later, a Special Forces helicopter was hovering over the boat, keeping pace with it, as two commandos in hazmat suits shimmied down a knotted rope. They set foot on the deck, wherever they could find footing among the corpses, and one of them climbed over the mountain of dead to the wheelhouse to back off the throttle and kill the engine.

  The boat slowed, and soon a transmission from the helicopter came in for the captain.

  “Hundreds of migrants, all dead. Crew of the boat, too. No sign of what the source of the agent is, but it’s got to be somewhere aboard.”

  “Good Lord…” the captain muttered.

  “We’re going to have to be careful, which means we’ll need to wait for a ship with appropriate facilities for decontamination and quarantine to arrive. We don’t want our men rummaging around the boat and tearing their suits. Worse, there are some agents that can defeat even hazmat gear, and we have to take precautions to safeguard everyone. We’ve sent out a distress call, and one of our frigates is in the area. Maintain position until it arrives. There’s a biowarfare team in the air, on its way here.”

  “Roger that.”

  When the frigate arrived, another larger helicopter settled on its helipad. A dozen men spilled from the aircraft carrying metal cases, and the ship’s crew moved in to help unload more of them. The men set up a mobile lab shortly thereafter, and four of the specialists donned hazmat suits and prepared to go aboard the fishing boat to relieve the commandos who were still on board – and who were still alive, indicating that whatever had killed the refugees wasn’t penetrating the suits.

  The captain and lieutenant waited on the bridge, watching the scene from several hundred meters away with dour expressions. Eventually a report came in.

  “Looks like we found the source. There’s a metal canister in the engine room. Looks like it rolled around and hit the engine enough times that it leaked. Markings are Chinese.” A pause. “To be clear, none of your crew went anywhere near the boat, correct?”

  “That’s right. Just the drone, and it never got less than five meters away.”

  “Good. Then you can continue with your patrol. We’ll take it from here. And, Captain? Keep a tight seal on this. Consider it classified until further notice. Ensure your crew understands.”

  “Will do. Best of luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  The captain and lieutenant exchanged a look, and then the captain turned to the night watch. “All right. You all heard that. Not a word, including to any of the crew who weren’t awake for the fireworks. The lieutenant will handle those who were. This never happened. Am I clear?”

  A chorus of aye, ayes and yes, sirs rang out. The captain pursed his lips and considered the fishing boat through the window for a final time before turning to the helmsman.

  “Resume course for our patrol coordinates. Lieutenant? You have the bridge.”

  The captain moved to the door, hesitated for a moment as t
hough ready to say something else, and then changed his mind and continued through it, yawning as he made his way back to his cabin, the sight of hundreds of tortured souls who’d died in unspeakable anguish forever seared into his visual cortex.

  Chapter 22

  South of Sebha, Libya

  Jet bounced along the sandy berms, now well ahead of the truck’s headlights a half kilometer over her left shoulder, the road an inky ribbon against the desert beige. The bike bucked beneath her like a living thing, and it was all she could do to maintain control over the unforgiving terrain, navigating by starlight through a lunar and alien landscape. Her arms were aching from the exertion of keeping the motorcycle stable at speed off road, the periodic patches of deep sand treacherous between relatively hard sections with only a skin of grit on the surface.

  She came over a rise and eased off the throttle at the sight of a cluster of tents – a Bedouin encampment, the shelters old as time itself, the nomadic tribes lost to the modern world and oblivious to it other than to upgrade their weaponry from muskets to assault rifles, courtesy of the unending war being fought for control of the country’s resources. Jet twisted the handlebars and gave the camp a wide berth, not wanting to create an easy target for a zealous sniper amongst the tribesmen.

  Jet poured on the gas as she sped by, throwing a rooster tail of sand into the air behind her, and hunched down low to minimize her profile in case the tribe had posted guards. She didn’t know whether the Bedouin had any natural enemies in the region, but she didn’t want to find out the hard way that they were aggressively territorial and liberal in their use of ammunition.

  She glanced down at the fuel gauge again and frowned. The off-roading was consuming more gas than riding on pavement, which was to be expected – but still, the level was dropping at an alarming rate. There was no point in trying to calculate how much more range she had in the dark while trying to avoid slamming into something or dropping into a sinkhole, but her gut told her that if she continued much further, she’d be seriously pushing her luck.

  A bend in the road ahead brought her on a course that intersected with it, and she avoided using the brakes to slow, instead downshifting and allowing the resistance of the sand to bring her to a stop beside a mound of debris. She quickly pushed the bike behind several abandoned fifty-gallon drums by the shoulder and eyed the pavement, a plan beginning to form in her mind.

  Jet lifted one of the drums and carried it to the road. She laid it on its crumpled side, the bottom facing north on the pavement so its silhouette would be minimized as the truck approached, and then bolted for the rubble pile while gripping the Heckler & Koch MP7A1 with white knuckles. She threw herself behind the debris and brought the submachine gun to bear, wishing it had come with a night vision scope.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears when the truck’s headlights appeared at the far end of the bend, moving lazily along the abysmal pavement, swerving periodically to avoid the worst of the potholes. She estimated it to be rolling along at no more than forty kilometers per hour, which would make her task easier and lessen the chance of unintended consequences when the driver lost control.

  The motor growled nearer, and she steadied the submachine gun and switched to single fire. She wouldn’t get more than a few seconds to squeeze off several shots, but at the truck’s speed that would be more than enough. Jet slowed her breathing, and her vision narrowed to the area around the oil drum, and her finger slid through the trigger guard and rested just over the trigger.

  The truck approached the drum, and the driver only saw it at the last minute. He slammed on the brakes, slowing to a crawl as he swerved to avoid it, and then straightened and accelerated slowly past the obstacle.

  She sighted on the right rear tire and squeezed the trigger. The little gun popped and recoiled against her shoulder, and she fired again and again. The brake lights flashed several times as the tire flattened, and the truck came to a stop by the side of the road.

  Jet was up and running when she heard the tire begin to flap, and by the time the truck stopped, she was sprinting toward it as fast as her legs would carry her. The doors opened and both the passenger and the driver climbed from the cab carrying rifles, but not as though expecting to use them.

  Which would be the last mistake they ever made.

  She switched the fire selector to full auto as she neared, and waited until both men were standing by the flat tire, far enough from the bed that she wouldn’t run the risk of hitting it. She opened fire, careful to avoid hitting the bed, and aimed for their legs. Her first salvo caught the driver in the shin, and he screamed in pain as he pitched forward, his tibia shattered. The passenger was quicker on his feet and threw himself flat on the gravel shoulder, but Jet was closing too fast and emptied the remainder of the magazine at his silhouette.

  A few of the rounds struck his skull and shoulders, and he died facedown by the side of the road without ever seeing his killer. Jet whipped her pistol free as she strode toward the driver, who was groping for the rifle he’d dropped, his fingers just shy of the stock. He had almost reached it when Jet stopped three meters from him and raised the pistol.

  The driver’s eyes were white in the moonlight and wide as saucers at the apparition of a woman, dressed entirely in black and standing like an avenging angel, backlit by the stars. His mouth worked without making any intelligible sounds, and Jet pulled the trigger, planting a 9mm Parabellum round through the center of his forehead.

  She lowered the gun and moved to the truck bed. A woman clad in filthy sweatpants and a torn top lay there, her wrists and ankles bound crudely with white cord, and a dark scarf tied around her lower face to muffle any screams. She stared at Jet in shocked surprise, and Jet slid the pistol back into her waistband, removed the survival knife, and flipped it open.

  “Hold still,” Jet said in Hebrew, and went to work on the rope around her wrists. The blade sliced through the cord with ease, and when her hands were free, Jet did the same with her legs while Salma pulled at the gag covering her mouth. The rope fell on the bed, and Jet nodded in satisfaction at her work. “Salma, I presume,” she said softly.

  “Thank God you found me.” Salma looked around. “How did you get here?”

  “Motorcycle. Are you hurt?”

  “My head took a hit, but I’m feeling better by the minute.” She paused. “Do you have any water?”

  Jet smiled. “Of course. And some of the worst energy bars you’ve ever tasted.”

  “Where’s the motorcycle?”

  “Back by that garbage heap. You can walk with no problems?”

  “I could walk all the way back to Israel if I have to.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” Jet’s nose wrinkled and she looked around. “Damn. Gasoline.”

  Fuel leaked from the bottom of the truck, pooling into a small lake around Jet’s feet. “A ricochet must have hit the tank. That’s not good.”

  “There’s no fire. We should be fine.”

  “It’s not that. We could have used some of the gas. I’m almost out.”

  Salma frowned. “Seriously?”

  “I wasn’t planning on a late-night desert run.”

  “How much do you have?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “Enough to make it back to Sebha?”

  Jet glanced at the spreading pool of liquid glimmering in the starlight. “Let me help you out of the truck. We’ll see if I can catch some of the fuel with one of the water bottles.”

  Jet eased the tailgate down, careful not to move quickly lest she cause a spark that would ignite the gas, and Salma climbed from the bed and stood barefoot in the fluid.

  “No shoes?” Jet asked.

  Salma shook her head. “They kidnapped me while I was sleeping. I didn’t have time to take anything.”

  Jet nodded sympathetically, but her expression showed her worry. “If we have to walk, that could be a problem.”

  Salma held up the rag that had been used as a muzzle. “I c
an tie this around one of my feet. Or…”

  She padded over to where the driver lay and eyed his sandals, and then moved to the dead passenger and did the same. Salma returned to the driver and pulled them off his feet and, after grimacing at the filthy soles, slipped them on.

  “Grab his rifle and see if he has any extra magazines or a pistol,” Jet said. “Then do the same for the other one. I’m going to get a bottle.”

  Jet ran back to the motorcycle, opened one of the saddlebags, and removed a container of water. She took several long swallows as she retraced her steps to the truck, and then handed it to Salma. “Drink fast.”

  Salma took it from her and chugged half the contents in a few gulps, and then poured the rest out and gave it back to Jet, who crouched down to peer beneath the truck. The steady stream that had painted the road slick with fuel had abated to a few drops, and Jet cursed as she straightened.

  “Great idea, but lousy execution,” she said.

  “Not so bad. You’re here and I’m alive.” Salma looked at the dead men. “They work for Mounir. My husband. Or rather my tormentor – one of the most loathsome terrorist scum in existence.”

  “Did they let on where they were taking you?”

  “They just said to him. Nothing more.” She looked around. “Where are we?”

  “South of Sebha, about…ninety kilometers.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Why?”

  Salma frowned. “Mounir must have moved after I left. He was west of Sebha a couple of days ago.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  Salma shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s the USB drive I copied his data on. It was in my backpack. The slavers took it when they grabbed me.”

  Jet exhaled heavily. Of course she wouldn’t have it with her. “Did they…are you sure you’re okay?”

  “They didn’t rape me, if that’s what you’re asking. But they searched me top to bottom. Besides which, I didn’t have time to…hide it on me.”