by Tom Clancy
‘You spend enough time in bars, talking to people, bullshitting, practising how to intimidate people, and it all pays off.’
‘I thought you did most of your negotiating with your fists.’
A gleam came into his eyes. ‘Sometimes the negotiations break down. Let’s roll.’
Kozak followed 30K along a path behind the hangars. They kept tight to the walls and avoided the windows mounted within a few of the back doors. When they reached Hangar 7, the sound of a diesel engine rumbled past the thin walls, and before they could react, the vehicle pulled out – a nondescript twenty-four-foot-long cargo truck, not unlike a U-Haul rental.
Out of reflex, Kozak reached into his holster and let fly the drone. He immediately got the bird in place behind the truck to get a tag number and description, sending real-time video back to Ross.
The words Al jamahiriya, which were used by Gaddafi to refer to Libya and to argue for his ideologies, were embedded on all vehicle registration plates, and they were present on this truck’s tag as well.
‘Good work, Kozak. Keep that intel coming,’ said Ross.
Before the driver or anyone else was the wiser, he recalled the drone, then he and 30K shifted furtively to the front of the hangar, whose main doors had been left open. Kozak peered around the corner, holding his breath.
Inside lay the plane, and along the left wall were parked four more cargo trucks identical to the first.
Suddenly, voices echoed from inside, and from the corner of his eye Kozak spotted an airplane mechanic in greasy coveralls striding across the hangar toward the airplane, with a second mechanic in tow. Kozak gave 30K the hand signal, and they fell back behind the open doors.
‘We’re putting a lot of time into this hangar,’ Kozak said. ‘You sure about this?’
‘They got the plane, the trucks, no flight plan, come on, dude, what do you need? A sign that says, “We Smuggle Cocaine for Less”?’
‘Okay, you’re right.’
‘Of course, I’m right. Now they’ll track that truck with the satellite. If it arrives at the warehouse, bingo, we’re good to go,’ said 30K.
‘What now?’
‘Can you get the crawler in there so we can eavesdrop?’
Kozak hoisted his brows. ‘I got a better idea.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Pepper pulled up behind the old church, switched off the motorcycle, then headed down the back staircase to the basement entrance. He knocked twice, then said, ‘Delta Dragon.’ The door opened and one of the NLA troops allowed him inside. He passed through a narrow, dimly lit hallway toward an office on the right, where Ross glanced up from his desk.
‘I thought you signed on to see the world, not sit behind a computer.’
Ross chuckled under his breath. ‘Can’t say I mind a little recon, though. More boring but less dangerous.’
‘No doubt. What do we got?’
‘30K and Kozak spotted a small cargo plane at the airport. Pulled in a hangar. Pilot seems to have taken a truck. Might be headed here.’
‘Good deal. Cargo traffic to and from the airport is fairly high, so that’s nothing unusual. We need to see what’s inside that truck.’
Ross nodded. ‘How’s the bike?’
‘Pretty sweet for an old girl. You link up with the guy from the ISA?’
‘Yeah, Abdul Maziq.’
Pepper grinned in recognition. ‘Hell, I know Maziq. We go way back.’
‘Yeah, he told me he was a Ghost.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s tracking down a problem.’
‘What now?’
‘Old spooky’s in town.’
‘How many?’
‘Just one for now. Once Maziq locates him, you and I need to address this. Let’s call it a security leak.’
Pepper lifted his brows. ‘Sir, I can’t wait.’
‘We need to be careful. Just take him out of the equation temporarily until we’re long gone.’
‘How you wanna do it? Old school or new?’
Ross frowned. ‘Do I look new school?’
‘That’s what I thought.’ Pepper showed Ross his best evil-minded grin.
‘However,’ Ross quickly added, holding up an index finger. ‘We’re gonna have to do this new school. I won’t break the law or violate the rules of engagement.’
Pepper nodded. ‘That’ll make things a little more difficult … and dangerous.’
Ross smiled broadly. ‘I was going to say more interesting.’
Kozak was trembling with excitement. ‘Dude, this is the first time any Ghost Team has fielded this baby. This is one small step for a kid from Brooklyn, one giant leap –’
‘Man, kill the theatrics. That thing looks like it’ll break from just staring at it too hard. How much it cost? A million bucks?’
‘I don’t know. Why are you so negative?’
‘Because we fight with guns – not shit you find on Aisle 5 of Toys “R” Us.’
‘Oh, this isn’t a toy,’ Kozak argued, staring wide-eyed. ‘Say hello to my little friend.’
In his palm sat a MUAV, or Micro Unmanned Aerial Vehicle. Shaped like a dragonfly, the battery-operated ornithopter remained aloft for ninety minutes by flapping its translucent wings as its tiny camera transmitted sound and images back to Kozak’s cell phone. A smartphone application allowed him to pilot the craft and record its operations. Kozak considered the Dragonfly a ‘close quarters drone,’ and with the push of his right thumb, the MUAV hummed softly and flew away toward the roof of the hangar, then descended to zip inside.
‘Those geeks got too much time on their hands,’ said 30K, his mouth falling open as Kozak showed him the camera images piped in from the tiny craft:
The two mechanics were discussing something near the plane, while Kozak flew the drone past them and into an office area cordoned off with cubicle walls. There on the desk were inventory lists and shipping manifests with the Fadakno logo at the top, everything written in Arabic. Kozak hovered over them and began taking snapshots.
‘You know what’s even more cool?’ he asked 30K. ‘The fact that there really are dragonflies here in Libya, so even if these guys spot the drone, they’ll just think it’s a bug.’
‘So you’re a bug pilot. That make you feel proud?’
‘Yeah, it does. Now shut up.’
Kozak worked his thumbs on the screen, and the Dragonfly ascended and wheeled back toward the mechanics, who were now standing atop a rolling ladder and gaining access to the plane’s starboard side engine. Kozak kept a safe distance and decided to have the Dragonfly alight on the fuselage just above them.
Once the drone was in place and stable, he zoomed in on the men and turned up the cell phone’s volume.
The conversation was so dull that Kozak fought to keep his eyes open. They said nothing that would betray them, argued over who’d last serviced the plane, and then got to work.
‘I’m going in with the blanket,’ 30K said. ‘Or if you like, I can just walk in there with another story.’
‘Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down,’ Kozak began. ‘You’re going in? What’re you going to say?’
‘I’ll feel them out. I’ll say how pissed off Hamid is, that this poor aircraft maintenance is ridiculous, and Hamid was mad enough to send us here with orders to kill them if they don’t fix it.’
Kozak gave him a look. ‘Why don’t you run that idea by Ross?’
30K frowned.
‘If you’re talking to them, how’re you supposed to plant the tracker?’
‘That’s where you come in.’
‘I don’t like it.’
30K threw up his hands. ‘The blanket it is.’
‘Let’s just wait.’
‘Wait here all night?’
Kozak narrowed his gaze. ‘They’ll be done soon.’
‘In the time it’s taken to have this conversation, I could’ve been in and out.’
30K breathed deeply and cursed as he slipped off his pack. He tugged out the
ir Cross-Coms, handed one to Kozak, and donned the other headset. Next he removed the optical camouflage blanket and computer, which was about the size of an external hard drive and communicated wirelessly with the blanket. He slipped the computer into his breast pocket, then pulled the blanket over his head. He now resembled a weird Libyan Jedi Master.
‘Camouflage active,’ he said. The computer read his voice command, and he vanished, save for his face, now a sweaty, disembodied mask floating beside the hangar.
‘If they spot you,’ Kozak warned.
‘If they spot me, they ain’t gonna be around long enough to sound the alarm.’
‘Oh, and that’s zero footprint, huh?’
30K rolled his eyes. ‘Hey, they won’t spot me.’
Kozak’s breath shortened as his teammate shifted toward the entrance, the blanket flickering.
‘Jimmy,’ Kozak whispered.
30K turned back.
‘Be careful.’
30K smirked and rounded the corner, the air where he’d just passed bending like a rift in the space-time continuum.
TWENTY-FIVE
It was an old Libyan fishing trawler moored at the marina for who knew how long, and when Ross lowered his binoculars and glanced over at Maziq, the man was typing furiously on his laptop computer. Pepper, who was hunkered down beside Ross on the church’s rooftop, gave a curt nod and said, ‘If you want to go new school, then Kozak’s our man for this. Pair him up with Maziq and cut ’em loose. I can use one of the drones and run surveillance on the trawler. I’ll give them the signal if and when he leaves.’
Ross thought about that plan as he raised his binoculars and zoomed in on the boat once more. She was a medium-size trawler, about eighty feet, with a meager boom and dark red stains running down from her hawse pipe. Her pocket-shaped nets lay piled on her deck, and judging from their faded appearance, they hadn’t been used in some time. Perhaps the trawler’s owner had just moored her there and walked away from the boat and his business, who knew. For the past thirty minutes there’d been no movement within or around the vessel, although Ross had thought he’d seen someone near a window of the navigation bridge, but a second look proved him wrong.
According to Maziq’s intel, Tamer, the CIA man they needed to ‘neutralize,’ had set up shop on the boat because it offered an unobstructed view of the Fadakno warehouses.
‘Pepper, I like your plan,’ said Ross. ‘The only problem is this – if I’m Tamer, I don’t go anywhere without my computer, and if we’re going to compromise the information he’s receiving from Langley, then we sure as hell need access to that computer.’
Pepper squinted into the distance. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. It’s complicated, but there’s a way to make that happen. We just need Maziq to call in a few favors.’
‘What did you have in mind?’
30K used one hand to hold the blanket tightly at his chin as he shifted quickly behind two natural-gas-powered forklifts parked beside stacks of wooden shipping pallets. Beside them lay rows of small boxes printed with the Fadakno logo. The mechanics were on the other side of the plane, standing atop their ladder, with the fuselage blocking 30K from their view.
Kozak, who was observing the entire hangar via the Dragonfly, spoke softly to 30K as he moved: ‘Okay, bro. You’re still clear.’
30K took a deep breath, left the wall, and began to cross the open area between the pallets and the plane – just five meters between himself and the forward landing gear.
‘Dude, wait!’ Kozak whispered loudly.
One of the mechanics came trudging down the ladder, wiping his hands on a greasy rag and shouting back to his buddy about what an incompetent asshole he was and how he had a good mind to just walk out on him.
The man crossed to a small workbench, fished around in a box of tools, then turned back toward the plane with several socket wrenches in his hands. He took about three steps –
Then froze, staring in 30K’s direction.
‘Oh, shit,’ said Kozak. ‘Do not move.’
TWENTY-SIX
While Ross, Pepper and Maziq were observing the fishing trawler, two late-model sedans that Ross assumed were rentals pulled up outside the Fadakno office. Out stepped a group of four well-dressed men, who, unbeknownst to them, were being observed by many eyes, including an electro-optical one flying in an elliptical orbit approximately 175 miles over their heads.
Each man was photographed as accurately as possible, the images instantaneously run through facial recognition databases for biometric tagging, part of what the military called TTL – Tagging, Tracking and Locating, which was further qualified by the designations ‘Hostile Forces’ (HF) or ‘Clandestine or Continuous’ (C) tracking.
Three of the faces came up empty for any criminal records, all of them Colombian nationals, but the fourth was positively IDed as Alfonso Valencia, a man well known and highly sought after by Colombian law enforcement.
Valencia was a graduate of the National University of Colombia in Medicine. Not long after receiving his degree, he left the country to continue his studies in Cuba and Mexico, and he remained abroad for more than eight years. He eventually returned to Colombia, where he was recruited by the FARC through his brother-in-law and rose up quickly through their ranks because of his professional experience. He was selected for the higher command, joining more than thirty top guerilla leaders, including the seven members of the secretariat, which included the group’s commander in chief. Valencia established and helped organize the FARC’s mobile medical facilities throughout the jungle regions. His presence in Tobruk struck Ross as unusual, unless he’d recently assumed new duties that involved drug smuggling.
‘Captain,’ Pepper called from behind his binoculars. ‘Check out the trawler.’
Ross did, and through an open porthole hung a man eclipsed by his own binoculars, a man Maziq confirmed was Tamer. He, too, was watching the arrival of the FARC representatives.
Ross’s pulse rose as he contacted Mitchell. They had confirmation that the FARC were in Libya and connected to Fadakno. Boom.
‘If you go in heavy now, the rabbit hole caves in,’ Mitchell warned him. ‘Keep gathering intel. We’re getting closer. Obviously, we’ll need to tag a shipment and see where it goes. I want all the key players IDed before we drop the hammer.’
‘Roger that, sir.’ Ross then shared their ‘dilemma’ with the other three-letter agency in the area.
‘I agree you need to eliminate that leak, but we don’t want a situation. You cannot break the law – as much as we’d both like to do that right now.’
‘Before I overthink this, sir, I have to ask: Do you think we can just get Tamer recalled? Have him reassigned to Tripoli or Cairo? That would save me at least one headache.’
‘Sure thing,’ Mitchell said, his sarcasm unmistakable. ‘I’ll call over to the Special Activities Division and say we got ’em covered. Send their boy home and save tax dollars.’
‘All right, sir, I understand. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask. You always check under the mat before you pick the lock, right?’
Mitchell’s lips curled in a slight grin. ‘That truck that left the airport should arrive soon. It’s registered to Fadakno. If it parks at the warehouses, and it should, then we have at least one export route and vehicle established. Do we have a tracker on that plane?’
‘Kozak and 30K are working on it.’
‘Good. Keep me updated as usual. Guardian, out.’
‘Captain, we got something else here that’s kind of interesting,’ called Pepper. ‘It’s a kid coming out of the main office.’
Ross watched the wiry teenager with shaggy hair climb aboard a bicycle he’d parked out of view behind the office. He rode away, past the FARC vehicles. ‘Maziq, who’s the kid?’
‘Darhoub’s men told me he’s just a delivery boy. Brings lunch to the warehouse employees every day.’
‘Oh, he’s bringing them lunch,’ said Pepper. ‘But that’s not his only job.’<
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‘No, it’s not,’ Ross agreed.
Pepper pointed. ‘Here’s my take: that kid is a field agent recruited by Mr Tamer, our local spook.’
‘I’d agree,’ said Maziq. ‘The boy is gathering intel for him.’
The kid reached the pier, and although he didn’t turn out toward the marina where the fishing trawler was moored, he gave a look in that direction.
Ross stiffened. He loathed missions where kids were involved. When he was operating in Waziristan, he’d had little choice but to pay off many young boys to plant beacons inside the homes of known Taliban leaders so that those targets could be marked for drone strikes. Of the five or six he’d recruited, all of them had performed their missions expertly. All except one. Kid named Ali. He’d been caught in the act. They found what was left of him just outside the Forward Operating Base’s gate. They’d left him there to send a message.
At the same time, the Taliban mullahs were forcibly recruiting nine-year-olds to become suicide bombers, and Ross had encountered several of them in his travels, innocent children brainwashed into throwing their lives away …
The memories turned his stomach. He closed his eyes and fought hard against a sudden flood of images.
His boy … his little boy …
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘All right,’ said Kozak. ‘Clear to move. Go …’
30K shifted over to the forward landing gear and paused once again.
‘Still clear,’ Kozak reported.
Rising so that the blanket fully obscured him, 30K placed the tracker up high in the undercarriage, where it would remain in place via trusty 3M tape and magnets. The tracker was about the size of an iPod Classic and weighed about the same.
30K wasn’t through yet. He wanted to get a listening device in the cabin; however, the mechanics had not opened any doors nor had they lowered the rear cargo hatch. He considered planting the device within one of the stacks of cargo, which assumedly would be loaded on to the plane.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Kozak. ‘You’re done. Get out of there.’
30K took a deep breath.
