Frank shook his head. “No, does Tariq have any guys we can use?”
“Not that we can trust.”
“We've got enough shooters here.” The voice from the doorway belonged to Ice.
Vance turned to face him. Ice had been training relentlessly since he’d been rescued. His shoulders were broad and he stood confidently on his prosthetic limb. The scarring on the side of the face had transformed him from a handsome soldier into a lethal terminator. “We don't know who's on the ship, Ice.”
“No, but we've got you, me and Chua. Plus Kruger who is already on the ground. Frank can run the back end with Flash. We move fast and we get Bishop off that ship before they know what’s hit them. We've got all the gear we need at the hangar. We just need a chopper to put us on the ship.”
“That's the main issue,” said Frank. “We can get on board but without helicopters it’ll be a challenge to get back to shore.”
“We could take over the ship,” said Vance. His eyes were still fixed on Ice.
“Not in those waters, boss. The anti-piracy task force will be all over us in minutes,” added Frank. “A helicopter is our best option.”
“If she's still within range of a shore-based helicopter,” said Vance.
“She is.” Chua appeared in the doorway behind Ice. “Flash found her on the marine traffic website. She's making twelve knots two hundred nautical miles south of Mogadishu. We also downloaded a copy of her schematics.”
“She's still broadcasting her location?” asked Vance.
“Yes and on her current heading she's going to be in range of Mogadishu for the next eight hours. If we want to make a move I recommend launching now.”
Frank raised his hand in the air. “Hey guys, I've got Kruger on the line.”
“Put him on speaker.”
Frank hit a key and Kruger's thick Afrikaans accent filled the operations room. “Vance, I'm just outside of Mombasa with a mate of mine, ja. He's got friends in Somalia; we can get up there and organize a helicopter to get on the ship. I need you to grab our gear and bring the boys to Mogadishu, OK.”
Vance shot Chua a questioning glance and was rewarded with a nod.
“Roger, that's workable, but timings will be tight. You’ll need to have the chopper turning and burning.”
“Will do, boss.” Kruger could be heard talking to someone else on his end. “Oh, and you need to bring lots of cash. Make sure it's US and high denomination.”
“How much?” Vance asked.
“Couple of mill, ja. Hey, I've got to go. I'll see you in the Mog.”
The phone went dead and the room fell silent as the PRIMAL team looked at each other with a combination of raised eyebrows and concerned expressions.
Vance broke the silence. “Ice, you and I are going to head to the hangar and sort out gear. We leave in five minutes. Frank, you’re holding the fort here with Flash. I want you to contact Tariq's people and get us a Lascar jet ready to go in an hour.”
“Sleek is fully serviced she should be good to go,” said Frank referring to the highly modified Gulfstream jet PRIMAL used for many of its covert operations.
Vance shook his head. “No, I don’t want to mess with Mitch's gear when he's not around. Get us something basic and unmarked with a long range.” He turned to Chua. “We need all the intel we can get. Have Flash pull everything he can on the ship. I want the schematics loaded on the iPRIMAL network with real-time location updates. Meet us at the hangar as soon as you’ve got it worked up.”
“Will do,” said Chua.
“You want me to recall Mirza and the boys?” asked Frank.
Vance shook his head. “No, they’ll arrive too late and we can't afford to bare our asses at the moment. The CIA could still be sniffing around so we need to keep this low-key.”
Chua laughed. “We're talking about Bishop, nothing he ever does is low-key.”
“Yeah, that's for sure. OK people, let's get moving.”
***
INDIAN OCEAN
Bishop spat a mouthful of blood on the deck and glared at Mamba as the poacher flexed his fingers. “I don't know how many times I have to tell you, I'm not a goddamn cop.” With his hands secured behind him he had no way of protecting himself from the onslaught of blows.
“Then who the hell are you?” Mamba balled a fist and made to strike again.
Bishop tensed in anticipation.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” hissed Mamba. “You know, I think you’re telling the truth. No cop would go this far for someone like me.” He sat on a foldout bed and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “No, there is something else going on here. If you’re not a cop, who do you work for?”
Bishop strained against the flexicuffs securing his wrists behind his back. “I'm a poacher just like you.”
“Tell me how you got to Kogo. Who facilitated the introduction?” Mamba picked up his machete from where he’d laid it on the bed and tested the edge with his thumb. “We’ve got all the time in the world. If you don’t talk I can make you hurt like you’ve never hurt before.”
The bed creaked as Mamba rose. Stepping forward he leaned over and scraped the machete against the stubble on Bishop's jaw. “Tell me who you work for, or I'm going to start cutting you. I'm going to peel back your skin and watch you bleed.”
Bishop flinched away from the blade and grunted as he fought against his bonds. The plastic cuffs cut deep into his wrists.
“Fine, it's your decision.” Mamba reversed the blade and ran it down Bishop’s cheek. The razor sharp edge parted the flesh from his cheekbone to his jaw leaving an angry red wound that quickly filled with blood.
He stared his captor in the eye as warm liquid ran down his face. “You want to know who I am, Mamba?”
The poacher nodded.
“I'm the man who is going to kill you. You took something from me and you’re going to pay the price.”
Mamba frowned. “Did I kill your favorite elephant? What are you, some kind of insane anti-poaching vigilante?”
Bishop saw the moment of realization on his face.
“The women at Luangwa.” He smiled proudly. “One of them was your woman and you blame me for killing her.”
Mamba watched Bishop’s expression intently. “I’m right, aren’t I? I didn't shoot her, you fool, one of the others did.” He leaned closer, their noses almost touching. “Those men are dead now.”
Bishop could smell the stench of his breath. “I know, I killed them.”
Mamba pulled back in surprise. “No shit, you and the big man were the devils chasing us through the park. You know, you nearly got us. But hey, I should be thanking you. You saved me a lot of money. Four greedy men all dead before I had to pay them and I still got the horn.” He sat back on the bed, relaxed now he knew Bishop wasn't an undercover policeman. “I respect you for coming to avenge your woman. I’d do the same. We're very alike you and I.”
“You've got more in common with a baboon’s asshole than me.”
Mamba laughed. “You're resourceful and tough. The sort of man I could make very, very, very rich. Your friend is probably in a Kenyan prison now. We could get him out, I could pay you for your loss, and then we could go to work.”
He struggled to control the rage boiling inside. Ignoring the searing pain from the gash on his cheek he gritted his teeth and stared at Mamba.
“She was just a woman, you know. There are plenty more out there. I could give you two or three.” Mamba chuckled waiting for a response.
He continued to stare.
“But you’re not the forgiving type, are you?” The corners of Mamba’s mouth turned up in a sickly smile. “If you tell me who put you on to Kogo I’ll make your death quick.” He paused. “How about you think it over?” He rose from the bed and tapped the machete on the door. “I mean, it's not like we don't have time.”
Mamba opened the door, switched off the light, then slammed the door shut behind him.
Bishop was left
in the dark with nothing but the throb of the ship’s engines for company. He let his head slump forward. Tears filled his eyes and ran down the open cheek wound but he barely registered the stinging pain. His thoughts were preoccupied with Saneh and their child; he had failed them both.
CHAPTER 11
MOGADISHU, SOMALIA
Kruger clenched the sides of the metal copilot’s seat with white knuckles as they circled Mogadishu airport. Toppie was at the controls, perched beside him on a padded box, peering out the filthy windshield. The arms dealer’s feet barely reached the foot pedals as he threw the Soviet-era An-2 biplane around in a tight bank and lined it up with the runway.
“Don't you need to radio in?”
Toppie shrugged. “I don't have a radio.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “We flew all the way from Mombasa at night without a radio?”
“Yep, what the hell do I need a radio for? Next thing you'll be telling me I need lights.” He chuckled as he eased off the throttle and hauled back on the yoke.
Kruger squinted through the windshield at the rapidly approaching runway. The sun had just risen over the ocean and his sunglasses were in the cargo hold. He wasn't game to undo his frayed harness and grab them. “Toppie, what the fuck is that?” He pointed at the four-engine aircraft at the far end of the runway, facing them.
“Don't worry, he'll wait.”
He stared wide-eyed as the aircraft grew larger. He swore there was black smoke billowing out behind its engines. “Toppie, he's coming right at us.”
The pilot adjusted his glasses. “Ja, you might be right.”
Kruger clutched his seat as the aircraft raced toward them. He whispered a prayer as they dove toward the asphalt and the airliner lifted off. The roar of the four turboprop engines washed over them as the aircraft’s underside filled half the windshield and the runway filled the other.
“You crazy son of a bitch!” he bellowed as the biplane shuddered in the downwash.
They hit the tarmac with a thud and within a few hundred feet came to an almost complete halt.
“That was exciting wasn't it?” Toppie said as he steered onto a dirt taxiway on the opposite side to the terminal. He parked in front of a wire-fenced compound and killed the engine.
Kruger glanced out the side window and spotted a row of white helicopters embossed with UN in black lettering. “Please don't tell me we're going to be begging for a chopper from the blue hats.”
“All is not as it seems,” responded Toppie as he folded his glasses away and scrambled through to the cargo hold. He opened the side door and jumped down onto the dust. Kruger followed, squeezing his shoulders through the narrow hatch.
A tall man dressed in grubby blue coveralls met them. His hair was pulled back in a topknot and he wore a week’s growth on his face. “Toppie, my old comrade. So good to see you. Did you bring me anything?” he said with a Russian accent.
Toppie smiled broadly. “Ja, Vanko, of course.” He gestured to Kruger.
Kruger grabbed two cases of beer from under the Antonov's seats along with his gear bag. Sliding them across the floor to the door he climbed out again, slung the bag, and carried a case under each arm.
Vanko smiled broadly when he spotted the alcohol. “Good beer is so hard to get here in Mogashitu.”
“There's another four cases in there if you help us out,” said Kruger.
“Of course I can. I understand that you need a long-range helicopter.”
“That's right.”
“I have exactly what you need, follow me.” He led them past a security checkpoint manned by armed contractors, and inside the fenced compound. They crossed a large square of cracked concrete and walked between two white UN helicopters into a maintenance hangar. Under the rusted tin roof sat another of the aircraft.
The Russian-built Mi-8 was a medium-lift helicopter designed for moving cargo and personnel. Powered by two turbines it was renowned for its reliability and strength. This particular airframe had been fitted with long-range tanks mounted on extensions attached to the side of the body. They reminded Kruger of the stubby wings usually affixed to attack helicopters.
“I didn't know the Mi-8 came with long-range tanks,” he said as he placed the cartons of beer on a workbench covered in greasy tools and parts.
“The older ones don't. We salvaged the hard points from an Mi-17 that crash-landed here a few years ago. The fuel tanks are from a Hind gunship. The UN wanted to fly food further north and offered to pay lots more to get it there. So we adapt and we make more cash.”
He nodded; the helicopter was exactly what the PRIMAL team needed. “How much to hire her?”
“Fifty thousand dollars. If you want crew, another fifty thousand. That doesn't include fuel.”
He walked up to the aircraft and ran his hand over the Perspex nose and peered in at the cockpit. Unlike many of the Russian aircraft he had flown in over the years, including Toppie's An-2, the helicopter looked to be in good working order. “OK, you've got a deal. But, only if you let Toppie and I borrow a car for a few hours.”
The Russian shrugged. “Of course. When do you need the chopper ready?”
Kruger glanced at his watch. According to the text message he had received from Frank, the PRIMAL team was due in two hours. “Twelve o’clock, we'll be back by then.”
The Russian reached into his pocket and tossed Kruger a set of keys. “It will be ready. Try not to get yourself killed out there, it’s a rough town.”
“Maybe for commie pussies,” scoffed Toppie.
“Have you got a phone number, Vanko?” asked Kruger.
“Da, of course.”
“Good, give me the number. When my people arrive they will call you. Have someone meet them.” He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a roll of US dollars secured with a rubber band. “There's five grand here.” He handed it over. “That's for you for helping us out. The rest of the cash will arrive with my people.”
Vanko smiled as he took the money. “Spasibo.” It disappeared into his pocket, replaced in his fingers with a grease-stained business card.
Kruger texted the details to Frank who would in turn pass them to the team in the aircraft. “OK, Toppie, we need to get rolling if we're going to make it on time.”
They jumped in the mechanic’s pickup that was parked behind the hangar. Kruger drove them past another security checkpoint and out through the perimeter of the airport. A sandbagged machine gun post and concrete T-walls barricaded the security contractors from the outside world. “So where are we heading?” Kruger asked as he drove between rows of shipping containers and out onto a main road.
“We head north. The Pirate King lives on the outskirts of the city.”
“That’s what we're going to call him, the Pirate King?”
“You can call him by his other name if you want.”
“And that is?”
“Al-Mumit, the bringer of death.”
“Pirate King it is.”
***
THE SANDPIT, ABU DHABI
Flash was so engrossed in his work that he didn't hear the door of the intelligence cell open. The first he knew of Frank’s presence was when the former British paratrooper placed a cold can of caffeine-enhanced energy drink on the desk next to him.
“You know if Chua catches you drinking those he's going to wig out,” he said as he grabbed the can and cracked it.
“Pfft, you think he's going to point the finger at me? Everyone knows you're the one who raids his stash.”
“Dude, you know that's bullshit.”
Frank laughed. “It’s all good, I've got my own supply.” He dropped into a spare seat. “What are you working on?”
Flash took a gulp and placed the can on the desk. “I've hacked the TRAFFIC servers. Trying to find out if there’s any dirt on the Zenhai,” he said, referring to the wildlife trade monitoring organization.
“You’re going after the whole network? Even though they don’t pose a direct threat to us?
”
“Correct, poachers and smugglers are scumbags. We should unleash everything we have on those pieces of shit.”
“Because they hurt Saneh?”
“Yeah, but they're also stripping the planet of wildlife for a profit. Makes me so damn angry when I think that in the near future rhinos could be extinct because of greed, pure, filthy greed.”
“Not going to get any disagreement from me. So what have you got?”
“There are a dozen reports linking Chinese shipping to the illicit wildlife trade. Not just in Somalia and Kenya but all the way down the east coast to South Africa.”
“Any of them the Zenhai?”
“That's just it. The Zenhai isn’t directly associated with any illicit activity but the description of four of the ships match her perfectly. The Leikun, Guangheng, Leixun, and Guangjia fit the exact same profile, and are all involved in Chinese smuggling. So I ran them through an international ship register search and guess what?”
“None of them are registered?”
“Not a single one. However, a little Wikipedia research revealed all the ship’s names are from the Guangdong Fleet, the smallest of China's late 19th century fleets.”
“The Chinese aren't known for their creativity.”
“So I ran a search for every other name I could find and got a hit. The Haichangqing was a flat iron gunboat that served in the Guangdong fleet following construction in 1877. She's also a fifteen thousand ton cargo ship registered to a corporation in Shanghai. The same company has the Zenhai on their books.”
“Two ships or just a single vessel with two names?”
“Sneakier than that. They've got a single ship with two legitimate identities and another four illegitimate ones.”
“Crafty little bastards, so what's the next step?”
“Finding out exactly who the corporation is and then exposing their filthy underbelly.” Flash downed the rest of his can, crushed it, and tossed it in a trash basket. “How long till the team hits the ground in Mogadishu?”
“Within the hour. How’s the Zenhai tracking?”
PRIMAL Renegade (A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 8) (The PRIMAL Series) Page 12