Dolphin Drone

by James Ottar Grundvig

  Fuller pulled up drone photos that showed a pool of blood where the pirate fell on the bow deck. He zoomed in and maneuvered the picture around 360 degrees, looking past the blood for tiny bullet holes in the steel or gunwale. But he didn’t find any. If there were other pirates with Samatar, why wouldn’t Olsen take them down, too? Fuller showed Dante the aerial photo.

  Dante studied them and examined the area around the blood, looking for stray bullet holes in the deck. “Maybe Samatar’s bodyguards fired back,” Dante suggested, handing the tablet back to Fuller as he gazed out the window to the other hijacked ship, which was moored in the bay of Zeila. With binoculars, he surveyed the container boxes stacked on the deck of the Shining Sea. He panned the bridge and derricks, but didn’t see a single person on board. Unlike the supertanker, the container ship appeared upright, in deep water, sitting unscathed.

  “Pull out—” the copilot said to the pilot, pointing to an ancient stone tower.

  Dante and Fuller looked down across the beach to the tower, where they spotted a couple of pirates aiming RPG-7 grenade launchers at the helicopter. The pair stood in the threshold of the broken door, pointing up at the invading Black Hawk, while another pirate, armed with AKM assault rifle, kneeled on the crumbled turret on top of the tower.

  The pilot banked the Black Hawk out over the gulf, climbing away. A few stray shots were fired; a RPG grenade scorched the air, rising … soaring … The pilot corkscrewed the Black Hawk down toward the sea, spinning, as the grenade ripped by the tail, barely missing the rear rotor. He swung the helicopter out of the drive and raced over the sea, with Dante and Fuller holding on, laughing at the close call.

  “We lost hostages, not our lives,” Dante said to the pilot, clutching his chest. “Damn.”

  The pilot flew over the arid land and there, across the vast desert expanse in the heat haze of the horizon, stood Hargeisa, the heart of the runaway region of Somaliland.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  A DOZEN MILES off the coast of Berbera, Merk rode the stolen skiff out to sea with the navy dolphins swimming alongside, fluking, darting, diving, leaping, hopping over the waves. They raced out in front, crisscrossing the bow.

  Merk sent an encrypted message to the USS New York to be extracted by the Black Hawk that had carried him, Nico, and the dolphins to the drop zone off the coast of Somalia days before. He cut the engine and waited in open sea. He scanned 360 degrees to see if any ships, dhows, or skiffs were heading his way. For the next hour things remained calm.

  Breaking the stillness of the blue sky was the blurred image of a Black Hawk flying in from the northeast. As it flew closer, Merk took out a chemlight, twisted it with an infrared beacon, and held it so the pilots could identify him as the US navy dolphin trainer.

  When the Black Hawk cruised within a half klick of the stolen skiff, it flickered a pulsing blue light under its cargo bay, signaling Merk they spotted him as friendly.

  Merk pulled off the Bedouin scarf, stuffed it in the backpack, powered down the laptop, and slid it into a waterproof bag. He pulled off the robe, handed the backpack to Tasi, and she nosed the floating pack to the extraction point. Navy divers jumped out of the hovering helicopter into the sea. The cargo bay opened and lowered a lambskin-lined basket down to the water.

  The divers lifted Tasi and the backpack up to the cargo bay. The basket returned, and they loaded Inapo and hoisted the marine mammal back up to the Black Hawk. Merk swam to the divers, who hauled him into the basket and lifted him up. One diver swam over to the skiff and planted a shaped charge on the hull below the waterline. He inserted a remote trigger, then swam over to the basket, where he was the last to be lifted into the Black Hawk.

  * * *

  IN LESS THAN three minutes, two dolphins and three men were hoisted on board the helicopter with the basket pulled inside the cargo bay and the payload doors closed.

  As the Black Hawk hovered in reverse, backing off the skiff, the diver pressed a code into a Satcom and detonated the shaped-charge, which blew a hole in the fiberglass hull. In a spat of smoke the craft took on water and began to list, dipping below the surface as the sea poured in.

  As the skiff sank, Merk said, “That’s it. That’s where the pirate mothership disappeared. The Somalis sank it.” He relayed his insight to the navigator, who texted it to the USS New York. Within a minute, the gulf swallowed the boat, leaving no trace of Merk or the navy dolphins ever having been in Somali waters. They were now being flown to Camp Lemmonier, their new forward operating base.

  * * *

  FOR NICO GREGORIUS, hiding on the roof of the oil storage tank all day, stuck in the port of Berbera, was a waste of time. He knew he would have to wait several more hours for nightfall before he could move out and go track down Nairobi.

  By late afternoon, he received a coded message. He deciphered a text informing him that hostage negotiators were en route to Hargeisa Airport to meet with the Somali warlord Korfa and his pirate lieutenants. While Nico lay in wait listening to the occasional voices and sentry footsteps below to break up the boredom, he ran several options through his head: find a way to exit Somalia or migrate inland to the capital to provide intel or, at a bare minimum, backup for the US hostage negotiating team being flown to Hargeisa.

  From past negotiations, Nico understood that dealing with Somali pirates took weeks, even months to conclude. Something unusual was up; he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  IN THE WAR-TORN ghetto of Hargeisa, a food and goods market thrived between rows of shanty structures and abandoned rusty lean-tos. Halfway down the bazaar market of Hargeisa, pitted between food stands, sat a fish-processing warehouse, its wood door painted olive green.

  To the rear of the processing space stood a concealed door, which led to an empty storage room. Inside, Korfa sat at a table drinking tea. He stared at Nairobi; her face was battered and her left eye was swollen shut. A pair of bodyguards hovered over her and lifted Nairobi’s limp body to sit upright in the chair. In the dim light, stitches crossed a bloodied eyelid, as tears streamed from her good eye. She fidgeted as if trying to pick up a cigarette that wasn’t on the table.

  “Nairobi, want some tea?” Korfa asked in a calm voice.

  Trembling, she nodded.

  He poured tea, pressed the cup to her lips, allowing her to sip. “My men found this in your safe house,” Korfa said, plopping down stacks of euros and dollars on the table. “This wasn’t there last week when I searched your home. Who are you helping? The CIA?”

  She shook her head. “Somali army?” She shook her head once more, and flinched to block another blow to her head, but all Korfa did was pick up the cup and offer her another sip. “Okay. Who?”

  “US navy,” she said in a raspy whisper.

  “SEALs?”

  She nodded.

  “How many?”

  She raised two fingers.

  “Two? That’s it? Not a full SEAL platoon? I find that hard to believe,” he said, coming unglued. He didn’t want to be assassinated like his brother. He stood up, circled behind her.

  Terrified, she glanced behind, bracing to be struck again. He put his hand on her shoulder and pressed gently instead, reassuring her that no more harm would come to her as long as she worked for him. She nodded, and broke down sobbing.

  “Nai, we are meeting a US negotiating team in a few hours—after dark. You’re going to help me close the deal. Hostages for money, simple, right?” Korfa said, motioning the guards to take her away until she would be needed.

  Out of the shadows, Bahdoon stepped to Korfa, and said, “General Adad has landed.”

  Korfa nodded. The pirate warlord flashed one finger for the number of men who would join him to meet Syrian General Adad at the airport, and tapped Bahdoon on the shoulder.

  Korfa and Bahdoon followed a dozen armed pirates out the back door of the warehouse into an abandoned building across a vacant alley. A tall pirate put down a RPG grenade launcher, opened d
ouble padlocks, and stepped inside a filthy cement floor room where the Blue Heaven crewmen were being held hostage. A dozen sat on the floor with their arms tied behind their backs, duct-tape slapped over their mouths.

  Sporting a bloodied head bandaged and missing a tooth, the ship’s Filipino first mate watched over the crew. Had Korfa found the hostages set free by the first mate, he would’ve castrated him under Somaliland law.

  After a swift, brutal beating, Bahdoon sat down with the broken first mate and got inside his head. Within half an hour Bahdoon had flipped the captor, persuading him to work for him, and not the ship’s crew.

  Bahdoon stepped out from behind the armed pirates and handed two canteens of water to the first mate to give to his crewmen one at a time. The first mate started with the captain, in the far corner of the room. He ripped the duct tape off the captain’s mouth and pressed the canteen to his parched lips. Water ran down the captain’s face as he gulped like a thirsty dog.

  The tall pirate clicked digital photos and shot a video of the hostages being given water by the first mate.

  The crew was alive, beaten, but faring well under such foul conditions, with their mental health deteriorating each passing day; their images would be sent out in two batches. First, to the shipowners and NATO anti-piracy command on Socotra Island, and then on the World Wide Web and social media sites for all to see.

  Korfa planned to light a firestorm of international fear by bringing the world audience to the plight of his people in Somalia; of the US and European forces invading the lands of Islam; of the toxic waste dumped off the shores of Somalia, poisoning a generation of Somali children; of foreign countries stealing their fish; of Somali people starving, malnourished, dying in a civil war that the CIA sponsored with the former puppet leader Barre in the 1980s. Korfa no longer relished being just a warlord. He wanted a ton of flesh, not a pound, for all the injustices put on him and his people. Spurred on by the death of his brother Samatar, he would kill to get it.

  Bahdoon uploaded the digital files to an al Qaeda cloud portal with the cryptic note:

  Beheadings will start at dawn, one every six hours, unless our demands are met. Failure to deliver, attached images will be shared with the world. Somalia’s Heart Bleeds

  —Pratique Occulte

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  A LANDING SIGNAL worker emerged from the white control tower, hopped in a cart, and was driven out to a waiting plane with Arabic lettering painted on the tail along with a diplomatic emblem. The dark-skin Somali wore a grimy baseball hat and yellow safety vest, and held a pair of yellow paddles in his hand.

  They rode across one runway to the distant tarmac at the far perimeter fence of the airport. Just inside the chain-link fence, crowned with coils of concertina wire, sat the plane with its airstairs folded open by the cabin door.

  An armed Syrian soldier stood at the bottom of the airstairs, waving the cart to ride over. The driver crossed the runway and parked, turning off the engine. The soldier approached the driver as the signal worker took off the safety vest and handed it and the paddles to the driver. He pulled off the hat and tossed it in the cart. Korfa showed his face and studied the soldier, saying in Arabic, “General Adad is waiting for me. I am Korfa, brother of the slain warlord Samatar,” he said to the soldier, who clicked a radio mic twice.

  An assistant to General Adad peered out the cabin door, spotted Korfa, and motioned the soldier to let the Somali warlord board the plane. Korfa climbed the airstairs. Bodyguards greeted the warlord at the cabin door and patted him down as a precaution. Korfa pulled up his shirt showing his bare chest and abdomen scarred from knife fights and bullet wounds. Confirming the Somali warlord wasn’t wearing a wire or carrying weapons, the Syrians escorted Korfa into the jet and closed the door behind him.

  A young female Syrian officer, assistant to General Adad, offered Korfa a drink of scotch, whisky, or gin. The Somali warlord wagged his finger no and reached for a bottle of mineral water. After a few minutes, General Adad emerged from a back office, sitting his weary frame in a leather chair across from Korfa. They shook hands. The general offered the warlord a Cuban cigar, but he declined that, too—Korfa neither drank nor smoked.

  “How is the project coming along?” Korfa asked in Arabic.

  “We were on track … we were ahead of schedule until being attacked at the missile site,” the general said, reaching for a glass of twenty-one-year-old single-malt scotch, on the rocks with a twist, from his assistant. “It was the CIA, dressed as journalists. An al Qaeda deception. Reporters, we thought, snooping around the Iraqi border,” he said, taking a well-deserved swig.

  “I have the same problem here in Somalia. Too many spies.”

  “You have a problem? I have ISIS to the north and al Qaeda to the south in Yemen.”

  “A couple of American SEALs landed yesterday,” Korfa said. “They are hunting for me while a US plane will be dropping off the hostage negotiating team across the runway.”

  “When are you supposed to meet them?” the general asked, chewing ice.

  “In twenty minutes,” he said without looking at his watch.

  “I see. Don’t you have to go then?”

  Korfa shook his head, and replied, “My double will be there. Right after we make the trade of the tanker hostages for money, we will release the images of the hostages being fed water. But General Adad, we keep the Danish captain.”

  “Why, Korfa? Why risk that?

  “Betrayal.”

  “Revenge? Don’t Americans want to confirm the captain is alive?”

  “Of course. We tell, no, we then show the negotiators that he escaped. Street photos on our social media sites will prove the Danish rat runs through the ghetto of Hargeisa and is alive.” Korfa drank the sparkling water. “Until we shoot him for escaping.”

  A Syrian army copilot emerged from the cockpit, announcing, “General, the US bird has landed. Across the tarmac on the other end of the airport.”

  General Adad signaled his assistant to bank the lights in the jet. He led Korfa to the port windows, where they peered into the darkness. Down the far end of the runway, they saw the flashing lights with rotor blades whirring in the dark air. A silhouette of a quartet of armed navy SEALs led hostage negotiators Dante Dawson and Chris Fuller out of the Black Hawk to a waiting jeep.

  “How did you arrange the Americans to show up so fast? It usually takes weeks,” General Adad asked with a wave of his hand.

  “We sent a message to Washington through our hot channel,” Korfa said. “What are you going to do with the missile site now?”

  “Build it,” he said, adding, “But with a new site in Yemen. We need to unleash the holy hell of my Syrian Electronic Army.” He banged his fist.

  Korfa turned away from the window and looked the general in the eye.

  “Why wait, Ferryman?” asked the general. “Cut me in on half of the ransom money and I will bomb the US base when the second batch of hostages land in Djibouti. My Syrian e-Army is already inside the base’s firewall.”

  Korfa unzipped his pants, unhooked a money-belt, and handed it to the general.

  General Adad opened the Velcro pockets, seeing they were stuffed with cash from Nairobi’s safe house. The general grinned as he watched the jeep, carrying the ransom negotiators, drive out the gate.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  THE JEEP’S WORN shock absorbers jostled Dante and Fuller about in the backseat. They felt every bump, pothole, and turn as the Somali pirate drove them from the airport through the good part of Hargeisa, and then plunged into the poor section of the capital of Somaliland. In numbing detail, past eye-flinching poverty, abandoned properties, scarred slums, with the poor moping about, drained of life. Dante had seen it all before, but that night it felt different.

  The blunt images flickered with each swerve of the jeep. The mercenaries saw a dirty mother sitting on the curb barefoot, breast-feeding her baby in rags; trash piles strewn here and there with rats crawling ov
er the refuse; the one-arm drunk twitching and staggering, sucking on a bottle of whiskey. Life was hard for most people in the world—Dante understood that. Broken, hungry, filthy conditions amid the squalor that most people of the world endured daily reminded him of growing up in the South Side of Chicago. Dante knew how far he had come from the violent streets, up through the navy SEALs ranks and into semi-retirement. Forming a hostage security company in Azure Shell kept his skills, spirit, and mind from going dull.

  As the Jeep turned down another narrow alley, they caught a glimpse of a woman lifting her dress, bent down at the knees, urinating in the middle of the street. The driver honked the horn, hit the high beams, finally chasing her off. The alley was located behind the market street, where the acrid stench of urine and rotting fish heads overwhelmed their senses. Fuller’s eyes watered; Dante covered his nose.

  Ahead in the shaky headlights, pirates escorted a line of hostages across the alley from the green building into the fish warehouse—when two men made a break. They dashed away from the jeep’s headlights.

  On the curb, the tall pirate waved the hostages to hurry into the warehouse when out of the corner of his eye he saw the Danish captain and the Filipino pilot knock over a guard and sprint down the alley, their once-bound arms cut free. One pirate aimed a RPG launcher, ready to fire, when the tall pirate lifted the weapon in the air and drew a pistol. He squeezed one round and shot the pilot in the thigh, dropping him to ground. He yelped, squirming in pain, holding his wounded leg. The Danish captain glanced back at the fallen pilot, and then to the tall pirate, who aimed the pistol skyward and fired the next round in the air.