by Larry Bond
“Somebody I trust.”
“You don’t mean me.”
“It has to be somebody I trust. The army guys, I just haven’t worked with them. And I’m not working with these civilians.”
“Stephen, come on. This is a different place.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I’m not army. I’m not anything.”
“But I trust you.”
“Screw that. I’m kind of busy.” James took another swig of the wine, then offered it to Rankin. “Want some? It’s French. It’s pretty decent. Cost fifty bucks a bottle in the States.”
“I need you to come with me, James. I really do.”
“Listen, Stephen, I love you and everything, but, no.” James went over to the girl and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, then went into the bathroom, her bare behind poking through the blanket as she walked. Rankin started to speak, but James put up his finger to quiet him. The girl emerged a few minutes later in a long Arab dress that made her look even younger. James pressed money into her hand, then gave her a kiss.
Rankin stared at the floor as she left.
“I need your help,” Rankin said when James closed the door.
“Nah, come on. Let’s go get drunk. There’s this really great strip joint a mile from here. Where’s your buddy? We’ll have a party.”
“James.”
“Aw, for Christ’s sake.” James shook his head, but Rankin knew from the way he did it — from the frown on his face, from the look in his eyes — that he was coming. James was the guy you met in Hell who wouldn’t let you down. “Can I write about it?” he asked.
Rankin shook his head.
“Stephen, Jesus.”
“Maybe in a couple of years you could write about it.”
James laughed. It was a bitter, tight, very quick laugh. “I’m not going to be alive in a couple of years.”
“Depending on what happens, you might be able to write about it in a couple of years.”
James cursed. “All right. Wake me up when it’s time. I’m not driving. I hate driving in this country.”
“It’s time. Come on. I have a gun for you.”
“We’re going now?”
“I have a machine gun. Guns is getting the Humvee.”
“No Humvee.”
“It’s an armored one. We may need it.”
James shook his head, but Rankin had already started out of the room.
13
LATAKIA
Ferguson knew Ras’s contacts with the Syrians were good, but he hadn’t realized they were quick as well. He’d thought he would have another ten or fifteen minutes at least before they could get anyone out here, and then it would only be policemen who might fire their guns once a year if that. The people firing at him now were coming incredibly close to the yacht and to his small boat, close enough, in fact, that he decided to plunge into the water and begin stroking toward a group of boats two hundred yards away. By the time he reached them the Syrian marines in the Zodiacs had reached the yacht. Rather than confiscating his small boat, they perforated the bottom and watched it sink.
In the meantime, the corvette drew closer and began playing searchlights across the water. Ferguson saw another pair of Zodiacs headed up from the south and figured there would soon be a boat from the corvette as well. There were sure to be soldiers or policemen on shore. His best bet seemed to be swimming north.
Fortunately, it was a pleasant night for a swim, and he began stroking to the north. Unfortunately, the Syrians had sent another pair of Zodiacs from that direction. He reversed course and did his best freestyle back to the boats, pulling himself into the nearest dinghy as the rigid-hulled inflatables began crisscrossing the area. Lying on his back in the bottom of the boat, he pulled out his sat phone and called 911.
Actually, it was Van Buren, who was orbiting offshore in the MC-130.
“How about we try that diversion?” suggested Ferguson.
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago would have been great. But now will do.”
Ferguson stowed the phone and listened to the Zodiacs approach. His arms and shoulders were sore, and his neck stiff; hopefully his muscles would respond better once he got back in the water. He didn’t particularly feel like going back in, but it was better than the alternative.
Guided by the GPS signal in the phone, the MC-130 zoomed toward shore. Roughly three miles from the mooring area — and well within range to he detected by the corvette — it fired off a shower of flares. This was followed by a hard bank as the corvette began peppering the air with flak. One of the bullets from the gun struck the plane and its fuel tank exploded, sending it spiraling into the water.
Or so it appeared from the water. The MC-130 had actually jettisoned a large disposable fuel tank that had been rigged to explode in flames; a pair of small parachutes kept it airborne just long enough to heighten the effect. Ferguson thought he could hear a whoop of elation from the Zodiacs over the roar of their engines. Three of the four that had pulled up near Birk’s old yacht immediately began racing for the supposed wreckage. He slipped over the side and began stroking south, angling toward shore.
The cramp in his neck disappeared, but his arms remained tired; even his legs felt drained. He pushed on, his goal the rocky beach. But within a few minutes he realized he wasn’t making much progress at all. He thought he felt the temperature of the water abruptly change. Remembering the riptide that had taken Guns, he started to get serious about cutting across the current. When that didn’t work, he rested for a minute. This wasn’t a mistake because he really had no other choice, but the tide took him back to the north in the direction of the corvette’s searchlights.
A minute wasn’t much of a rest, but it was all he was getting. Ferguson threw himself into it, pushing directly toward the beach. Head down, he slammed his hand against the shallow rocks sooner than he thought possible. He wrapped his arm around the stone and held on, the water tugging at him, still trying to pull him out to sea. After awhile he pulled up onto the rocks, wincing because of his bare feet. He made it to a relatively level portion of land and sat down, leaning against a boulder and thinking he would rest a few minutes before heading south along the shore and returning to the hotel. But his arms were too heavy to move, and his legs felt pasted to the ground.
Ferguson remained there, a sodden mass, for a half hour, watching the headlights that occasionally swept along the road above. He’d climbed up next to a boat landing. Studying the lights he eventually realized that if he’d gone just six or seven feet farther to the south, he could have walked up a paved path from the sea. Crawled, more likely.
He was just thinking that he was in an exposed, easily seen position when a set of lights turned down the ramp. Too tired to run, he slipped to the side behind the rock, trying to hide as two men got out and came down to the water, only a few feet from him.
The men had seen him on the ground and came over, shouting at him that they were policemen and he was in a great deal of trouble. One kicked him in the ribs, asking in Arabic if he was drunk or drowned. The other grabbed him and started to pull him up; as he did, the sat phone fell from one of Ferg’s pockets. The man dropped Ferguson in a heap and picked up the phone. The phone had a thumbprint reader as well as a password number for security, so there was no chance of it working. The man fiddled with it for a few minutes, then tossed it to his companion, who threw it out into the sea.
When the first man returned and tried to pick up the drunkard by the shirt, he suddenly found himself flying in a somersault toward the rocks. Ferguson jumped up and aimed a kick at the other man, bare foot connecting with the Iraqi’s knee. The man grabbed Ferguson as he fell and managed to pull him down with him. Ferguson kicked at his chest but the man held on, his fingers like metal clamps. The fatigue that had immobilized Ferguson just a few minutes ago vanished; he rolled and smashed the man’s head with his fist, pounding him into unconsciousness with three blows to the temple.
/> In the meantime, the first man drew his pistol and began firing wildly, the bullets sailing well over Ferguson’s head. Panicked, he quickly emptied the magazine. As the gun clicked empty, Ferguson threw himself forward and plowed headfirst into the Syrian, knocking the wind from him. Two sharp blows to his head put him out for good.
Ferguson grabbed the gun and looked at the man’s belt for more ammunition. All he could find were a pair of handcuffs. He cuffed the man’s arms behind his back and did the same to his companion. Then he sized up the men and borrowed the clothes of the larger. His pants were too wide but more than an inch short; the shoes, at least, fit snugly.
Smaller than an American vehicle and without the bubblegum light at the top, the police car nonetheless came fully equipped with everything Ferguson wanted at the moment: four wheels, a full tank of gas, and a key to save him the trouble of jumping it.
Ferguson turned the wrong way out of the road leading to the ramp and found himself driving north rather than south on the highway. The easiest way to correct this was with a U-turn in the middle of the road. He misjudged the distance and went off the other side, the tire slipping down into a ditch and taking part of the exhaust with it. The pipe clattered along loudly. Ferguson was no mechanic, but he found a suitable solution by veering off the side again, scraping the pipe sufficiently to leave it and the muffler behind.
Except for its effect on Ferguson’s ears, the noise wasn’t a problem on the highway; given that the hotel was only a mile or so away, he figured he could tough it out. But as he neared the hotel he saw a pair of military vehicles at the front entrance and decided to keep going.
The sat phone would be sending a GPS signal out because it had been tampered with. If he didn’t call in soon, Van Buren would initiate the bailout plan. Unfortunately, Syria wasn’t very big on roadside telephone booths. Ferguson drove all the way to Latakia without spotting a place to park. Finally, he parked on a side street near the train station and got out, figuring there would be a phone inside. He had to put his hands in his pockets to keep the borrowed pants from ending up around his ankles, but there was a phone at the corner, and he called the number that signified he was OK.
Feeling a bit like a homeless man living in a borrowed set of pants, Ferguson walked south through the city, looking for a place where he might hide out and sleep. After several blocks he thought of the hotel they had escaped from and the bikes they had left in the alley nearby. As he turned down one block, he caught a glimpse of the moon. The sight of it between the buildings and his fatigue played on his mind, and within a block he was softly humming “The Rising of the Moon.”
Death to every foe and traitor
Or would strike the marching tune —
And we’ll arm our boys for freedom
‘Tis the risin’ of the moon…
The bicycles were still there. He took one and pedaled south, riding for nearly an hour until his legs felt so tired he thought they might fall off. He found a spot of brush near the water on the other side of the railroad tracks to hide.
Ferg lay on his back, staring at the stars, the words to “The Rising of the Moon” still echoing in his head.
14
TAL ASHTAH NEW, IRAQ
DAYBREAK…
The guards who challenged Rankin, Guns, and James on the road into the airport at Tal Ashtah New had American Ml6s and sidearms, but everything else about them was Iraqi. Rankin stared at their ill-fitting pants and their untucked shirts as their sergeant checked the ID cards. In Rankin’s opinion the Iraqi army was good at one thing and one thing only: running away. All the real fighters joined the resistance groups.
The guard gave the cards a cursory glance, then handed them back. Rankin gave him the name of the air freight company they were looking for, seeking directions; the Iraqi simply waved at them, not wanting to be bothered.
“There can’t be many buildings here,” said James, leaning forward from the backseat between Rankin and Guns. “And what’s here’ll be falling down.”
Contrary to James’s prediction, the first building they saw was in good shape, and the second was brand new.
“That way,” said Guns, seeing the sign for Mesopotamia Express, the name of the company that flew the aircraft Thomas had tracked. The macadam road turned to concrete; the company’s building sat to the left, in front of a large ramp area. A four-engined aircraft sat in the back. After spending much of their day yesterday tracking down useless leads about people who might have been connected to the shipment of the rocket fuel, this felt like they were really on to something. Even though Guns realized it was unlikely they would find Vassenka or the cruise missile Ferguson had told them about here, he checked his M4, making sure it was ready for action.
“Let’s check the plane first,” said Rankin.
They drove over and parked alongside. There weren’t any guards or even employees nearby. A high-winged design that looked like a slimmer version of the American C-130, the Russian-made An-12 dated from the late 1950s. T his particular plane had been around since the mid-1960s. After serving in the south of Russia for more than a decade, it had been transferred to Iraqi military service. It was now on its third owner, a company run by a pair of former Iraqi pilots, one of whom had received a bonus from the dictator after the first Gulf War for running to Iran with his MiG. The plane had been well maintained mechanically but looked a bit of a hodgepodge on the outside, with the remains of old paint schemes and even different ID numbers littered along its fuselage. There was a door on the pilot’s side beneath the high wing. This was generally reached with the aid of an exterior ladder. There were no ladders nearby, and the wheel fairing made it difficult to climb high enough to get a foothold, but Rankin got enough of a foot- and handhold to reach the recessed handle.
The freshly risen sun streamed shafts of light through the windows into the long, bare interior. Ropes lay scattered around the tie-downs, but otherwise the cargo bay was empty.
The warehouse doors at the rear of the company’s building were closed, but the front door was open. Rankin, Guns, and James walked past the small reception area into the back, Rankin thinking of what Ferguson would have done in this situation, the others glancing around warily. Guns held his M4 at his side, as if there were any way to be discreet when carrying an automatic weapon into a building.
Two panel trucks that looked like downsized UPS vehicles sat to the right. Assorted pipes, small boxes, bundles of Arabic-language newspapers, old wooden crates, and a pile of rubber mats were arranged opposite them. None of the boxes was big enough to hold a surface-to-surface missile or its related hardware. Rankin was just going around to check the trucks when a fat man in mechanic’s overalls came out from around one of the vehicles and demanded to know what they were doing there.
“Looking for someone?” asked Rankin in Arabic. The phrase came easy on the tongue; he’d said it a million times in Iraq. “What are you doing?”
“You’re the intruder,” said the man, switching to English. “What is it you want?”
Rankin took a step toward the mechanic, who made the mistake of starting to square off as if to punch him. The American’s reflexes kicked in, and within a split second he had the Iraqi on his stomach, arm pinned behind his back. Rankin drew his pistol and pointed it at the man’s face, though given the fact that he hadn’t been intimidated by Guns’s rifle this was probably a useless gesture.
“I think we’d all be better served if we asked a few questions calmly,” suggested James. “I doubt there’s much here for anyone to get very upset about, much less shot.”
He repeated the words in Arabic. The Iraqi, somewhat more subdued, shrugged. He said that he worked on the trucks and knew nothing about the aircraft.
“We don’t want to know about the aircraft,” Rankin said in English, letting James translate. “We’re looking for a very big package.”
“A package that was supposed to go to us but didn’t,” added James when he translated, adding justice
to their claim for information.
Guns went over to the desk near the window and rifled through the drawers. He found a strongbox with some bills and a notebook, and a larger ledger divided into columns. The writing was in Arabic. He held it up.
“Hey, James, can you read this?”
The journalist came over and struggled through a few lines. They were cities and what he thought were the names of the drivers or the person responsible for the delivery.
“Let our friend here read it,” said Rankin.
He jerked the mechanic to his feet. The man stared at the ground.
What would Ferguson do? Rankin asked himself.
Probably be able to read it; the SOB seemed to know every stinking language going. But if he couldn’t, he’d bribe the man to get him to help.
Unlike Ferguson, though, Rankin didn’t travel with a wad of counterfeit local currency. He reached into his wallet and took out fifty dollars American, half of the money he had.
“Read it for us,” he told the mechanic, holding the money toward him. But Rankin hadn’t handled the exchange deftly enough; the incident became a matter of pride for the Iraqi, who would have refused a bribe of a hundred times that amount. Rankin, angry at himself as well as the man, tossed down the money. “Take the books. Let’s get out of here,” he said.
* * *
They found a schoolteacher to translate the ledger books. The woman thought they were a bit eccentric until James explained that they had found the books along the side of the road and were trying to figure out where they should be returned. The deliveries were to cities and towns within a hundred-mile radius. There was no information on what was delivered.
All but one of the deliveries had been made to the south, in the direction of Tikrit.
“The thing’s range is what, a little better than fifty miles?” said Guns. “So they’d have to drop it off, then take it farther south.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” said Rankin. “From these books, the deliveries could be envelopes. Neither of those trucks was big enough for a Siren missile.”