by AJ Stewart
Dennison heard the roar of a diesel engine, too. It came from his right as he marched along the fence line. The fence was to his left and between it and him was a line of trucks and containers. He didn’t bother with any trucks without a load or any containers that were stacked and waiting to be loaded. He moved swiftly from each truck with a solitary container on it to the next. He could feel the nerves rising in his throat. His heart was pumping hard, and not just from the heat. There was no immediate danger but anxiety raced through his veins regardless. He had to work hard not to break into a run. But he held his cadence and checked the plates on each loaded truck. He had gotten the taxi driver to write down the license plate number in eastern Arabic numerals. It looked like a code. Scrappy lines and part triangles. He held the paper up against each license plate but found no match. Then he reached the end of the line. Nothing but discarded containers and machinery lay further on. He turned and looked toward the river. Another line of trucks sat in the middle of the open space. He broke into a jog and headed for them.
Thorn dropped a screwdriver down to Gorecki and he used the tool to lever the CSC plate away from the container. The metal plate bent some but tore away in his hands. Gorecki turned to the sound of the throbbing engine behind him and saw Manu at the wheel of a massive forklift truck. It wasn’t the sort of lift truck that ran around warehouses. This thing was huge. It was built like a tank. It was long and low, and the body looked heavy, which Gorecki assumed it was. The rear of the lift truck acted as a counterbalance to the twenty tons in the container.
Manu didn’t wait. He lined up and lifted the forks and moved forward. Gorecki jumped out of the way and called up to Thorn to hang on. Manu got close and lifted the forks a little higher so they slid in between the trailer bed and the bottom of the container. He jerked forward and hit the container with a solid thump. He gave Gorecki a sheepish look and Gorecki shook his head. Manu crunched a lever on the lift truck and the container wobbled as the forks took the weight. Then the forks raised up over the trailer a few centimeters, and then a few more. Manu gave it about fifteen centimeters—maybe five or six inches—clearance, and then hit another lever and put the lift truck into reverse and pulled the container away from the trailer. The forks bent under the stress of the weight.
Gorecki held his breath. The forks looked ready to snap. He thought about Thorn getting tossed from the top as the container crashed down and then rolled over the top of him. Then he thought of the biological hazard symbol. Thorn getting crushed might be the least of their problems.
Manu pulled away and the container came clear of the trailer. The forks bent and groaned but didn’t snap. Manu worked the lift truck around in a tight circle. It spun on a dime, designed for working in tight spaces. He lurched forward and drove the container about fifty meters away to a row of other similar containers. He slowed and then dropped the forks down. The container hit the ground with a great puff of dirt, like a small explosive.
Manu didn’t wait for the dust to settle. He pulled back and then turned away and drove further down the line of containers. He found one he liked the look of and spun the wheel and drove in fast. The forks slid under the container and Manu hit it with a loud metallic thunk. The sound echoed off the other containers. He lifted the container up and pulled back. Gorecki saw that he had selected one that was the same sand color, probably army surplus. The forks didn’t bend under the weight. Manu spun around and came back at pace, and then slowed as he got to the trailer. He leaned out each side, lining the container up. Then he edged in and got it in place and dropped the container.
Gorecki was drilling as soon as Manu had pulled back. The bolts all came away this time, and he levered the CSC plate off the new container. He used the handle of the screwdriver to bend the original CSC plate back into shape. It wasn’t close to perfect but it was as good as it was going to get. He lined up the holes and socketed a bolt and drove it in. He quickly fastened the bolts into place. Thorn appeared at his side and began connecting the chains to the container, and fastening the chains to the trailer. Gorecki finished with the plate and looked it over. It was passable. It wouldn’t stand close inspection but Gorecki didn’t expect close inspection to be part of Dennison’s plan.
Thorn ran around to the gatehouse side of the truck to lock the chains in place. Gorecki was about to assist when he realized it was the second time he had overlooked the hazardous materials placard. This container had no such thing. It clearly wasn’t hazardous, so the aluminum frame was empty. But it shouldn’t be. Gorecki sprinted back to the original container that Manu had taken away. He skidded to a stop in front of the placard. It was snug in its frame. He pried his fingers in behind the hard plastic. It was tight. It felt like sticking his fingers in a car door and slamming it. The placard bit but he dug in and used the pressure to pull the placard up. It was like taking a picture out of a frame without taking the frame apart. The middle of the placard bowed and popped out, and with a tug the top corner sprung out of the frame. He pulled the placard up until it slipped out.
Gorecki’s knuckles ran across the top of the aluminum frame and drew blood. He bit his lip and stifled a howl as he turned and ran back to the truck. He reached the trailer as Thorn came around the back of the container, moving on the toes of his boots. He slipped down the side of the truck toward Gorecki.
“He’s coming,” said Thorn in a whispered yell.
“Go,” Gorecki said, and Thorn ran for the cover of the nearby containers as Gorecki slipped the placard into the frame on the replacement container. It slid in easily until the last few centimeters. He pushed down hard, pain shooting down his fingers. The plastic slid home and snapped into the frame, nearly taking the tips of Gorecki’s fingers. He heard footsteps on the other side of the truck. Someone was moving fast. They stopped at the rear of the truck. Gorecki heard deep breathing. Then a grunt of satisfaction.
Dennison checked the plate against the paper a second time. 181-46. Iraqi plates. He let out a breath. His blood was pumping hard through his head. He had searched the trucks in the middle of the large concourse and found nothing. He had started to doubt that the truck was there. He started to panic. He didn’t want to be blamed for the truck going missing. He had thrown pretense out the window and dashed across the line of trucks against the far fence and he had found it.
He moved around the side of the container. It was a sand-colored box, US Army style. He noted the biohazard placard. No one had mentioned biohazardous materials. Then he smiled. No one would be keen to inspect biohazardous materials. It was an excellent cover. He stepped back and looked again at the truck. A Navistar 5000-MV. US military issue. Nothing except the license plates would raise suspicion, and they were an easy fix. He moved toward the cab, swung the door open and took hold of the grab bar. He stepped up onto the running board and then up into the cab.
It was spacious. A large truck. Larger than anything Dennison had driven before. The corporal at the gate knew his stuff. The army had drivers for these rigs. They needed special licenses. They had to do hazardous materials training. All sorts of stuff Dennison didn’t have. But all he had to do was drive.
He took the key he had been given at the market and started the truck. The big diesel engine burst into life, a thunderous noise that shook the cab. He checked the fuel gauge. Not enough to get all the way, but enough to get where he needed to go first. He looked through the windshield. It was like sitting in a screened-in porch. The windshield and side windows were covered by a mesh of reinforced wire that killed visibility and made the cabin look like the world’s most serious chicken coop.
He dropped the clutch and pulled back the stick. The truck moved backward. Dennison kept it going back slow and straight. He didn’t want to have to back the truck up any more than was needed. He stopped and looked out the windshield. There was a space where the truck had been parked. Clear tread marks where the tires had backed up. There were zigzag marks in the dirt between the two parallel lines made by the tires. Den
nison didn’t know what they were and he didn’t care. He wanted to get the hell away. He slammed the transmission into gear and hit the gas and the big unit huffed loudly and moved forward. Dennison pulled on the wheel and the wide windshield swept around toward the gatehouse.
Thorn watched from behind a container. He saw Dennison come around the back of the truck and look at the tags on the container. He walked along the side of the truck as Gorecki had slipped around the front of the cabin. Gorecki was pressed up against the bumper and the massive grill of the truck. Dennison climbed up into the cabin and slammed the door closed. He couldn’t see Gorecki over the long nose of the tractor, but he surely would the second he started the big engine and pulled back. Which he did. The monster thundered to life. Gorecki dropped to the ground.
The Navistar 5000-MV was US Army property. It was listed as destroyed in an ambush in the Kurdish region of Northern Iraq. The transport crew had all been killed. But the truck wasn’t destroyed. Rather it had been redeployed. It was a hard vehicle. It was up-armored: thick steel plates were welded under the cabin to protect against improvised explosive devices. It meant there wasn’t much to grab onto down there. Gorecki scrambled under the cabin like a startled spider. He was on his back. His hands pushed and his backside wriggled looking for a handhold. He had planned on using the axle, but it was covered in steel plates. What he found were handles. They were covered in road grime and hard to spot, but they looked like they had been designed for just what Gorecki was doing, not to allow maintenance access to the transmission. Gorecki didn’t care what they were for. He grabbed the handles as the truck moved backward. Fortunately, it moved slowly. He pulled his abdominal muscles in as tight as he could. His feet skidded from side to side before he was able to lift himself off the ground. It was like a reverse pushup. His hands were beside his body, arms pulled in tight, with his toes touching the steel plate undercarriage. It took all his strength and endurance to fight gravity and the vibration of the truck. He knew he couldn’t wait there all day. The pain ripped through his arms and shoulders and hands. But the Legion had done worse to him to prepare for such a moment. He bit his jaw down hard and hung on.
Then the truck stopped and hissed and began creeping forward toward the gatehouse. Gorecki dropped his feet and then dropped his backside and then he let go of the handholds. He fell to the dirt with a thud and lay on the ground as the big trailer moved over him like a spaceship. As soon as he saw light he jumped up. He didn’t run. He anticipated that the target would have his eyes locked on the gatehouse, but running would create motion in the rearview, and motion was what the human eye was designed to pick up. All predators were built that way. So he stood, covered in dirt and mostly camouflaged, and he walked away from the truck. By the time he appeared from behind the load in the truck rear vision mirrors he hoped to be so small as to not be noticed.
He wasn’t noticed. Dennison was focused on the front. On making the turn, right away from the gate and then swinging back to the left. He made as wide a turn as he could and came at the gate in a straight line. Two of the detachment of soldiers jumped onto the running boards either side of the cabin. Holding on with one hand, the other hand on their M16s. Two other soldiers fell in behind the truck and covered the rear on foot. The rest pushed the mob of men back from the gate. The gate opened as the truck arrived and Dennison heard the barking of orders from the soldiers over the rumble of the truck as he passed through. The gate was closing before the trailer was fully through and the two soldiers in the rear brought up their rifles to dissuade any of the crowd from making a break for the port grounds.
Dennison slowed as he reached the road that ran by the port. There was no traffic. He looked out the window at the private who was holding onto the grab bar outside the cab. The private let go of the bar and lifted his hand into a salute, balanced on the running board for a moment. Then he fell away from view and jumped to the ground and in the rear vision mirror Dennison saw him running back to form up with the rest of the detachment to resume their watch.
The guard watched the truck pull out through the gate and the crowd of men part as the truck carved its way through them. Once on the road the soldiers who had been clinging to the side jumped off and the truck went up a gear and roared away. The guard stepped outside into the sun and pulled out the phone he had been given. He made a call to the number saved in the phone.
“The soldier just took the truck.”
“No problems?”
The guard glanced at unruly mob by the gate.
“No problems.”
The call was disconnected and the guard opened the phone and took out the SIM card as he had been instructed and broke it in half. Then he pocketed the phone. He had been instructed to destroy the phone as well, but phones were worth some money.
Manu wandered slowly across the concourse to where Gorecki and Thorn were watching the truck leave.
“You look like hell,” Manu said.
Gorecki nodded. “That’s how I feel.”
“That was close,” said Thorn, placing his palm against the container they had removed from the truck.
“Too close,” said Gorecki. “We made many mistakes.”
“We always make mistakes,” said Manu. “But he didn’t get the shipment, did he?”
“No, he didn’t,” said Gorecki, wiping his dirty hands across his dirty camouflage coat.
“So job well done,” said Manu.
Gorecki grunted. He tapped his radio.
“Mon adjudant? Gorecki.”
There was static. Then Fontaine came on the radio. He sounded like he’d been running.
“Please tell me he didn’t get the shipment?”
“Negative, mon Adjudant. He just left, with a decoy cargo.”
Gorecki waited for his team leader to offer congratulations. It didn’t come.
“He’s gone?”
“Oui.”
More static.
“Secure the cargo,” he barked. “And I mean secure.”
Gorecki glanced at Thorn who was listening in his own earpiece. “Oui, mon Adjudant. And then?”
“Rendezvous. And keep your eyes open.”
“Is everything okay, mon Adjudant?”
“No, Gorecki. The whole world is going to hell. Secure, then rendezvous. Eyes open. D’accord?”
“Oui.”
Gorecki heard the radio link break. He looked at Thorn. He looked at Manu.
“Something is wrong. We have to hide this thing.”
Chapter Fifteen
Babar ran. He wasn’t the first man to run on a Basra street, but it wasn’t common. It was just too hot. People moved with languid economy. So Babar’s motion caught a few eyes but no protests. He crossed the busy road over toward the mosque. Fontaine and Hutton were waiting.
“Looks like prayer time,” said Fontaine.
Babar nodded. “Asr, late afternoon prayer, is timed here at 2:53.”
“You’re the only one who can fit in.”
Babar said nothing. He walked toward the entrance of the mosque. Fontaine and Hutton watched him walk away, and then they walked back to the SUV.
Yusuf was waiting. He had the windows down and the air-conditioning off. The Highlander was hot, but then so was the street.
Hutton opened her laptop and tapped some keys to bring the screen to life. Fontaine left his laptop closed. There was nothing to see. Babar would not videotape inside the mosque. He would find the man who had delivered the key to Dennison, and he would probably pray. And then he would follow the man wherever he went. They just had to wait.
“The guy’s not on our Iraqi watch list,” said Hutton, looking at her screen.
“No?”
She shook her head.
“How complete is your database?” Fontaine asked.
“It’s as good as there is.”
“How good is your software?”
“Ditto.”
“So the guy’s not wanted,” said Fontaine.
“N
o.” Hutton paused. “Or he’s not Iraqi.”
“Meaning?”
“This is a taskforce database for this sphere of operation. Not the world. Our guy could be new in town. He did arrive in a truck.”
“Then we’re out of luck right now.”
“Maybe not.” Hutton tapped some keys. “I’m going to send this to someone else.”
“Someone else? Is that wise?”
“Someone I trust.”
“Where?”
“New York City.”
“And you trust this person.”
“Completely.”
Fontaine looked at her. And he nodded.
Hutton tapped and sent the image of the man away.
“FBI?” asked Fontaine.
Hutton shook her head.
“CIA?”
She shook it again.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
She smiled. “If you must know, NYPD.”
“The police?”
“Yes. They are the number one target for terrorist attacks in the United States. Their counterterrorism unit is as good as it gets. Better than most countries.”
“And you trust your contact.”
She looked at him. “Don’t worry, okay?”
He nodded and looked out the window. He was worried. They were behind the play. Not one step or two steps. They were right off it. It felt close—seeing the meet, tracking the container—but he couldn’t help feel like that was an illusion. Too much didn’t add up. A quartermaster hustler who dealt in small arms and prescription painkillers in Baghdad was suddenly off his patch and in Basra meeting about a container load of arms. It didn’t feel right, but Fontaine couldn’t pin down why. A guy who enjoyed the air-conditioned environment of the base, who most of the time didn’t wear a full uniform or a sidearm, had set up a suicide bombing and then killed the bomber’s family in a professional fashion. The guy was like Jekyll and Hyde. One thing and then the other. Small-time and big-time. Sloppy and sharp.