by Tom Kratman
"Simple boarding and seizure at sea, then, Chief?" asked Simmons. He looked around the inside of the Bastard at the mounds of carefully netted and tied down gear provided by the shipping container in Paldiski. "It isn't like we lack for materiel." Simmons held up a radio-controlled detonator, by way of illustration.
Thornton shook his head. "I don't know there'll be anything simple about it. And it'll be tough to do without them getting the word out. Though you're right about the materiel."
"They'll be leaving soon, Chief," Simmons said. "Otherwise they wouldn't have brought the extra people aboard yet."
"I still don't think we can hide two men aboard with all those extra fuckers roaming the ship out of boredom."
"If not two, Chief, how about one?" suggested Antoniewicz. "I'm a little dude; I can find a place to hide if you can get me aboard."
Biggus shook his head doubtfully. "Bad form to send a lone man off," he said.
Eeyore stood to his full five feet, four inches, held his arms out invitingly, and answered, "Hell, Chief, I'm not even a full lone man. So if we can't send two, let's send three quarters or a half. Bound to confuse ‘em."
***
The Russian rubber boat made not a sound as its electric motor forced it through the watery gloom. It passed by Galloway's stern, then drove in under the pier. Once under cover, it weaved between the wooden pilings to the bow. There, it passed under the steel wedge and came around the bow to its port side. The boat came to a stop as it bumped up, still soundless, against the hull. The man at the tiller, Bland, dialed down the power to just enough to keep the rubber tight against the target.
Forward in the rubber boat, Simmons was at the bow, followed by Morales, followed by Antoniewicz. All four men in the boat wore Russian night vision goggles strapped to their heads. These were not the best, perhaps, but they were good enough for this. Without a word all three forward stood low and shuffled to the rubber boat's rounded bow. Antoniewicz leaned forward and put both gloved palms against the hull. Simmons and Morales locked arms and bent low to allow the boarder to get one foot up. They then stood, rocking the rubber boat and almost causing Antoniewicz to lose his balance. He pinwheeled his arms a bit, moving his center of mass forward to balance again against the hull.
Eeyore felt his heart beating fast and hard as his balaclava covered head peeped over the side of the ship. There was a container marked "Cosco" just in front of him. He could see the letters clearly enough even in the grainy image of his NVGs.
He felt Morales' hand shift to take a position under his right foot. Simmons did so a moment later with the left. Eeyore's upward motion continued until he was nearly waist high to the top of the hull. His hands, gripping that top, moved downward relative to his torso. A push, the swing of a leg, and the boarder was over the top and easing his feet down to the deck below. It was a tight fit between hull and containers. He waited a moment, listening, then leaned over the side to haul up some ordnance the other two passed to him.
And now to find a place to hide and then scout a bit.
He took from his shoulder holster a Makarov pistol, test and familiarization fired on the voyage from Estonia to Northern Ireland. This pistol had some odd features. It had, for example, an infrared laser aiming device, invisible to the naked eye but quite visible to the Russian-issue NVGs. For another thing, there was a shroud around the barrel. Biggus had said the barrel was drilled to allow gas to escape into the shroud, thus lowering a standard bullet's velocity to something less than the speed of sound. From under his right armpit Antoniewicz removed a cylindrical object, the suppresser, and screwed it to the front of the Makarov. The thing would be silent now, except for the working of the slide. And that, over normal ship and port noise, was nothing.
That was one weapon. Across his back Eeyore had strapped another Russian arm, a Kiparis submachine gun. It, too, was silenced and used the same ammunition as the pistol. Thoughtfully, Victor's cache had provided frangible ammunition for both. Less thoughtfully, while the pistol would be very quiet, due to the reduction in velocity below the speed of sound, rounds fired from the submachine gun would be supersonic, consequently rather noisy.
In addition, by his right side was strapped Eeyore's own, handmade, knife. Lastly, in various pouches and pockets, the former SEAL carried eight RGO defensive grenades, a radio transmitter and beacon, extra batteries, a piece of thin wire with wooden handles on each end, sundry odds and ends (a small drill and a fiberscope, a fiber optic camera, for example), a couple of pounds of smoked meat and some cans with Cyrillic writing and pictures that suggested food.
The boarder looked left. Nothing. Then, pistol and eyes reoriented to the right, he sidled along between containers and hull about a dozen feet. There he came to a space between shipping containers of about two and a half feet, or perhaps a bit less. There he doffed his combat harness, submachine gun, and most of the ancillary gear. He kept his pistol as he kept the NVGs.
Just aft of the bow, the container configuration changed, with the outside edges of the above-hull exterior containers resting on double steel pylons, red with rust. It was that kind of a ship. This also left a more or less covered passageway that shielded Antoniewicz from observation from the windowed bridge that spanned the full beam of the ship.
Getting to the stern-really to the superstructure-was tricky. There almost was no telling when someone might round a corner. Antoniewicz solved the problem by ducking in between a row of containers and listening to be certain there were no footsteps or talking. Then he'd come out again, pad quickly to the next row, duck in, and listen some more. Five times he did this before reaching the penultimate gap. At that point there was only one row of containers between himself and the superstructure. There he waited for perhaps half an hour, accustoming himself to every normal sound the ship might make in this area. Thus, when he heard an other than normal sound, two men, chatting in what sounded like Arabic, their feet ringing on the steel deck, Antoniewicz's heart again began beating fast. He made himself as small as possible in the space, his hand automatically tightening around the pistol. Through his NVGs he caught a brief glimpse of the men as they walked past. They were holding hands. Their other hands were empty.
Doesn't necessarily mean anything, thought the former SEAL. Not if they're Arabs. Not like it would back in the states.
Still, I am stuck here until they go back inside.
It seemed like hours to Eeyore, waiting in the cramped little space, before the two men walked back to the superstructure. When they did, it was on the other side of the ship. It was only slightly later that the deck was flooded with men, casting off and reeling in lines. Shortly thereafter the engines thrummed to life and the ship began moving away from the pier.
The deck stayed pretty active for some time, thereafter. Gradually though, as the banks of the lough disappeared and the Galloway turned west, the sailors went back to their business. Only then could Antoniewicz come out from his hide and go searching for a place to spend the night and for any signs of Adam. In the latter, he was to be completely disappointed.
The little Russian drill was nearly silent. It went through the thin wall of the first container Antoniewicz elected to try in moments. Through the hole, the former SEAL slid the fiber section of the fiberscope along with another small fiber to provide a minimal light.
The scope had a lot of built in distortion, but not so much that Antoniewicz couldn't see the contents of the shipping container. Perfect. Boxes. With his knife he snapped off the inspection seal, opened the container, and removed the first box. This was, like the others, a mid-sized television. He carried the TV to the edge of the bow and dumped it. He watched the progress of the box as the ship moved onward and before it sank, judging, Eighteen knots. The bitch is faster than we thought.
He then went back and did the same with another. A third, fourth, and fifth went the same way. The TV sets were heavy. On the other hand, while Eeyore was small; he was not weak.
Crawling into the space th
us vacated, Antoniewicz pulled all his gear in behind him and then closed the container's doors. He rearranged the boxes so that, even should someone open the container, they would be presented with a solid set of TV boxes, three by four, while creating for himself a small cubby further into the container.
Then, with the drill, the SEAL made a dozen small air holes on top, plus three or four high along each side.
If it gets too stuffy, I'll make more.
With that, he checked his watch. Running a small wire antenna out of one of the air holes, he sent to the Bastard, "I'm aboard and safely hidden. I looked for some sign of the kid, but there's nothing, not a hint. And, you know, a prison has routines. There aren't any here, that I could see. FYI, ship's speed is about eighteen knots. See you at sea." He then drank some water from one of his canteens, wolfed down a bit of smoked meat-not bad, considering it's not really a Russian specialty-and went to sleep, one hand wrapped around the silenced Makarov . . .
D-107, MV George Galloway
. . . and awakened to the sound of massed firing-full automatic, too-coming from somewhere sternward of his little hide. The sound was muffled by metal walls and cardboard boxes, but was distinct for all that.
"What the fuck!" Antoniewicz exclaimed as he sat bolt upright. His head was saved from a painful impact only by the fact he was so short. "Did the attack start and I slept through it?"
Almost he exited the container to join in. He was fumbling with the inside handle when the firing ceased. He heard something shouted out in Arabic and the firing began again.
They're familiarizing on their weapons . . . or keeping in practice . . . or test firing, he thought. This pretty much ends the possibility that they are comparatively innocent illegal immigrants.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If you wrote a novel in South Africa
which didn't concern the central issues,
it wouldn't be worth publishing.
-Alan Paton
D-107, near Tempe Base, Bloemfontein, South Africa
"Tell Dov we've got no M3s for you," the Boer warrant officer, Dani Viljoen, said. The Boer was a large man, broad shouldered, and just beginning to go gray around the temples. Beside him sat a black of the same rank, and similar build, albeit somewhat taller. "Oh, sure, there's one on display down the road but that was just a prototype. And since it's on display we can't steal it without undue notice, and since it's just the one it wouldn't do you much good anyway. And since the thing hasn't run in maybe twenty years it wouldn't be worth the effort."
The black shook his head no. He hadn't said much, generally, but Victor didn't have the impression that this indicated any inferiority between the two. The black, a Bantu, more specifically a Zulu, Viljoen had introduced as Dumisani, simply seemed the quiet sort.
"What have you got?" Inning asked.
The Boer and the Bantu exchanged glances. Victor wasn't sure, not absolutely, but he had the impression that a great deal of information-information to which he didn't have the code-was exchanged in that glance.
"For noddy cars?" Viljoen asked. The cars were nicknamed in South Africa for the British children's television character, a toy named "Noddy" and his toy automobile. "Well . . . a lot of the turrets have been taken off to fit out the Ratels that took over from the noddy cars."
"What's a . . . noddy car?"
"Eland," the Boer replied. "AMLs, others call them. Or Panhards. Anyway, the Ratel uses the same turret, so some of the turrets from the noddy cars were put into them, and others have been cannibalized. There's more turrets in 90mm than 60mm, by the way. More left here, I mean."
The black warrant added, "You can put infantry in a noddy car, provided the turret's gone. Maybe four men, would you say, Dani?" Dumisani had one of those mellifluous African voices that is an improvement on anyone else's English, sort of Ladysmith Black Mambazo in a prose vein.
"Five in a pinch, I think," the Boer replied, "besides the driver and gunner. Would that do?"
"Can you provide them?" Victor asked. He thought, Personnel decisions are really not in my portfolio for this. But if this is what I can get . . .
The Bantu shrugged as the Boer laughed. "Enough for an army," Viljoen said. "How many do you need?"
"Nine of the 90mm versions," Victor said. "Three with 60mm turrets. And, since they won't carry as many, call it thirty-six without turrets. Since the ammunition isn't something I normally carry, I need three thousand rounds of 90mm, and about a thousand of 60."
"The 60mm mortar is damned near worthless," the Boer said. "And even three missing would be noticed, since we still use the turrets. I can get you the 90mm versions, nine or twelve or twenty, if you want. I can get turretless bodies, fifty or sixty, I suppose. Okay, okay, a small army."
"I'll need to consult with my friends," Victor said. "But assuming they can use the turretless ones, how do you get them to us?"
"You got a ship?" Viljoen asked.
"Yes, chartered, my own crew. Some of Dov's people will be aboard to fix the things."
The Boer nodded. "That would work. We can fit three in a forty foot shipping container. We mark them as sent to the tank range as targets. Off the books. Might have to grease the customs man's palm at the port, but nobody here really gives a shit anymore, so we can do that."
"How much?" Inning asked.
Again the Boer and the Bantu exchanged glances. This time they took much longer about it. Victor still couldn't read their faces but there was something . . . he and his wife, Alla, sometimes communicated . . .
"You two are more than friends, aren't you?" the Russian asked.
"Took you long enough to figure it out," Viljoen said.
"But . . . this is South Africa. You're white; your . . . friend's . . . black . . . "
"So?" the Boer shrugged. "He thinks white is sexy. I think black is. And we both despise flaming queens."
Dumisani put up one hand, then ostentatiously bent his wrist before straightening it, all the while sneering profoundly.
Viljoen chuckled, then said, "We were on opposite sides during the Border War, too. Again, so? We're doing this, stealing equipment, I mean, so we can get the hell out of this place and live decently somewhere. Speaking of which-"
"That's part of our price," Dumisani said. "We want out. It would be nice if we could get work we know how to do while we're at it."
"But with money you can go live anywhere," Victor said.
"No," Viljoen corrected. His head nodded towards the Bantu. "He could. But I'm a white South African, and a Boer, which is worse. Nobody wants to take us because nobody wants us to leave South Africa. Open the portals to, say, the United States and ninety-five percent of the whites of this country would disappear overnight."
"Ninety-nine percent," Dumisani corrected. "And then the country would collapse. Which would make progressive minded people all over the world look stupid, clearly a disaster to be avoided. This I did not understand when I was fighting my partner over majority rule. If I had understood, I might have been on his side rather than the ANC's.
"Then again," the Zulu added, shaking his head sadly, "I used to think we blacks could run the country. I think maybe we could have. I think we should have. But the last couple of decades have proven only that we are running it into the dirt, quite despite could haves and should haves. And I see no solution."
"You still haven't said how much."
Boer and Bantu again exchanged glances. "One hundred thousand Rand, each," Viljoen said, "for a turretless car with a working engine. Two hundred and fifty thousand for one with a 90mm turret with a working gun. No radios included. Plus transportation to the port. I'll have to get you a quote on that. Plus the cost of the containers and port fees and loading fees. Call it ten million Rand, all told. And another four million for the 90mm ammunition. I'm going to have to bribe someone for that."
"Fortunately," Dumisani said, "since liberation everyone can be bribed."
"We weren't," Viljoen said, "as honest as all that even
before hand."
Victor did some quick calculations. One point five million dollars, give or take. Plus as much for Dov to recondition them. I can charge the Americans maybe four million. That's a fair profit and worth my time. And if the Americans are willing to go for ground mounted mortars, I can provide those from my own stocks.
"I'll ask if the turretless ones will do," Victor said. "And if a place for you can be found among the group I represent. I suppose, since they're going to be using ‘noddy cars,' that people who know how to maintain them would be useful."
"Not just maintain," Dumisani said. "We know how to use them."
Victor was about to comment on that, when his PDA buzzed. It was a text message. He read it, and smiled. It seems Messers Nyein and Naing and the government of Myanmar need some arms.
Assembly Area Alpha-Base Camp,
Amazonia, Brazil, D-107
"Ralph," Stauer asked of his chief intelligence officer, Boxer, "just how compromised are we?"
The former Air Force general shook his head. "You're referring to the foreigners? Or just generally?"
"Both?"
"I don't think we are . . . yet. Let me explain."
"Please do."
"Only nineteen of us really know the mission, twenty if you count Wahab. Most of those are here. Reilly and Phillie, back in San Antonio, know. But he wouldn't tell his mother and she's your girl. Harry Gordon and his assistant in Guyana know. They wouldn't tell anyone either. Terry Welch knows. So does Biggus Dickus. Their teams don't know. Cruz knows. So does Kosciusko. They're not going to say a word. Everyone else is pretty much in the dark. Illegal Mexicans are assembling kit planes near Seattle and have not clue one. A bunch of Chinese with Kosciusko just want to escape China."