CHAPTER 16
Combat Operations Center, LPD Castilla
The men stared at the wall of high-definition monitors feeding the ship’s operational nerve center. Six screens formed one infrared image that was fed from a Spanish UAV flying at five thousand feet. Two helicopters and four small boats circled lazily back and forth in a search pattern, looking for the lost NH90.
“The area isn’t as deep as the rest of the Alboran, but it’s still at least eight hundred feet,” Captain Lorenzo Salazar, the ship’s commanding officer, said. “We’ll get our submersibles down there in the daylight. They’ll have several types of high-accuracy sonar to support them. In all likelihood, they’ll have the helo’s exact location before they enter the water. Hopefully, the minisub can remove the bodies of the pilot and copilot, trigger their life vests, and send them to the surface.” He paused. “If not, we’ll send a diver down.”
“A diver can go that deep?” Cole asked.
“Our divers use atmospheric diving suits that can go down to twenty-three hundred feet, just like your navy. If that’s what has to be done, so be it.”
“Sir, you have our condolences for the loss of your men,” Logan said somberly. He shifted his stance as the boat gently swayed. His boots still squished from the water they’d absorbed. “John and I lost more outstanding young men under our command than I care to remember. Each loss still hurts, even to this day. My Marines swore an oath and knew the risks, but knowing and dying are two completely different things.” He looked the Spanish captain squarely in the eyes, and said, “I can promise you one thing—their sacrifice will not be for nothing.”
The captain nodded briskly and glanced at the search efforts under way. “I appreciate that, Mr. West. This is a dangerous business, and the state of play in the world seems to get worse every day.” His face hardened. “Quite honestly, it sickens me. My headquarters ordered me to help you in any way possible. I don’t know what this is all about, and I’m sure you can’t tell me, but whatever you need, you have. What’s next?”
“My guess is that what we’re after wasn’t on that ship,” Logan said with disgust. “I have a horrible suspicion that this was a wild-goose chase meant as a diversion. After what the Russians went through to steal what they stole, there’s absolutely no way they’d let us get this close and risk everything they have to just send it to the bottom of the sea. They have to know we can retrieve it from down there.”
The bitterness of having been duped was sickening, and the captain grimaced at the thought of his men being sacrificed as pawns in a larger geopolitical game.
“More importantly,” John said, “it also means our Russian friend, Yuri from Valdemoro, lied to us. He played us this whole time.” He looked at Logan. “This is like Fallujah 2004 all over again. My gloves are about to come off.” He turned to Inspector Romero. “What do your laws say about Americans questioning suspects on Spanish soil? I’d really like a chance to have a heart-to-heart with our good Russian friend.”
Inspector Romero considered for a moment and then said, “He’s been transferred to our headquarters in Madrid. If we get back there tonight, I’m sure the lawyers can answer that question . . . tomorrow,” he said with a straight face. The implication was clear.
“Good,” Logan said, “because we also need to get this back to the FBI’s digital forensics lab in DC.” He held up the North Korean captain’s laptop.
“Actually, we don’t need to send it back to DC,” Cole said, and turned to Captain Salazar. “Sir, can you please get us back to Madrid as soon as possible? I know how we can handle it from there.”
Captain Salazar turned to a junior officer standing next to a bank of communications equipment. “Lieutenant Rodriguez, please order the NH90 back to the ship and have him stand by on deck for passengers. Tell him to make sure he’s got enough fuel to get to Madrid. Once he drops our friends off, he can refuel at Torrejon Air Base and then get back here.”
“Roger, sir,” the lieutenant answered, and issued instructions into the ultra-high-frequency encrypted radio.
Captain Salazar turned back to the four men. “Let’s get up on deck. You’ve got a ride to catch.”
CHAPTER 17
Khartoum, Sudan
Namir’s chambers were completely dark. It was a luxury he relished. As a child, his central hut in his small village had let in ambient light and noise from all directions, mainly from the village’s prized possessions—three portable generators that had run at seemingly random times he didn’t understand. He’d grown to detest the sleepless nights. Now, no matter how chaotic the day’s events or the pressure of an impending operation, he always slept deeply.
His personal cell phone suddenly lit up and issued the melodious chirp of a digital bird, a more pleasant remembrance from his childhood.
Years of training dictated his automatic response to the intrusive yet harmonious tone. He sat up and reached for the phone, even before he opened his eyes to the darkness.
“Yes,” he said quietly, after he had deftly pushed the talk button with one thumb.
“The Americans took the bait,” Gang reported calmly. “I have confirmation from my source that the North Korean ship was about to be boarded thirty minutes ago. They soon lost contact but assured me that the captain would follow his orders, my orders. The ship is likely at the bottom of the sea right now, or soon will be.”
Namir pondered the news for a moment. “Your captain would sink his own ship and sacrifice himself and his men?” He heard the distant engine of a truck in the background as he waited for a response.
Silence, as if Gang were deciding how to answer the question. “The North Korean leadership can be very persuasive, especially when they have one’s entire family at their disposal. I can guarantee you that if they ordered him to sink the ship, he did. We’ll know tomorrow morning, hopefully from the international media.” Another pause. “Unless they try to hide it to serve their purposes.”
“What purposes would those be?” Namir asked.
“The Americans probably think they’re close to reacquiring the equipment. And if they suspect otherwise, it will take them a few more days to search the cargo vessel and confirm the equipment’s not on board, which means—”
“Which means they won’t want to show their hand too quickly,” Namir completed the thought.
“Exactly,” Gang said. “But unfortunately for the Americans and whoever’s helping them, it’s too late. The device made it out of Spain as expected and arrived at the French airfield a few hours ago. I just received another text. They’re wheels up and should be here in a little more than six hours. Go back to sleep. By the time you wake up, your future will be one step closer to being realized. I’ll contact you in the morning.”
“Thank you for the update,” Namir said. “And it’s our futures that will be realized, not just mine. The time to act is almost upon us. Good night.”
Financial and military security for Sudan for decades. A glorious dream about to become reality . . .
Namir lay down and closed his eyes to allow the darkness to take him under once again.
———
“Is the team ready?” Gang asked the American moments later.
“In five days’ time, the American people will know fear once again, even if they don’t know who triggered it or why. The government will scramble to figure out who did it, and all evidence will point exactly where we want. And then the real war begins.” There was no mistaking the satisfaction Gang heard in the American’s voice.
“Very well. Let it be so,” he said, and ended the call.
PART III
WELCOME TO THE SAFARI
KHARTOUM WAR CEMETERY
CHAPTER 18
Outside Khartoum
Five Days to Zero Hour
Amira Cerone watched the airfield through a pair of high-power binoculars. Several miles beyond the western outskirts of Khartoum, the small military airstrip was bustling with an unusual amount of a
ctivity for seven a.m. on a weekday. The sonofabitch was right again.
The airfield was the size of a small US municipal airport, with an additional fifteen-foot barbed-wire fence protecting its perimeter. Two Soviet-era MiG-29 fighter jets were inside the shadows of the hangar, and a hose snaked its way to one of the jets from a large tanker truck outside. The hundred-foot control tower was located at the other end of the runway. The series of connected buildings at its base seemed to have no organizational structure—just oddly sized concrete buildings seemingly positioned at random. But it was the white Gulfstream jet parked at one end of the three-quarter-mile-long runway that held Amira’s attention.
Several men in nondescript khaki clothing unloaded dark cases from the underbelly of the jet. The cases were then placed on two five-ton military trucks with canvas coverings over their rear cargo areas.
She repositioned herself in the front seat of the US Embassy’s Land Rover. The dark-green hijab she wore shifted as she focused the binoculars on two men who seemed to be coordinating the transfer. The right side of the veil obstructed her view, and she flung it aside. I can’t stand this custom, she thought with contempt for the male-dominated culture in which she now operated.
Allowing her to blend in with the local culture, the hijab and the various lightweight, robe-like garments that covered her entire body also disguised her striking features.
The offspring of an Italian-American Washington, DC, homicide detective and a beautiful Ethiopian immigrant, her light skin was perfectly toned to blend in with the Arabic cultures of Northern Africa. Short black hair was hidden under the garments, but other than sunglasses, nothing could hide the pale-blue eyes she’d inherited from her mother. It was the eyes that caused men’s breath to catch, and she always looked away to avoid drawing too much attention to herself. The fact was that she was jaw-droppingly beautiful—and just as deadly.
Tired and aggravated, she’d been awakened in the middle of the night by an incessant beeping on her laptop. It wasn’t the normal back channel but rather an unbreakable encrypted chat link that originated from one of the most highly classified servers inside Washington.
Before she’d left Langley three months ago, she’d been summoned to the director’s office. It was unusual, but not the first time she’d had an audience with him. He’d told her that if the link were ever activated, she was to follow the instructions immediately and without hesitation. He’d also told her there were only a handful of the most senior leaders in the US government who knew about the existence of the link, let alone the compartmented program that covered her mission and existence. It was reserved for extreme circumstances that required an immediate response, often in the form of lethal action. She didn’t even know which senior leader sent her instructions, and it didn’t matter. She’d begun to refer to the person as Zeus inside her head, since the proclamations seemed to come down from on high.
The last time the chat window had popped up unexpectedly, rebels in southern Sudan had captured the largest pumping station along the Greater Nile Oil Pipeline and shut it off, abruptly stopping the flow of the government of Sudan’s most valuable export. She’d been delivering USAID food supplies to a nearby village but had been redirected via a secure satellite to “intervene.” She’d gone in alone under cover of darkness.
When she’d walked out of the pumping station the next morning, fifteen rebels were dead from various puncture and cut wounds, and the oil was once again flowing its liquid trek to Port Sudan. She’d spared the rebel commander and ordered him to return to the rest of his fighters—minus two fingers on his left hand—with one message: the pipeline was off-limits. She’d wanted to kill him because of the atrocities he’d committed, but her instructions had been specific, and ultimately correct. The attacks stopped soon after.
Amira refocused the lenses and caught her breath. Both men now stood still and faced her direction. The man on the right—at this distance, she could at least discern short, dark hair—raised something to his right ear and pointed in her direction.
“Damnit,” she mumbled under her breath. Time to go.
She’d deliberately parked less than a hundred yards from a concentration of fifteen mud and stone homes, hoping the shapes of the structures would camouflage her vehicle. Guess not. It didn’t matter. She’d confirmed what Zeus had told her. Whatever it was the CIA was looking for was here. Now she just needed to return to the embassy, send a message back to DC, and await further instructions.
She dropped the binoculars on the passenger seat, turned the ignition on, and pushed the gearshift into drive. The tan SUV kicked up dust as she turned around toward the isolated homes.
Her mind wandered to the contents of the cases. Whatever it was, it was important enough to wake her up in the middle of the night and send her on a solo reconnaissance mission.
She drove down the middle of the street and turned right at the main road leading back to Khartoum, only to slam the brakes as a white pickup truck sped toward her. Her reflexes kicked in, and she shifted the gearshift into reverse. She glanced over her shoulder and saw another pickup truck barreling toward her. It was even closer than the first.
She calculated the distance between the vehicles and realized she didn’t have enough space to maneuver back the way she came. The pickup truck behind her skidded to a halt sideways, blocking the street between the last two houses. She looked forward and saw the first truck almost upon her. There was nowhere to go. She was trapped. Which leaves only one option.
A Sudanese man in military fatigues screamed at her in Arabic as he exited the pickup truck, his right hand holding a pistol pointed toward the dirt. She exited the vehicle and held her hands up, shouting in Arabic in a voice she hoped sounded tinged with fear. “I’m lost! I’m lost! Please don’t shoot!” She repeated the phrases over and over as she moved away from her vehicle, her hands never leaving their raised positions.
Slam!
She glanced left to see a second threat and was momentarily surprised by the man’s appearance. He wasn’t Sudanese. She didn’t want to risk a closer look, but he appeared to be Asian at first glance. Has to be Chinese. They’re in bed with the Sudanese for oil, but what the hell is he doing out here with the Sudanese military?
She didn’t have time to contemplate it further as the Sudanese man reached her, his weapon still lowered. He leaned in, his face inches away, and shouted, “What are you doing here? Who sent you? What are you looking for?”
She kept repeating, “I’m lost! I’m lost! Please don’t hurt me! I stopped and was looking at a map! I didn’t know how to get back. I swear! Please don’t hurt me.”
Even as she pleaded, she watched the Chinese man walk over to the Land Rover and lean inside the rolled-down window. He pulled out a folded map and glanced at her. So far so good.
“I’m with USAID. I swear. I was told there was a village out here in need of food. I must’ve made a wrong turn.” She lowered her arms and put her hands in front of her, bowing slightly in supplication, another concept she loathed.
The Sudanese male turned toward the Chinese man as if awaiting instructions. So he’s the one in charge. Okay then.
The man stared at her for a long moment, refusing to break the silence, allowing her whimpering sounds to underscore the palpable tension.
“If that’s the case, then what are you doing with these?” he said slowly, and held up the pair of military-grade high-power binoculars she’d shoved under her seat. He stared at her, expecting a response.
Amira’s mind quieted, abandoning all thought. A sensation like cooling water washed over her entire body, calming her. She glanced at the Sudanese man in front of her and then toward the second man less than ten feet away, still standing next to her car. Her eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Only then did she act.
The man in front of her never knew what killed him. From beneath her dark-green garments, Amira withdrew a six-inch black stiletto and plunged it in a flurry of fabric and speed into the side of
his neck just beneath the jawline. She withdrew it just as quickly and felt the warm gush of blood cover her hand.
The Chinese man reacted even as the dead man’s blood struck the dirt. She knew he was a skilled professional—it was evident to her trained eye. He reached inside his lightweight khaki jacket, but he’d miscalculated, thinking he’d have to time to draw his weapon and fire. He was wrong.
She took three bounding strides, appearing to float through the air, the flowing robe trailing behind her like streamers. A second stiletto appeared in her left hand as the Chinese man succeeded in pulling a short, black pistol loose from its holster underneath his jacket.
As Amira reached his side, she slashed his wrist, the razor-sharp knife slicing deeply and severing the tendons. He screamed in pain as his now-useless hand dropped the pistol harmlessly to the ground.
With her other hand, she plunged the stiletto into the man’s side and felt the blade slide in between his ribs. He shrieked in pain once more, and his body stiffened next to hers as he went into shock. His horrified eyes looked into her face, only to see a fiery blue and unforgiving gaze. She pushed the blade upward, realizing she’d punctured his heart when his body shuddered uncontrollably and his eyes rolled upward into his head. Amira withdrew the blade and allowed his body to crumple to the road.
There was no hesitation as she sheathed both stilettos under her garments and bent over the Chinese man’s corpse. She didn’t care about the other one. He was Sudanese military and probably just following orders. But this one was different.
She found a black wallet inside his coat pocket, already covered in blood. She carefully opened it and saw a photo ID with Chinese characters printed on it. She’d seen this type of ID before—it belonged to employees of the Chinese embassy in Sudan.
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