The Hawaii Job: (A Case Lee Novel Book 5)

by Vince Milam

“And a vehicle?”

  “This is not a problem, but it is most expensive.”

  “A desert vehicle.”

  “Of course! But most expensive.”

  “Please tell me about transport to Goz Beïda. Transport for the four passengers plus the vehicle and our supplies.”

  “I will arrange this! Only the finest, I assure you.”

  “What type of aircraft would we be discussing?”

  “Only the finest! I have used their services many, many times. It is no problem.”

  “A nonstop flight. It must be nonstop, and it is a long flight.”

  Five to eight hours, dependent upon the type of air transport. Across fifteen hundred miles of empty desert. Libya, the northern tip of Niger, Chad’s vast arid lands.

  “Not a problem! I have used their services many, many times. However, this too is quite expensive. Are you certain such a large amount of cash isn’t burdensome?”

  “It is not a burden, thank you for asking. Please allow me less than one hour to call you back. I must attend a short meeting.”

  “Of course! Do not hesitate, my friend. I am at your service.”

  I hung up and signaled Marcus with my head toward the front door. Team collection time. He emitted a light groan as he stood. Whether generated by older bones or frustration at not understanding my conversation or disgust at the entire logistical affair would remain unknown. Perhaps a combination of all three. But he made no derisive comments, understood it took the entire team’s buy-in, and led the way outside.

  Chapter 26

  Zero dark thirty, and we met across the gravel drive once again. An owl hooted, the cold night was still, and woodsmoke drifted in the air. I laid it out. No weapons, flying blind into Libya, complete dependence on a fixer we’d never met.

  “We are blessed, my brothers,” Bo said. “A true adventure with both the journey and the destination.”

  “Yeah, there’s a Hail Mary element, for sure,” Catch said. “How do we pay for all this?”

  “On me,” I said. “And no argument. I mean it.”

  It would drain one of my overseas accounts, but so be it. Funding wouldn’t hold us back. A small argument ensued over the cost and went nowhere.

  “What’s this transport from Malta to Nowhere, Libya?” Marcus asked. “It sounds like a regular run. What’s he carrying?”

  “Unknown.”

  “So let’s say we land at this Ghadames place. What’s it like?” Catch asked.

  “The airport is a dozen miles from the town. High odds we’ll never see the town unless the fixer is located there. So, another unknown.”

  I went on and explained Ghadames was an ancient oasis town with about ten thousand folks. Mostly Berbers—and at odds with the Libyan Army or whatever they called themselves these days.

  “Libya doesn’t have a central government anymore,” Marcus said. “That’s an advantage for us. An element of chaos covers our trail. And makes ops on the fringe easier.”

  “So this cat Maziq, our supplier, says he’s got a variety of weapons?” Catch asked.

  I reviewed the conversation with Maziq, with the appropriate caveats.

  “Could be top-notch kit,” I said after describing Maziq’s offerings. “Or could be junk piled in a corner. It’s a gamble.”

  “His listing of various arms manufacturers is encouraging. The Czechs and Germans manufacture fine weapons,” Marcus said. “If the guy wasn’t bullshitting us.”

  The “us” designation was heartening and indicative of Marcus’s commitment. We were in this together.

  “A risk, for sure,” I said. “Now, the vehicle will be junk. Count on it. The best we can hope for is junk that still runs.”

  “What about transport to Chad?” Marcus asked.

  “There’s a regular service this guy uses. So he says. Aircraft make and model, unknown. But he claims it can haul us and a vehicle to Goz Beïda nonstop.”

  “Do you believe him?” Catch asked.

  “Sorta. I mean, he’ll be on the phone right now, frantically lining up something. Whether it’s the same outfit he’s used in the past, well, we’ll never know.”

  “As long as this asshat supplies us with quality weaponry,” Catch said. “That’s number one through nine. The vehicle and air transport come in tenth.”

  Catch had a solid point. Armed, we could hole up in Ghadames until the next Malta flight arrived to get us out of there. A day, a week—it didn’t matter as long as we were well armed.

  “What’s important, my brothers,” Bo said, “is a focus on context.”

  “Here we go,” Catch said.

  “A band of warriors,” Bo continued. “Our flag snapping in the crosscurrents of righteous adventure.”

  “Okay, Bo,” I said. Sometimes there was no other adequate response for my best friend’s views.

  “So here’s how I see it,” Marcus said, sidestepping Bo’s perspective. “Getting to Malta is a given. Travel without weapons is another given. The flight from Malta to Libya appears likely. From there on, we’re at the mercy of a Libyan fixer. Case, you’ve worked with his type before. What’s your assessment?”

  He was right. Among us four, I was the only one who dealt with such characters. Marcus ranched in Montana. Catch worked with Willa at her Portland metalworking shop. Bo guided St. Thomas snorkelers and spent the evenings with an FBI agent. Then there was ol’ Case. Mucking around the world with mercs and spies and ne’er-do-wells of every stripe. Lucky me.

  “He’ll want to maintain his reputation on the underground network. They all do. It’s critical for business. But count on half-ass products and services. Which—and this is strange but true—in half-assed parts of the world tend to work okay. Not great, not smooth, but okay.”

  “Could you elaborate on that?” Marcus asked. “I’m trying to level-set my blood pressure.”

  “Let’s say he’s got World War I British Enfield rifles for sale. And an engine welded to four wheels as a vehicle. And an air transport arranged that’s held together with baling wire and it makes an emergency landing a hundred miles from our destination. We crawl out, grab our rifles, unload the vehicle from the plane, and drive the last part. When we arrive, the vehicle’s engine blows.”

  “You’re painting a grim picture, son,” Marcus said, relighting his cigar.

  “The point is,” I continued, “the fixer can then claim we made it under his auspices. We arrived armed and ready. He did his part.”

  “So what’s your final assessment?” Catch asked. “We going?”

  Helluva good question. But at the end of the day, the attacks on me, my family, and my brothers weren’t ending. For a fact. And ahead was an opportunity to, as Catch put it, clean house.

  “I am. I can’t ask the rest of you to join me. It’s a high-risk mission. Beyond high risk.”

  “He’s adorable when he does his lone gunslinger thing,” Catch said.

  “It’s a shining example of his grip upon the wobbly tiller, undaunted,” Bo said. “He’s a solid goober.”

  “It’s done, then,” Marcus said.

  In the ensuing silence, we each absorbed the reality of the next forty-eight hours. Challenges galore, culminating in vicious combat. We each knew the logistics were part and parcel of going it alone. We’d deal with it. But the assault against Musa Kibir’s clan stronghold loomed large. Men would die, a great number of men—and the risk of one or all of us meeting our end flared as a red-hot side note. But this was personal. More so for me, but we each internalized that this marked the end of a burden—the burden of a price on our heads. We could move on with life. If we made it.

  Then Marcus sealed the deal with a proclamation.

  “Let’s ride, gentlemen. Tighten your jockstraps and say a prayer.”

  Chapter 27

  We arrived in Charlotte and shopped at the local Cabela’s store. Hunting clothes, boxes of energy bars, along with extra sunglasses and water bottles and field sundries. Half a dozen extra-large duffe
l bags and a couple smaller ones, two backcountry water purifiers, nylon cord. Duct tape and Super Glue and socks. Marcus pushed the shopping cart, adding and vetoing individual items.

  “Jeez, Marcus. You think we might be overloading a bit?” I asked.

  “Right now we have control over one element of this mission. The preparation here and now. Go get extra shoelaces. And a desert camo lightweight tarp.”

  No point arguing. And, as always, he had a solid point. I’d confirmed and paid for flights before we departed the farmhouse. Transferred a substantial dollar amount to the Libyan fixer from an overseas account. Promises made, gifts exchanged. We’d see.

  Jess Rossi lived in Charlotte—a fact that bubbled to the surface several times and I shoved back down. A matter for another day, another time. I contacted Mom and let her know I’d be out of pocket for a few days and to hang in there. A call that ripped me apart. In seventy-two or so hours she’d either hear from me or a teammate or Jules. Mom and CC, Jess—personal items addressed and locked away. The mission approached, and once we landed in Libya there would only be room for a single-minded focus. Kill or be killed. No middle ground. A time for granite-hard and junkyard-dog mean. Bring down a righteous hammer, delivered by four ex-Delta operators. Payback, you Janjaweed son of a bitch. Righteous payback.

  After Cabela’s we made a stop at a large chain pharmacy. Supplemented our field medical kits and stockpiled extra wound treatment materials. Grim stuff, performed with clinical assessments. We found a small, isolated park and used the empty parking lot to transfer items and pack. Marcus kept the radio headsets plus two extras. We each kept our knives. We stashed the firearms inside one large duffel bag, although our pistols remained waistband-tucked until the last minute. You never knew. We stopped at the largest bank we could find. I spent an hour transferring funds, which were paid in cash minus a transaction fee. It filled one of the small duffel bags. There were requisite government forms for any cash transaction over ten grand, but the overseas account I’d used for the transfer was under a fake name. A name that matched the fake ID I carried. Done and done.

  A final stop before the airport. A quick print shop where a half-dozen Google Earth images of the Janjaweed headquarters, each with different magnification and angles, were captured on my laptop and printed with oversize paper. Our homework for the trip.

  Charlotte’s private plane air terminal was filled with the smell of coffee and leather. The Gulfstream waited. I asked an employee if we could store a bag until our return in three days. It could be a week or never, but three days was a legitimate ruse. He showed us a back room for that purpose. With the solemnity of funeral goers, we removed our pistols and added them to the large duffel’s pile of rifles and ammo. Zipped shut, stowed away, officially naked.

  “Shit,” Catch said.

  “Roger on that,” Marcus added.

  “Dark was the night, and cold the ground.”

  “Shakespeare?” I asked.

  “Blind Willie Johnson,” Bo said.

  Soon after takeoff, the steward enquired about food and drinks. We had a nine-hour flight ahead, and I could use the sleep. We all could. But we committed the first hour to several cocktails and excellent chicken wraps and a variety of cheeses. A last touch of living large.

  Wheels down woke me. The blue Mediterranean below reflected the sunrise, fishermen headed out from Malta, and the world went about its business as usual. Customs and immigration met us, and our luggage inspection raised a few eyebrows. Not the duffel of cash—I explained we were on the Libya flight. Large quantities of cash were common as toothpaste for any war-torn destination. The Cabela’s and pharmacy supplies as well as our appearance created hard stares and pointed questions.

  “We’re archeologists,” I said.

  “Archeologists?”

  “Yes. Ghadames has special interest for us.”

  They eyeballed Marcus. While we still wore jeans and a casual shirt, Marcus had donned a camo ball cap. He lit a cigar, scanned the environment, and checked our perimeter. Catch, twice their size, returned their stares with a fierce one of his own. His buzz-cut hair and jet-black beard gave the impression of an oversized badass, not an archeologist. Bo’s wild red hair blew with the morning breeze, an angelic smile directed toward his surroundings. Until he cast a look at me and Catch. His eyes exhibited a first-in operator’s excitement.

  The Maltese officials looked at each other, shrugged, and waved us through. Our air transport guy met us and hustled us toward a small Airbus jetliner.

  “It is best if you onboard now and wait. Yes, this would be best,” he said.

  No argument from us. The plane’s front half still retained seats—thirty or so—while the rest was devoted to cargo. We were the lone passengers. As the cargo filled both the empty seating area and the luggage hold, we took note of the contents. Communication gear, tents, tarps, medical supplies—all Italian. And all military grade. Also food supplies, crates of bottled water, and two Italian off-road motorcycles. Plus crates and crates of Beretta ammo. Both 5.56 NATO rifle rounds and 9mm pistol rounds.

  I asked the air transport honcho, who wandered about and yelled at his cargo loading workers, what this was about.

  “Supplies,” he said, smiling and nodding.

  “I can see that. Who are they for?”

  “The Libyan army.”

  “Which one?”

  He smiled, shrugged, lit a cigarette. Threw me a sly grin and said, “The one who pays.”

  “Will they be there when we land?” I asked.

  “Sometimes. Sometimes they are late.”

  He returned to overseeing the loading process.

  “What does that mean?” Marcus asked. He’d sidled alongside me during the conversation.

  “Hard to say. It’s North Africa. Late could mean they are bivouacked in Ghadames and haven’t made the twelve miles to the airport. Or they are driving or flying in. And may show today, tomorrow, or next week.”

  “So we have no clue.”

  “Yeah we do. One big clue. I can pretty much guarantee you our fixer, Ahmed Maziq, manages this load on the receiving end. That’s a good thing. It means he has connections.”

  Marcus squeezed my shoulder and said, “Well, at least one of us sees hidden silver linings. I don’t play these angles in Montana.”

  “If they’re there when we land, our fixer will handle things.”

  “As long as he can fix us up with weapons.” He toe-kicked a wooden crate of 5.56 bullets. “It would appear ammo ain’t an issue.”

  We took off minutes after eight a.m. We held a quick discussion about changing into desert fatigues. I laid out the possibility a Libyan Army faction could greet us in Ghadames. The archeologist ruse and help from our fixer might be our best tactic.

  “This plane is carrying a ton of ammo,” Catch said. “Somewhere on the receiving end are weapons. Why not assume we grab a few of those when we deplane?”

  “Grab them from Libyan Army members?” I asked.

  I wasn’t incredulous at Catch’s approach—standard stuff for him—but wanted clarification just whose weapons he thought we might grab. Catch shrugged. He didn’t care. See a weapon, take a weapon. Which sounds crazy on the surface. But when headed into battle, you’d better have someone like Catch along. He’d never be accused of overthinking an issue.

  “Let’s remain in our current garb,” Marcus said. “Until we’re locked and loaded, let’s play the archeologists bit and hope the fixer meets our plane. If military personnel meets us, smile and wave. That includes you, Catch.”

  The flight was uneventful and short. An hour and a half. From the air, the oasis town shone bright white—painted adobe brick structures, several mosques, and tight-packed living areas with shaded warren-ways winding through the structures. Date palms in tight clusters near the oasis. The eons-old water hole had long ago been lined with stones and contained for village use. Twelve miles to the east was the concrete-runway airport. Other than the runway,
a single large galvanized-tin warehouse. That was it. The entire area sat along the edge of the Sahara Desert, surrounded with dunes and minimal scrub brush. One other aircraft occupied the concrete pull-off area near the warehouse. It appeared to be an old military transport plane.

  As we landed, it became apparent the Libyan Army wouldn’t be an issue. The lone people occupying the entire area were a cluster of white-robed men in white pants around an old Isuzu flatbed truck. And two western guys working on an engine of the beat-up military transport plane. I had an ugly suspicion it was our plane. Somewhere among the white-robed men was our fixer, Ahmed Maziq.

  Several men separated from the flatbed truck gang and rolled forward a bare metal stair set for the plane’s rear exit. One of the pilots, both of whom had declined to converse with us during the flight, walked past us and opened the hatch. We spilled onto the concrete. Midmorning, it was already hot as hell.

  The flatbed truck approached, our fixer in the position of authority—the front passenger seat. One of the two westerners at the transport plane raised a greeting hand our way and smiled. He held a ladder for his compatriot who was elbows-deep in the port-side engine’s bowels. I waved back.

  “Case.”

  Catch lifted his chin toward the distant dunes. Five men on camels, weapons strewn across their backs, watched us. Unlike the locals, these cats wore dark indigo headdresses and robes, with part of the headdress pulled across their nose and mouth. Tuareg tribesmen. Sworn enemies of the Libyan Army. Ripples of morning heat haze marked the distance between us. As well as a thousand years of culture.

  “They’re just checking us out. I think.”

  The Airbus engines shut down, and we stood silent as the troop in and on the flatbed truck approached. Our rotund fixer, with his belly pushed against the white robe, smiled our way before he turned toward his laborers and barked orders. He spoke Berber with them—a far distant cousin of Arabic. I could pick up a few expletives. Sons of camel dung, worthless dung beetles, etc. His men addressed the task at hand while he approached, smiling large.