by Connor Black
“No trigger, so we’re safe,” Sterba said. “Your men should know what to do with these now. Did I hear you getting the word out about Naseeb and Chen?”
“Yes, Chief,” he replied. “There are policemen out now looking for dala dalas that match your description. But you should know that there are hundreds of them in the city, many with similar markings.”
“We’ll need one of your cars, Lieutenant,” Sterba said. “The old truck is just down the road, and we need to go after her. Now.”
As Kahembe was about to reply, a fourth car pulled into the station. An officer jumped out and ran towards Kahembe, a piece of paper in his hand. Kahembe grabbed the paper as Sterba and I turned to the closest vehicle.
“Wait! You will want to see this,” Kahembe said, his face showing despair. “After he was so dramatic at the bakery, I wanted to check out Naseeb Aman. We had nothing on file under that name here. The request had to be sent to Dar, where guide permits are recorded. We’ve been waiting for this to arrive by messenger, and it’s not what I wanted to see.”
He extended the piece of paper, and I took it. It was a photocopy of a guide permit, required by anyone commercially driving tourists. The ID photo showed the smiling face of a thin black male that was clearly not our Naseeb Aman.
“The real Naseeb is black, not Arab,” I said to Sterba, handing him the photocopy.
“Jesus,” Sterba said. “He took the real Naseeb’s place to keep tabs on the investigation.”
“And to throw us off the scent by planting the phone in the bakery,” I added.
Kahembe shook his head side to side. “Terrible,” he muttered. The movement of his head shook loose a memory. I struggled to bring it to the surface, looking at Kahembe, then back to the policemen surrounding the artillery shells we had found.
Then it hit me.
“Car bomb,” I said.
Sterba looked at me, puzzled at first, but he quickly understood. “The tire.”
Kahembe’s face showed confusion. I explained, “This garage has been cleaned out, Lieutenant. Whether it was by the last tenant or looters, there’s not a tool or part in here. But right by the shells is a perfectly good spare tire. Why, in Tanzania, would you drive anywhere without a spare?”
“You would never, unless you needed to conceal something in the vehicle,” he said, instantly understanding. “The roads are too rough and service stations too far apart.”
I ran to the side of the nearest police car and hopped in. Sterba followed.
“Where are you headed?” Kahembe asked.
“It’s only a hunch. Something our fake Naseeb said.”
“Where?”
“The market.”
12
“Want to tell me why you think he’s headed to the market?” Sterba asked as I raced down the road back into town.
“When Naseeb took us to the bakery, do you remember going by the market? He said it used to be a place for the locals, but more and more tourists were visiting there.”
“So?”
“So, he shook his head. Shook it like ‘shame on them’. I remember thinking that was strange, since most people are proud of their local markets, and happy to show them off. He was ticked off that westerners had moved in.”
“That’s pretty thin. I get pissed off when there’s a crowd at my favorite burger joint. Doesn’t mean I’m going to blow it up.”
Sterba was right, of course. And the tension in his voice hit the nail on the head. We were in a large city, with plenty of places for Naseeb to hide, and I was focusing on only one. But despite the fact that I was putting all of our eggs in one basket, I knew my instincts were right. They had to be, because we simply had to find Chen. And given the fact that Naseeb knew we were on his trail, we had to do so fast. There was no other option.
“I’m right on this one, Sterbs. If you have a better lead, I’m all ears.”
Eyes on the road, I couldn’t look at him. But I sensed his stare during an uncomfortable pause.
“No. You’re on a roll. Go with it.”
I pressed the accelerator further, pushing the car to its limit. As we wove through local traffic, my phone buzzed. Sterba took it from me and answered with a gruff “Sterba.”
It was Landon back at Langley. Sterba gave him a sitrep and then the conversation became more heated.
“Tell those assholes this isn’t a game!” Sterba said as he ended the call with a violent stab at the screen. “The dipshits at Langley finally located Chen’s phone. It’s back at the gas station. Must’ve been left in Naseeb’s vehicle.”
“Useless now. We’re on our own,” I said.
Sterba added a few choice words, and then resumed helping me navigate to the market. The adrenaline rush we’d felt from the fight at the station and seeing Chen knocked around had begun to ebb. It had been replaced by anger and regret in both of us, but it was hitting Sterba especially hard.
To Sterba, Chen was coming to be like a younger sister. I had been noticing his gentle, encouraging way with her, as well as a hearty dose of protectiveness. Heaven help anyone standing between him and Chen.
“We’ll get her, Joe,” I said.
“Damn straight.”
Unspoken was the thought that not only had she been taken, but she was riding around in a car bomb—a mobile IED. And one that she’d likely be left in when Naseeb pushed the detonator.
We continued on, that thought floating silently between us. Sterba distracted himself by giving directions as we passed the soccer stadium. The market itself occupied several blocks and was a collection of buildings, tents, and carts. Vendors sold everything from local produce to Masai beaded goods, wooden carvings, clothing, and even farming and automotive parts. Locals visited the market daily to sell or buy, coming on foot or via the ubiquitous dala dalas. Parking was catch-as-catch-can on the dirt patches surrounding the market. When we arrived, the problem was obvious.
The parking areas were filled more with tour operators’ Land Cruisers and small busses than local cars. It was clear that the market had become a stop on the standard safari route, which meant it would be filled with Europeans and Americans. A perfect target.
Traffic was at a near standstill around the market, so we elected to proceed on foot. Seeing a small patch of dirt on the perimeter, I slammed the cruiser into the spot and we hopped out.
“This way,” I said, directing us to circle the perimeter in a clockwise direction. We took off running, heads swiveling for any sign of the dala dala that had escaped the petrol station.
It was immediately clear it was not going to be easy. The tall busses that brought backpackers up from South Africa blocked our sight lines. Throngs of visitors bunched together, making it difficult to distinguish individuals. And there were, frankly, a lot of silver vans.
We made our way through as quickly as we could, crossing paths in what looked like a weave drill. Each time we saw a silver van that was close in markings, we’d race to it. Shouts from the mpigadebe, the conductor who solicited fares on each van, followed our approach each time. While we didn’t draw our weapons as we searched, they often saw our hand movements to the bulges under our shirts and went silent rather quickly.
We had made our way down one length of the market, and were headed along the eastern side when a shape caught my eye. The rear hatch of a silver van was closing, revealing a large Pepsi logo. A circle, red on top and blue on the bottom. As I signaled to Sterba, I caught a glimpse of a male leaving the back of the van and walking down the street.
As we came closer, I knew this was the van. The man leaving must have been Naseeb, making some final change to the bomb. I was cognizant that my mission was to bring the bomber to justice. He was just out of my reach, moving into the crowd not 15 meters away. But in front of me was a bomb, one that threatened the lives of hundreds of people in the market. And my teammate was sitting right on it. No decision was needed.
We approached, crouching, from the blind spots on either side of the veh
icle. I took the right side where the driver would be, Sterba took the left. I silently mouthed a count for Sterba to see. On three, we popped.
I drew on the driver’s window. Empty. “Clear!” I said.
Sterba ripped the passenger compartment side door open, weapon extended. “Chen!” he exclaimed.
I opened the sliding door on my side of the vehicle to have Chen nearly fall into my arms. Her mouth was taped shut, and her hands were bound in a mass of duct tape to the passenger handle just inside the top of the door.
I shouted to Sterba, “Naseeb just left. Check the back!”
He ran around and opened the aft hatch while I pulled the tape off of Chen’s mouth.
“Ahhh!” she shouted as the tape came off. “Bomb in the back. Remote det!”
“On it!” Sterba replied. “Nice to have you back, Commander!”
“Good to be back, Sterbs,” she replied. As I withdrew my knife, I took a quick look at her face. A couple of abrasions and some swelling from punches. She would hurt like hell by dinner, but for now she was mobile.
“Jackson, we have two shells here wired to a cell phone,” Sterba said from the back of the van.
Chen’s hands popped free, and she immediately scampered over two rows of seats to the boot. “I saw him arm it. I’ve got this. Go get the sonofabitch!”
I looked at Sterba, who nodded. And then I took off running.
Again, the people and vehicles scattered about were a barrier. I was looking for a shape, a color, a texture. Naseeb had been wearing a thin olive jacket. It would be topped by the rounded shape of his head, the skin slightly shiny in the large bald spot. I scanned as I ran. Left-right, left-right.
I finally spotted him 10 meters ahead on the opposite side of the street.
There. He was visible for only an instant, walking around to the left passenger side of a black Land Cruiser and climbing in. I sprinted with everything I had, noticing the driver’s head tilt slightly as he put the truck into gear. The driver’s side was closest and the window was down, so I had to go for him.
I combined my running momentum with the swing of my right fist, and hit the driver’s jaw with such force that he was instantly knocked out. The vehicle had just started moving, so I grabbed the window frame with one hand and went for my weapon with the other.
Naseeb’s eyes went wide, but the chubby man reacted immediately. His foot slammed across the floorboards and mashed the driver’s foot down on the accelerator. I hung on for a second, but Naseeb steered the vehicle out of the parking space and onto the road just as a white dala dala was trying to pass. The van hit the side of Naseeb’s truck lightly near the front, having the effect of scraping me off the side. I bounced off the van and landed hard on the street, where I was hammered by a torrent of Swahili from the driver and conductor.
I ignored them as I popped to my feet. Naseeb had disentangled his Land Cruiser from the collision and was now pulling away. My choices were limited. Any port in a storm, I guess.
“Everyone out!” I shouted at the driver and passengers of the small van, raising my weapon for emphasis. “Now!” As the passenger doors slid back, I noticed that the branding this particular dala dala used was a thick green stripe and the name Quran in a decorative Middle Eastern typeface. How ironic.
Half a dozen locals piled out, their eyes wide with fear. The driver got out as I ran around the front of the vehicle.
“Call the police,” I instructed. He nodded in reply, his mouth open in shock but silent. “Let them know that I am in your van, chasing Naseeb Aman. Got that?” He nodded again as I hopped into the driver’s seat.
“Repeat it.”
He did, and I put the little van into gear and tore off. I looked up in time to see Naseeb’s black Land Cruiser stop. A figure fell out: the unconscious driver. The vehicle immediately got underway, and turned right just over a block ahead.
As I revved up through each gear and weaved between cars, people, and small animals, it became apparent that I had not chosen the ideal chase vehicle. Dala dalas are essentially small vans built to move a dozen people from point A to point B in the most efficient way possible. There’s a little engine, pathetically small wheels, and a very long and tall back. They’re not designed for going fast, braking heavily, and then hitting a corner at pace. And that’s exactly what I was doing—all at once—when I hit the intersection to make the right turn. As I skidded through the hard-packed dirt, I knew I was on two wheels, and that my weight in the driver’s seat was likely the only thing keeping me upright.
We had turned onto the main road on the southern side of town. The good news was that it was wider; the bad news was that it was packed with traffic. Ahead, I caught a glimpse of Naseeb weaving through traffic. I laid on the horn, and shifted right to get myself in the center of the road. One of the advantages of driving in countries with predominantly dirt roads is the ability to make lanes as needed, but driving in the middle of the road had its hazards since the drivers of some larger trucks had similar ideas, especially when passing locals on their bicycles or pulling hand-drawn carts. It also meant that I was visible to Naseeb, and gave him the same idea.
I pressed and pressed, asking what I am sure was more from the little 4-cylinder engine than any of its previous owners, and together we were able to close the gap down to only a few meters. But as we approached the edge of town, traffic began to thin. And while I’d had the advantage navigating through obstacles thanks to some old, and thankfully not too rusty, training, the larger engine in the Land Cruiser would easily lose me on the straights.
We popped a small crest, and I could see open road in the distance. It was now or never. I dropped down a gear and mashed the accelerator. The thin floorboard bent under the pressure, and the engine noise was positively deafening, but the old van answered the call. I closed the gap and shifted to the Land Cruiser’s right side, preparing for what is known as a PIT maneuver. The PIT, or pursuit immobilization technique, is one of the first things one learns in any tactical driving course. Essentially, the pursuer goes partially alongside the target vehicle and turns into its rear quarter panel. This causes the target vehicle to turn perpendicular and rapidly stop.
That’s the theory, anyway.
In actual practice, you need a bit of mass in the front of your car to force the target vehicle to lose its grip. With most cars, the area just in front of the front wheels is perfect for this. The driver’s well away from the point of contact, and the weight of the engine when you steer into the target provides ample force. But my trusty little Quran Van didn’t have a bonnet. The driver sits well forward—over the top of the front wheels, in fact—and the engine sits between the driver and front passenger. This is great for maneuverability in a small city, but is absolutely terrible for knocking another car off the road.
I felt that I could achieve the mass needed by going a little farther forward to compensate, so I pulled up until my front wheel was even with his back wheel and slammed hard left. Immediately, I heard a popping noise from my left front wheel. The steering wheel began to shake violently, but it worked. The rear of the Land Cruiser quickly lost traction and began to pivot. As the vehicle went perpendicular, the fake Naseeb looked out his window with a face full of hatred. I gripped the wheel hard with my left hand, and quickly used my right to aim my weapon through the driver’s side window.
Just as I pulled the trigger, his vehicle slammed down at an odd angle. One of his tires had rolled off the rim as I plowed him sideways. My shot went high. As I adjusted, things went terribly wrong. My right front wheel suddenly snapped. The bare axle dug into the hard pack and came to an immediate stop, sending my vehicle ass over teacup in a perverse cartwheel. I saw only road through the windscreen before the van landed on its roof and everything went black.
13
I woke to a kick to the head delivered by a smelly sandal-clad foot. The upside was I knew I was alive and at least cognitively functioning. The downside was—well, it was a dirty, smelly foot
.
I blinked through the cobwebs of a serious bell-ringing, ran my tongue through my mouth to find that all my teeth were there, and moved my toes and fingers. All present and accounted for.
I was lying on my back in the crumpled cockpit of the van. Twisting my head to the side, I could see Naseeb’s feet. I took as deep a breath as I could handle and then, with as much speed and force as possible, thrust my hand out at an ankle and pulled it forward. I caught him slightly off balance and he collapsed onto his back. As quickly as I could, I pulled myself through the window.
Not quickly enough, however, because Naseeb had regained his footing and delivered another kick to my abdomen just as I made it out. I took the blow full force, and some combination of the concussion from the crash and his kick caused me to vomit.
“Yes, you filthy pig. That will teach you!”
He dialed up for another kick. But this time I knew it was coming and was able to tighten my abdominal muscles enough to take the blow. I reached out to grab his foot after the impact, but was too late. The energy of that small effort had taken its toll, and I realized that my noggin was not in the best of shape. I stayed down, my cheek resting in the dirt, giving myself a second to build the strength to get to my feet.
Seeing that I didn’t counter attack immediately, Naseeb stood above me, a nasty smirk on his face. He pulled a phone out of his pocket, likely to call his fellow bombers to pick us up. As he dialed, he said to me, “I would like you to know that every second I was with you, I thought of ways to kill you.”
“Well, at least the feeling is mutual now.”
He pulled the phone away from his ear and uttered a curse in Arabic.
“They won’t answer, Naseeb,” I said. “They can’t. We killed them all.”
In response, he delivered another kick. This time, though, I was ready for it and turned to take the brunt of the blow on a shoulder. As his foot made contact, I pivoted and drove my arm back, hoping to further the momentum of his kick and put him on the ground once again. His reflexes were dialed in and he simply spun, but that extra movement gave me the second I needed to get to my feet.