by Tom Saric
In the silence, Paul thought about whether he could trust Ali and Habib. He saw the two of them break down Salaam’s door, tip a pot of curry over on the dirt floor as he dined with his elderly father, and put a gun to his head. He didn’t know! Salaam explained how he was just a dockworker. No one told him anything! Paul then watched as Ali mechanically paraded Salaam’s wife and two daughters into the room. At the sight of his wife on her knees, muzzle to her forehead, sobbing and begging for her life, Salaam started spilling what he knew. Through tears and screams, he told them where Hadad was headed.
If these two men were willing to threaten women and children, how could Paul believe that they would simply hand the weapons over?
And how could Ali trust him? Because of Paul, his uncle was dead. He could have determined Paul was responsible, pulled a gun, and had revenge for Sami’s death. Instead he was here, with Paul, rushing across the desert to confront Kadar Hadad.
Paul touched James Wright’s cell phone in his pocket. He still had one other option.
Ali downshifted. Against the violet sky, twenty or so low, straw-roofed, concrete structures appeared as silhouettes. The place seemed deserted aside from smoke billowing from behind a home, a family cooking a meal. The distant sound of waves crashing pointed them towards the beach.
Salaam knew Hadad had six men with him and they were transporting the weapons to a beach near Maydh. From there, they planned to take them to a ship anchored off the coast, destined for Yemen.
Ali parked the Jeep between two abandoned stone beach houses two hundred yards from the shoreline. Ali and Habib quietly stepped out of the vehicle. Ellen swung her leg over the door, but Ali put his hand out.
“You stay here.” Ali pointed at Paul and Habib. “We will go, but it will be safer for you here.”
“I’m not going to stay here alone, in the dark.” Ellen grabbed an AK-47 from the backseat. “How do you know it is safe here? They could be anywhere.”
“Ellen.” Ali snatched the rifle from her hands and held it out to Paul. “You will do what I say. I am saying that you stay here.”
Ali reached in his holster and handed her a Glock. He smiled. “For protection.”
Paul gripped the AK-47. It felt heavier than he remembered. It had been almost twenty years since he’d used an assault rifle, also in the desert, also at night.
Habib moved around the far house. Paul followed Ali around the beach house. Paul peered inside. It was empty except for two overturned stools.
At the corner, Ali crouched and looked towards the sea. The tide was out, making the beach at least two hundred feet wide, stretching well past what was visible on the horizon.
Paul looked through the darkness. Two specks of orange light, like two fireflies, moved. As his eyes adjusted, he made out two men, holding cigarettes. Behind them, a convoy truck had parked on the beach.
“Over there.” Paul tapped Ali’s shoulder and pointed. “The truck.”
Ali pulled binoculars from his backpack and had a look. “I see four men.” he passed the binoculars to Paul. “But, I do not see Hadad.”
Paul put the binoculars to his face. Three soldiers holding assault rifles surrounded the truck. A fourth in the driver’s seat. The passenger door of the truck swung open and a lanky figure jumped down onto the beach and walked towards the beach. Paul recognized the gait.
“He’s there,” Paul confirmed.
Hadad made his way towards the water while the faint sound of a powerboat motor approached. Out in the distance, the shadow of a skiff skipped along the water and slid right up on the beach, where two of Hadad’s men dragged it onto the shore.
“A boat just arrived,” Paul whispered. “Two men are on it.”
Ali looked again. “The sea is calm today. They can take the skiff across the Gulf to Yemen.” Ali stood and motioned to Habib. “Paul,” Ali said. “You wait here and give us cover.”
Ali and Habib moved to the next house, and trained their weapons on Hadad’s truck.
Hadad’s men carefully lifted objects off the truck bed and carried them over to the skiff.
Paul still wasn’t certain how Ali and Habib planned to stop Hadad. Hadad’s men outnumbered them two to one and Hadad’s men knew how to handle themselves.
Even if they managed to kill Hadad’s men and recover the canisters, there was no guarantee that Ali and Habib wouldn’t take them for themselves, and resell them on the black market. Langley would still consider him rogue. This was his chance to clear his name. He found the missing weapons and he could now stop Hadad from taking them out of Somalia. Maybe he could even get out of Somalia for good.
He put the AK-47 down in the sand and pulled James’ cell phone from his pocket. He dialed Officer Clarke’s number and prayed he wasn’t out of range of a transmitting station. He let out a sigh when it started ringing.
When the operator answered, he asked to be connected to Officer Clarke. The static increased on the phone as he waited for the line to connect.
He needed to speak to Clarke. She knew about his situation and Paul felt she believed him. Something about the way she had tripped over her words, that she had let him speak rather than immediately dismissing him, made him think—hope maybe—that she believed him.
“Officer Clarke speaking.” Her voice was barely audible through the static.
“I have a location on the weapons,” Paul said. “A man name Kadar Hadad is loading them onto a ship as I speak.”
“We already know that. We’re in the middle of—”
A blast shook the beach, knocking the phone out of Paul’s hand. He looked up and saw orange flames burst out from a crater in the sand less than twenty feet from Hadad’s transport truck. A cacophony of gunshots clanged off the transport truck and thudded into the sand. Hadad’s men scrambled and took cover under the transport truck. Paul scanned the beach, looking for the source of the gunfire. It seemed to come from the open sea.
Ali and Habib were knocked on their backsides by the explosion. They scrambled around the beach house beside Paul and watched Hadad’s men react to the onslaught that came from the invisible source.
Hadad’s men had their weapons trained towards the water and had their backs to Paul’s position. Ali and Habib righted themselves and then opened fire on the transport truck, catching Hadad’s men off guard.
Two of Hadad’s men turned and peppered shots towards them. A shot whistled past Paul’s ear. Paul dropped into a divot in the sand.
For a moment, he lay there paralyzed. Maybe they wouldn’t see him. Two more shots thudded into the concrete wall behind him and he realized he had to return fire. He grabbed his rifle and pointed it at the truck. He pulled the trigger, throwing a series of rounds at the truck.
More gunfire. Paul couldn’t tell where it was coming from anymore. Some from Hadad’s men. Some from the Sea.
“It’s the Americans,” Ali spat out, catching his breath. “We have to go.”
“Is Hadad dead?”
“It doesn’t matter. We have to go. They will finish this.”
Ali grabbed Paul’s shoulder and they ran in a crouch towards the Jeep. Paul pushed Ali’s hand away. He didn’t want to leave. He couldn’t.
Another flurry of gunfire was followed by two of Hadad’s men collapsing on the beach. The fire seemed to come from the far end of the beach, more blackness.
It fell quiet. Too quiet.
Paul scanned the beach. He counted five bodies lying motionless around the truck. Embers smoldered where the explosion had landed, spreading smoke and acrid, melted plastic scents across the beach. The canvas on the transport truck whipped in the breeze. The white skiff floated around the shoreline.
Something in the dark water drew his eye. Three dark figures emerged from the sea, slogging through the water to the shore.
“Navy SEALs.” Paul pointed at the water.
“Get back to the Jeep,” Ali nudged Paul. “Now.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Paul raised his vo
ice. “They’re with us. I called them to tell them we’re here. That Hadad was here. They’re on our side.”
“We have to go.” Habib grabbed Paul’s arm and dragged him towards the Jeep.
Paul resisted but Habib overpowered him. Why didn’t they understand that it was over?
Paul opened his mouth to plead his case when Habib’s grip went limp. His head snapped to the side and blood spurted out of his temple.
Paul heard the echo of Officer Clarke’s voice. Full resources are being put towards recovering these weapons right now. What I do know is that once they are recovered, the next priority will be to bring those people responsible to justice. And you are number one on that list. So I suggest you get some proof, Dr. Alban, or run.
Ali pushed Paul to the ground and took a position next to him, prone on the sand. He fired towards the three SEALs, his automatic rifle making a heavy staccato with each round. The three SEALs landed on the beach and crouched, taking aim at Paul and Ali, each of their rounds zipping over Paul’s head.
“Shoot at them,” Ali glanced over at Paul and then sent a series of bullets towards the beach.
“I can’t do it. They’re with us,” Paul said. “They’re American.”
“They’re going to kill us.”
Paul reached for Habib’s rifle and fired at the SEALs on the beach. He shot off ten rounds when the transport truck’s headlights flicked on, and the engine roared to life. The gunfire between them and the SEALs stopped momentarily as they all looked towards the truck.
It started up the beach, directly towards them, increasing in speed. Ali was the first to react, firing at the truck. Paul followed his lead and soon the SEALs were also firing at the truck. Bullet holes punctured the gas tanks and tires along its side and it rocked hard trying to keep its course. The driver overcorrected and swerved, crashing the truck into the beach house about fifty yards in front of them, knocking in the concrete wall. A plume of smoke billowed from under the hood.
It was silent other than the sound of steam from the engine and a broken wheel left spinning. Paul and Ali didn’t move, staring at the wreckage. No more bullets were fired from the other side. Presumably, the SEALs were just as interested in the truck as they were.
Paul waited to see if the driver survived the crash. He needed to know who the driver was. A sinking, sick feeling coursed through him. Part of him knew it could only be one person.
The driver’s side door creaked open and a groan came from inside. A hand clenched the doorframe. The driver’s free hand appeared, clenching a pistol. Bullets flew towards Ali and Paul. A bullet found Ali’s right shoulder and he fell to ground, writhing in agony.
Paul glanced at Ali, and in that instant, the driver jumped out of the truck. He carried a large duffel bag. As the driver ran past the truck, Paul caught a glimpse of his face: Hadad.
Paul sprayed waves of bullets towards Hadad. They clanged against the truck’s metal frame. A series hit the gas tanks and the truck exploded into bright orange flames. The blast sent metal pieces flying in all directions and its sheer force knocked Paul back several feet.
When he looked for Ali, all he saw was a flaming truck door. He scrambled in closer and saw Ali lying motionless underneath. Paul pushed the door aside with the butt of the AK-47. He checked for a pulse and for breathing, but there was none. He tore Ali’s shirt off and felt the bandages around Ali’s torso. They were soaked. Then his fingers found a massive gash along his chest, his ribs poking out.
The SEALs fired shots again, but this time they weren’t directed at Paul, they were shooting at Hadad. Hadad was in a full sprint, not slowed down at all by the weight of the duffel bag on his back. He sprinted along the backside of the beach houses, past Paul.
Paul traced Hadad’s trajectory with his eyes and saw where he was headed. The last beach house.
The Jeep. Ellen.
Paul jumped up and ran along the sand, chasing after Hadad, who was fifty yards ahead of him. He saw Hadad get to the Jeep and throw the duffel bag inside. Ellen tried to jump out, but Hadad grabbed her hair and swung her down into the passenger seat. He elbowed her in the face and she fell back into the seat.
The Jeep started up. Paul broke into a sprint. When he was ten feet away, the Jeep began moving away from him. Paul gave another burst of speed and lunged forward, but the Jeep was out of reach.
Paul picked himself up and focused. The Jeep moved inland, towards the open desert. The wheel spun in the sand and momentarily the Jeep stopped.
Paul ran, and pushed even harder as the Jeep got going again. He was gaining on it. He lunged again, stretching his arms as far as he could. His fingertips hooked onto the spare tire, then he swung his palm and clenched the back frame of the vehicle. The Jeep sped up and he briefly lost his grip and slipped down, his knees scraping as they dragged along the desert sand.
Paul glanced behind him to see where the SEALs were but all he saw was darkness, the beach no longer in view. The Jeep accelerated.
Ellen looked back at Paul, screaming, but he couldn’t hear her over the wind. Hadad’s arm struck her in the back of her head, knocking her face first into the seat back.
Paul heaved himself up on the tire and tried to swing his foot up onto the bumper. The Jeep turned sharply and Paul lost his footing, slipping down again. Hadad swerved the vehicle back and forth as they drove deeper into the desert. Paul focused on his hold to the Jeep, each swerve loosening it by millimeters.
Hadad took the Jeep into a sharp turn going around in a circle. The force sent Paul flying off the Jeep and skidding along the sand. He landed hard on his shoulder and the wind was knocked out of him.
Paul tried to get air in through his mouth, but he couldn’t manage more than a wheeze. He looked out at the desert and made out the Jeep’s headlights not more than one hundred yards from him.
Paul focused on his breathing, heaved himself up and started towards Ellen. It was at most a brisk walk; he couldn’t run.
Thwoosh – thwoosh – thwoosh
A helicopter approached, kicking up sand. There were no lights on the helicopter; it blended in with the dark sky. It hovered briefly above the Jeep, partially obscuring Hadad and Ellen. Paul tried to walk towards them but sand flew into his eyes, and the wind from the rotors pushed him back.
The chopper touched down and Hadad dragged Ellen towards it. She thrashed but he easily subdued her and dragged her into the aircraft.
Paul kept pushing towards the chopper, trying to get a view through the spinning sand. It was sleek and dark with a light blue stripe along the side. No weapons of any kind were on it. A civilian helicopter. Along the tail, he saw a serial number, VO4-66A.
The helicopter rose into the night sky.
Then things became quiet again. Paul plopped down on the sand, ignoring the pain from his scraped, burning skin. Somewhere back on the beach, possibly still hunting him, were three Navy SEALs.
He lifted himself off the sand, started the Jeep, and drove into the desert.
21
The central situation room at the NCS was exuberant. It had quickly filled up with a dozen or so senior officials, all wearing perfect suits. They stood around the large conference table in the center of the room and congratulated each other with firm slaps on the back. They had just received the call from General Kaczmareck.
The operation was a success; the man-portable nuclear weapons were recovered. It was a well-coordinated effort. The intelligence on the location of the weapons had come in, paramilitary officers were immediately notified, and they activated a special operations force stationed in Yemen. AFRICOM commanders coordinated the attack and extraction of the weapons. Time from intel to extraction: twelve hours, forty-two minutes.
It had all of the features of a well-run clandestine operation. There were no U.S. casualties and all objectives had been completed. Most important, they managed to recover the weapons before the Ukrainians started asking questions, and no one in the media got wind of it.
At
the center of the backslapping stood a beaming Jim Crilley. He accepted the accolades from all around him, laughing boisterously at the simplest joke. It was he, after all, who had obtained the intel on the weapons.
Removed from the crowd, Bailey Clarke leaned against a desk in the corner of the room with her arms crossed, sipping Red Rose from a Styrofoam cup. She hoped the tea would ease her slight, lingering headache from the rum and Coke.
She wished that any thoughts of Paul Alban being innocent would dissipate as the alcohol left her system. It didn’t. Her mind kept flashing back to the missing file. MR-14406. She told herself it was a footnote, that was all. It didn’t prove anything. Objectively, Crilley was right. Was it more likely that the NCS was somehow infiltrated, or that Paul Alban botched an intelligence transfer? But why did he contact us? Twice?
Bailey knew that asking these questions wouldn’t get her anywhere. The National Clandestine Service mandate was first and foremost to keep the United States safe from outside threats through intelligence. They had done that. They had stopped twelve nuclear weapons from disappearing into terrorist hands. Case closed. It was now time to move on to the next threat, the next mission. It was time for her to accept some collateral accolades, as the assistant to Jim Crilley.
But her mind couldn’t let it go. There were too many unanswered questions. Paul Alban had called to notify them about the location of the weapons. Where did Crilley get the intel on the weapons anyway? All Crilley said was that the intel had come through her old workplace, the Paramilitary Operations Division.
Bailey slipped out the door and went into the women’s washroom across the hall. She checked under each stall for ankles and when she satisfied herself that she was alone, she took her cell phone out. Before dialing, she took a deep breath and ran the tap to muffle her voice.