by Craig Reed
"You're not?"
The sound of a car horn cut through the desert afternoon and Madar, sitting behind the jeep's steering wheel, pulled up next to them. He hopped out of the car and stood with his hands on his hips, glaring at Stephen.
"What are you doing here, you idiot?" the Somali yelled in accented Arabic.
"I—" Stephen began to say, only to be slapped by Madar.
"Enough!" the smaller man shouted. "I told my cousin you were an idiot, and this proves it!"
"But—"
Madar slapped him again. "An idiot!" He turned and bowed to Riyad. "Profuse apologies, sir. Did this man bother you?"
Riyad looked down on Madar. "Who are you?"
"I am Madar Osman, Axiam's cousin. My cousin has been forced to hire idiots like this one to protect his business interests. Now I am stuck with keeping these dimwits in line while my cousin brokers a deal with important clients."
He turned back toward Stephen and pointed at the jeep. "Get in! If you are lucky, my cousin will only fire you!"
Stephen got into the jeep's front passenger seat. Madar got behind the steering wheel and looked at Riyad. "Again, profuse apologies, sir. This fool will be lucky he still has a job by the end of the day."
Riyad's expression was hard to read. After a few seconds, he flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Get out of here. If I see him again, I will kill him."
Madar started the jeep's engine, and after making a sloppy three-point turn, headed back the way Stephen and he had come from.
"Don't look back!" Madar yelled as they drove up to the red-roofed building.
"Everything all right?" Liam asked over the radio. Stephen could see him standing on the building's second floor balcony.
"Had a run-in with Riyad," Stephen said.
"I saw. Got some good pictures of him, too. Stick with the jeep, because I think Axiam is just about finished here."
"I should thank you," Stephen said to Madar.
The Somalian snorted. "I no like Americans," he said in heavily accented English. "Both parents dead in Mogadishu during American occupation. But I no like Arabs more."
"Looks like the meeting is over," Liam said. "We're on our way down."
* * *
Three hours later, Tanner looked up from the map and the pictures. "We have a problem."
"Putting it mildly," Liam agreed.
The team met in the barracks, clustered around a heavy wooden table. The tabletop was covered with a satellite map of Eyl and surrounding areas, along with photos printed from a portable printer out of Danielle's equipment bag. The remains of the midday meal — pasta in a thick stew and bananas — lined the edges of the table, its smell lingering in the air.
The team quickly realized any plan that involved infiltrating the beach and stealing a skiff was not going to work. "There are always guards on the beach," Stephen pointed out. "My source says they're mostly Yabaal's men, and at least a dozen patrol the beach, even at night."
"And even if we could get to the beach, undetected," Dante said, “there's still the matter of getting the boat out into the ocean and crossing half a mile of water to reach those ships. We don't know how many pirates they have on those ships."
"There's been no sign of any prisoners taken off those ships," Liam said, "so assuming any crew are still alive, they must still be aboard."
They bounced ideas back and forth, but there were too many unknowns to arrive at a definitive course of action.
Then Axiam entered the room. "How's the planning going?"
"It isn't," Tanner replied. "Too many unknown factors."
"I've got more data to throw into your pot of problems. For one, the Northstar Venture is leaving tonight, after dark."
"Shit," Dante muttered.
"Any idea when?" Tanner asked.
"No, but I'm guessing about midnight. That's when there's a window when there are no observation satellites overhead."
"What else do you have?"
"If it wasn’t for bad news I wouldn’t have any news at all. That other ship anchored out there — it isn't a captured cargo ship being ransomed. It belongs to the Arabs."
"You sure?" Naomi asked.
"More than one of my contacts has seen sailors from that second ship come ashore and go about their business without guards, armed with pistols. There's also no friction between them and the Arab soldiers on-shore."
"Do you have the ship's name?" Tanner asked. He tapped a finger on one of the ship's photos. "They've covered the names with canvas."
Axiam nodded. "The name 'Saad el Melik' has been bandied about for that cargo vessel. Whether or not that's the ship's real name is another matter."
"We'll worry about that ship later," Tanner said.
"I have more bad news." Axiam's expression was bleak. "The Northstar's crew is dead."
"Dead?" Dante asked. "Are you sure?"
The Somali agent nodded. "Talked to a few of my sources. Word has gone around Eyl that the Arabs executed them. They used Yabaal's men to move the bodies into a refrigerated container on the Northstar, and they weren't happy about it. There's no crew to rescue."
"None of that helps with our current problem," Liam said. "We can't get out to Northstar Venture by boat, and unless we can fly we—" He stopped as a grin materialized on his features.
"Wait a minute…Maybe we can fly…"
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Darkness had settled over the Somali coast. Onboard the Northstar Venture, Narsai was on the bridge, going through the checklist before the ship started on it mission.
Riyad entered through the port-side bridge door. In the dim red light, he looked like a devil. "How long before you weigh anchor?" he asked.
"An hour," Narsai replied.
"What is the weather forecast?"
"Rough seas tonight, but after that, it should be fair sailing."
"The missiles ready?"
"Yes, sir. Doctor Masood says it'll take two hours to fuel and make final preparation, but otherwise, they are ready."
"Good," Riyad grunted.
"Is something wrong, sir?" Narsai asked. "You seem, well, distracted."
Riyad made a dismissive gesture. "Just someone I met on the beach this morning. Do you anything about a khat dealer being in town?"
"No sir, but I don't chew khat."
"I think I may be jumping at shadows."
Narsai frowned. "Why?"
"I ran into a Yemeni who claimed he was working for an Axiam Osman, but something was off about him, and I can't put my finger on it."
"What happened to him?"
"One of the Somalis, a relative of this Osman, showed up, started berating him and slapping him. He ordered the Yemeni back into a jeep and they drove off."
"It doesn't sound like a problem to me," Narsai said. "We already have too many things to worry about."
"Maybe you're right," Riyad said. He glanced at his watch. "We will be leaving in two hours. I have one last meeting with Yabaal, and Ilshu should be arriving in that time frame. After that, we will be right behind you." Riyad stepped forward and hugged the younger man. "Good luck, my friend. May Allah give you good weather and good hunting."
"You too, sir."
Eyl
Wardi Yabaal's headquarters was the home of a former pirate chieftain who had run afoul of the international community and was now spending thirty years in a Tanzanian prison. When Yabaal had seized the town, he had kicked the man's family out of the home and taken it for his own. It was guarded by two dozen men of Yabaal's "Praetorian Guard," men who looked and acted no differently from any of the other men in Yabaal's "People's Islamic Army."
It was dusk when Riyad walked through the open gates into the dimly-lit courtyard. His eyes shifted constantly, picking up the weak points in Yabaal's security arrangements. On his right shoulder, Ilshu, his AK-74 casually slung over his shoulder, was doing much of the same. His helicopter had landed twenty minutes earlier, long enough for Riyad to alter his plan to include
his subordinate. Ilshu's expression had remained impassive when his superior had laid out the plan, remaining so as they walked into the compound. Three of Ilshu's men, also armed with assault rifles, accompanied them. Another half dozen of Riyad's men stayed behind with the cars. Riyad was unarmed and carried a briefcase.
The two Somalis guarding the front door stared at the approaching group with puzzlement. One of them stepped forward and put his hand up in the universal signal to stop. "The general's busy. He can't see anyone tonight."
Riyad and his men stopped. "He'll see me. I found some more hardware and I think the general could use it. Anti-tank weapons for example."
Riyad saw the guard's eyes widen ever so slightly. It was rumored that Abada's force had a couple of tanks and at least a half-dozen APCs. "I will tell the general. Wait here, Colonel."
After the guard went inside, Riyad addressed his men. "Wait here for five minutes after Yasir and I go inside."
The three nodded and stepped away from the door, spreading out so each man stood a dozen feet from the others. They began looking around, quietly noticing where the guards were. An alert and knowledgeable soldier would have been suspicious of the soldier's actions, but Yabaal's guards were neither.
The guard came out. "You can have five minutes. Follow me."
Riyad and Ilshu trailed the guard into the house. The place looked picked over, what had been good quality furnishings looked dirty, cracked and battered. A few lights were on, but most of the house was dark.
The guard led Riyad to a door flanked by two of his associates. "The general says he will speak only to you, Colonel.”
"Stay here," Riyad said to Ilshu. "Give me a couple of minutes."
Ilshu nodded, leaned up against the wall and folded his arms. The gesture hid his right hand, which now rested on the pummel of the knife on his belt.
Riyad stepped inside what was an office or study. A large desk dominated the left side of the room, with a few chairs, a couch, a couple of end tables, Arabian rugs, and garish paintings. Behind the desk, Riyad could see the interior courtyard that the house was built around.
Yabaal sat at his desk, which was covered with a map, a couple of half-eaten meals on dishes, and a few glasses. He looked up as Riyad entered the room.
"You say you have more weapons? Interesting weapons?" he said, not bothering to hide his eagerness.
Riyad's eyes swept the room. Three other men guarded the space, Yabaal's subordinates. Riyad never learned their names, and in a few minutes, it wouldn't matter.
"Indeed," Riyad said, walking to the desk.
Yabaal looked at the guards, still standing by the door. They were mercenaries, and although they worked for him today, there was no telling who they might work for next week or next month, and so he’d rather not have them know what new armaments he was considering.
"Go," he said, and the guards disappeared, closing the door behind him. The Somali warlord eyed Riyad again.
"Interesting weapons, you say?"
"Anti-armor. RPG-27s. A whole crate of them. We're unloading it right now."
Yabaal smiled. "Excellent. What else?"
Riyad placed the briefcase on the desk and opened it. "We also found a few of these. APB silenced machine pistols."
Yabaal frowned. "A machine pistol?"
"It's like a machine gun, only it's a pistol!" Riyad held one up. "Used by the Russian special forces. It fires a 9 x 18mm round." He held up a magazine. "Twenty rounds in each magazine. With a little training, you can fire two or three shots at a time.”
Riyad slid the magazine into the automatic and pulled the slide back. "Like so."
He reached into the case and pulled out a thick tube twice as long as the pistol itself and began screwing it on the end of the muzzle.
The tension in the room suddenly escalated, the air seeming to thicken.
Yabaal's expression changed from something quizzical to a sort of dark seriousness. "All right, I don't think you need to proceed any further," he said, pushing his chair back.
Riyad reached into the case and removed a wire stock. "They say you need the stock to help control the pistol, but in the hands of an expert, you can shoot it almost as well one-handed."
Beads of sweat formed on Yabaal's forehead as Riyad attached the stock to the gun. While Yabaal’s men had firearms, they were now outside the door. No doubt not very far, but still. The general's hand drifted toward his AK leaning against the desk.
The ICA officer held up the now fully assembled machine pistol in his right hand, muzzle pointed at the ceiling.
"And there you are.”
Yabaal's hand froze, the Somali uncertain of Riyad's next move.
Riyad lowered the weapon until it was pointed at the floor and took a couple of steps back from the desk. "My ship is leaving inside the hour. This is good-bye."
Yabaal's eyes narrowed. "You are cutting it close, Colonel.”
"I felt it was prudent to leave this until the last minute."
Yabaal's hand darted out, grabbing the barrel of his AK-47. But Riyad raised the APB and blasted a three-shot burst into Yabaal's chest. As the warlord rocked back in his chair, Riyad pivoted in time to aim his weapon at the door as it opened. Two of Yabaal’s bodyguards charged into the room, reaching for their sidearms. Behind them, Ilshu grappled with a third. The last two guards were already down, blood spreading across their bodies.
Riyad fired a long salvo in a figure-eight pattern into the first two Somalis into the room, and those two dropped hard.
As the guard behind them broke free from Ilshu’s grasp, he whirled around and tripped over his dead comrades. Ilshu swiped at him with his knife but missed. Then Riyad spun back to the left and thrust the end of the suppressor into the voice box of the fallen Somali, the vulgar sound reminiscent of a can being crushed under foot.
With a quick, practiced motion, Riyad exchanged the machine pistol's magazine for a fresh one. He looked back at Yabaal, whose shirt was stained red with blood. The warlord's eyes were still fixed on Riyad.
"Why?" he rasped.
"You are a loose end." Riyad placed a single shot between Yabaal's eyes.
Ilshu wiped the blade of his knife on the pant leg of a dead guard. Outside, gunfire erupted as the rest of Riyad's team killed the other guards.
"We had better get moving, sir," Ilshu said. "There's no telling when Abada is going to launch his attack."
Riyad glanced at his watch. "Assuming he keeps his word, Abada will attack in twenty-seven minutes. By then, we will be onboard the Saad el Melik and underway."
* * *
The MI-8MT (NATO designation, "Hip") helicopter had been first developed and built in the 1960s for use by the Communist Bloc states. While outdated by modern standards, the Hip, like a lot of Soviet equipment, was basically sound and cheap enough to be bought by client countries. Designed to be a general purpose craft, the Hip was a common sight in Africa.
But not usually at night.
In the cockpit, Axiam flew the bird only a hundred feet of the ground. Normally, this would have been near impossible, as the Hip wasn't usually equipped with night vision gear. But not only had Axiam been a helicopter pilot in the Marines, he had acquired enough equipment over the years to allow him to fly at night, though he had admitted he hadn't done so for several years.
The Somali-born CIA agent hadn't been happy with the idea of using his helicopter to ferry the team out to the ships, but he had been furious when Tanner told him the truth about the nuclear warheads. It took Stephen several minutes to calm Axiam down, pointing out that operational security was the only reason the team hadn't been able to fill him in on the complete story. Finally, Axiam was placated somewhat and he agreed to pilot the helicopter to the ships.
In the co-pilot's seat, Tanner watched Axiam fly. He was wearing his own night-vision goggles, but the ground below them passed by too quickly to see much detail.
"How far to the coast?"
"Ten minutes at most. I'm fly
ing farther north to make sure we stay away from Eyl."
Tanner nodded. They had seen several explosions to the south, artillery trading fire according to Liam. Any aircraft in the vicinity would be targeted by both sides.
Tanner craned his neck to look back in the cargo compartment. Besides the rest of OUTCAST, both Geedi and Madar were there, each cousin manning a door-mounted heavy machine gun. In addition, a rocket pod was mounted on each side of the fuselage, though Tanner did notice that neither pod contained a full load of rockets.
Axiam started humming something under his breath, and Tanner finally recognized it as the Marine Corps Hymn. He looked out through the cockpit glass and saw the coastline ahead of them, looming quickly.
"All right, boys and girls," Axiam said briskly, we are about to go 'feet wet.'"
He said something in Somali, and both cousins acknowledged him with short replies, also in Somali.
The land below them vanished and there was the ocean. The sea rolled and heaved, forcing Tanner to look away.
Axiam banked the Hip to the right. "We should be thirty miles north of Eyl," he said.
"Can they see us on radar?" Tanner wanted to know.
"Probably. We should have eyes on them in about ten minutes."
"Assuming they haven't already gotten underway."
Seven minutes came and went. There were a few more flashes of light to Tanner's right front, getting closer. Axiam shifted the helicopter’s course, taking it farther out into the ocean and away from possible anti-aircraft fire. After another minute, Tanner could make out features along the coast.
"I can see buildings.”
"That's Eyl," Axiam confirmed, “but I don’t see any ships at anchor."
Tanner scoped it out but saw nothing but ocean. "They're off and running."
"We’ll find them. I have enough fuel for another two and a half hours of flight, and this bird is four times faster than either ship. We can use the radar to select our targets."
"Dani," Tanner said, turning around, "What's the max speed of the Northstar Venture?"
"Twenty-five knots, or about twenty-nine miles an hour."
"When did the window for no satellites overhead begin?"