by L. J. Martin
I intend to get my lady back, and I took a job to protect Simone. I’m a little behind on that task.
I see by highway signs we’ve landed in Puerto Marina Benalmádena. The cabby seems happy to have a long trip and when he’s gone ten clicks or more pulls off in a town with signs saying Churriaña and stops at a highway restaurant and bar—the motorcycles outside say biker bar, and the two semi-trucks say the food is likely good or at least cheap. The sign says Restaurante Loro Purpura. The purple bird or parrot, I’m guessing by the painting on the sign.
I take a moment before entering to recover my Glock from my backpack and shove it into my belt under my wrinkled shirt and make sure Sa’id watches me do so.
Already it’s clear to me that my new best buddy, Sa’id, speaks English damn near as good as I do as he responds to my every command.
A half-dozen leather and tee-shirt clad toughs line the bar, but the rest of the place is empty, other than a bartender with a thin face and even thinner mustache and a waitress with thick calves, a pink ribbon in raven-wing black hair, and a wide smile. As requested, paisanos solomente. Only countrymen. Not a white European or American in sight.
The chubby but smiling waitress who comes to the booth brings a menu, but I wave it away.
“Dos cervesas y tapas.”
“Tapas?” she answers, with a shrug.
“You choose,” I say, give her a wink, and she understands.
She brings beers from the tap and places them in front of us. As she’s walking away, Sa’id manages, “I do not drink alcohol.”
“And you should not lie. Even though I know the Quran allows you to lie to infidels with impunity. And I also know all you Muslims drink alcohol when the Imam is not watching. Besides, you forget I watched you enjoy yourself on the ship.”
This actually elicits a smile from him. “It is permissible to confuse the infidel.”
“I’m confused, so drink away.”
“Thank you,” he says, and takes a long draw on his foamy beer, then wipes away a foam mustache with the back of his hand.
“Your mission is a failure so far. What will the Imam think of that?”
“It is a Sheik who directs our mission.”
“The Sheik then.”
He’s haughty and arrogant as he snaps, “Our mission has only begun. Your many women are under our control…”
“Not yours any longer, you are under my control.”
“Still, the women are under the control of the faithful. Americans will pay or many will die.”
He gives me a nasty smile.
It’s a narrow table. I come up off the table, leaning across, and slap him so hard his eyes spin. He’s knocked aside and comes up slowly.
Mendleson’s SAT phone rattles again and he grabs it.
“Now, ninety degrees. Prepare to drop your load in…one…two…three…twelve minutes.”
“Exactly twelve minutes?”
“Now eleven minutes, fifty seconds.” And he disconnects.
Mendleson dials and Langley picks up. “Did you get that?”
“Of course. We’re diverting the course three degrees. There’s a short but very high mountain range four miles north of their target. With luck, we’ll put it atop a three-thousand-foot rock pile. Even if they have a chopper, they can’t get there for hours…if we hit our target.”
“Good, that just might save some lives.”
50
One of the toughs at the bar strides over.
I realize the Yemini Sa’id is dark, but not so dark he couldn’t pass for a Spaniard.
“Que?” the tough says, wondering what the hell’s going on. His hands are splayed out as if he’s ready to rumble. Four more at the bar are turned our way.
I don’t need trouble so, without saying a word that would give away the fact I'm a gringo, I flash my bail enforcement officer’s badge. Hell, a badge is a badge, even in Spain. The tough looks a little confused, but then rolls his eyes and returns to the bar. I hear him say, as he shrugs. “Policia.”
I turn back to Sa’id, whose eyes have stopped spinning. “As you will die, if even one of the women from the ship dies. Now, let’s get you what you want and get me what I want. I saw you on board, at the bar by the pool many times.”
I believe he actually blushes.
So, I continue. “The nice young lady there…” then I correct myself. “The young lady who was seen in camo carrying an AK47 by some of our people. I guess she’s not so nice?”
I can see his hackles rise. It seems to me he has more than a military interest in the bartender who called herself Alia.
“Aw…Alia,” I continue. “I will see she is on the CIA’s kill list. You know of the kill list. They become prime targets for those drones you hajis love so much. At least she will not suffer as the flesh will instantly be burned away.”
“You can do that?”
It’s time for a propitious lie. “How do you think I came by the weapons that I used to kill a dozen of your fellow terrorists? Weapons are not allowed on cruise ships as you well know. Only we upper-level American agents of the CIA and FBI are allowed top secret weapons." I can't help but have some fun with it, so I add, "I have a ray gun that will shoot through walls and stop hearts. I’ve already killed more than a dozen of your so-called faithful. Do you think an average American on vacation is capable of that?”
He’s silent for a long time, as the waitress brings us a plate of that wonderful thin-sliced Serrano ham, some pickled veggies, and a variety of nuts.
I can see him repel from the ham, and it gives me an idea.
I let him stew as I sip and munch. He’s wringing his hands, then finally speaks up.
“She only joined Al-Shabaab because drones…your drones…already killed her family. She is a good person…a very good person.”
“Then you would prefer she lived and not die a flaming death as her family did?”
“Of course. She is one of the faithful.”
“But no seventy-two virgins for her, right?”
“Do not be silly…”
“You want her to live. I will do my best to see she does, but you will take me to where she’s gone with all the women from the ship.”
Again, he’s silent for a long spell. “And you will take me to join her? And will free us both?”
“Only if you agree to take her and flee. And I mean flee not only the country but Al-Shabaab. If you do not agree to this, I will kill you out in the parking lot and order more of this fine ham, rub your naked body down with it, then drape you over the sign. Then I will take your picture and send it to my friend at the London Times.”
I swear his dark brown skin flushes. His voice is up an octave, “Do you have electronic measures…abilities?”
“The finest.”
“Then we go to Algeria and when there, I will give you the number of Alia’s cell phone. You can locate her with that number.”
“Of course. And, with luck, and Allah’s grace, you will both live to grow old together.”
That elicits another small smile.
Then my SAT phone, which is buried in my bugout bag, rattles.
Pax, again not bothering with a greeting. “Where are you?”
“Ashore.”
“One hour to touch down at M. Can you get there?”
“Of course. Inside an hour. I have an…an associate.”
“Fine, we’ve got a dozen seats and only five, including our pilot and co.”
“How long on the ground?”
“Our State Department clearance allows us to refuel without immigration as our flight plan calls for Malta.”
“Who’s the fixed base operator?”
“Hold a sec…” he’s back in a moment. “I hesitate to give you this over the air, but Aviapartner Executive Málaga.”
“We’ll be standing by near the coffee pot.”
“Ten four,” he says.
The load master, Mike Gebheardt, and the crew on the C130 are sweating bullets.
They’ve been advised that if they miss the target and the false load is easily discovered, there’s a very good chance women will die every ten minutes for a very long time.
Not only that, but they are in Libya. A flight of F16s is circling five thousand feet above them, and the Libyans will be foolish to attempt anything.
Not only do they have the exact coordinates of the top of the tallest peak in the east-west range, they can see fairly-well thanks to a quarter moon rising in the east. They will be three clicks north of the demanded target, but purposefully so. Sure that no one in the Algerian or Libyan militaries could hit a target any more accurately, the mistake should be easily believed.
Even though they are attempting to hit a mountain top, they are using the LAPES procedure, Low-Altitude Parachute-Extraction System. A delivery method to deposit the load where landing is not an option, and it sure as hell isn’t on a rugged range with nearly vertical slopes rising to sharp peaks.
Master Sergeant Gebheardt was trained by the 109th, who had developed the method, and the load is properly equipped with a drogue chute, which, when deployed, will pull out a cluster of larger extraction chutes. The array of deployed extraction chutes will then drag the load out of the plane. Floor locks hold the pallet in place until extraction time, then are overcome by the pull of the load.
As per protocol, Gebheardt waits nervously until the pilot has slowed nearly to landing speed, just above stall speed, a delicate maneuver over sharp peaks that they’ll attempt to clear by no more than one hundred feet. He adjusts his speed, lowers the cargo ramp, which changes the altitude of the aircraft, which will change again when the load launches. There are a hundred things that can go wrong, not the least of which are the changes in altitude due to up or down drafts from the peaks.
When the pilot gives him a green light, the drogue is released. Gebheardt stands, tethered to the bulkhead so the wind doesn’t suck him along with the load, with his jaw clamped as the drogue drags the supplemental chutes out, which deploy nicely. Then the shock of their pull overcomes the floor locks and tons of pallets began to leave the aircraft.
Gebheardt bows his head as the last pallet disappears and mouths a small prayer. He’s dumped lots of loads with lots of lives dependent upon his accuracy, but for some reason these innocent female civilians, most of them seniors, particularly touch him.
He moves forward quickly as soon as he gets the cargo ramp recovered and enters and moves up behind the pilot. He has to balance with a hand against a bulkhead as the plane is banking sharply.
“Gonna try and get a visual,” the pilot says as Gebheardt leans next to him. The copilot has binoculars, but the navigator is tracking the load with a much more powerful belly-mounted camera attuned to a tracking device attached to the load.
“Geronimo,” the navigator yells. “Damn if more than half the load didn’t hit a cliff side. Some is hanging there; some went to the bottom…but the bottom is twenty-five hundred feet off the desert floor. They’ll be a while getting there. Probably all night even if they’re tough as hell and experienced rock climbers.”
Gebheardt expels a long breath. “Thank the good Lord,” he says. Then adds, “Let’s get the hell out of Libya.”
51
The G5 barely rolls to a stop and powers down before Sa’id and I are on the tarmac, walking to the dropping ladder.
Pax greets us at the hatch. “We’re only topping the tanks, then we’re off. Let’s not hang for twenty questions.”
“I think I know this ride?” I say, looking at the camel and blue interior of the forty-million-dollar aircraft.
“Old favors repaid,” Pax says. “CalGeoCyber, thanks to the administrator of Prather Wedgeworth’s trust. I’m sure you remember Tatya?” He laughs, knowing I remember her fondly, then continues. “Same ship you recovered from Paraguay.”
I can’t help but grin. “Past deeds do come back to haunt you. Who’s on the stick?”
Now Pax laughs. “Charles Glascock, pilot, Tobias Bartlett’s in the right seat. He’s going along for the duration. Charley is taking a risk returning to Malaga alone, as you know a co-pilot is required on this ship. He’ll wait out the mission there in case we need him back.”
I recovered this airplane from a Colonel in South America who decided it was his. Got well paid for it even though the owner went to the gray-bar mansion. The lady now in charge of his estate, and I, were the best of buds for a while. Nice guys don’t tell.
As soon as I’m buckled in, and after greeting some old buddies Pax has recruited, I have a Jack rocks in hand.
I noticed a guy with his back to us in one of the front seats, and am flooded with the warmth only an old buddy can bring to a brother-in-arms as he walks my way and extends a hand, “Semper fi,” he says and I shake knowing he could crush my paw if he wanted to. Skip, Pax, and I wandered many a downrange Iraqi street together.
Skip is a hell of a warrior, a great guy and an even better friend, but he’s got some dark places that he won’t let even his best buddies visit, places carefully mortared together and shaped and shaded by dark deeds none of us want to recall, but few of us can forget. When one charges into a wadi or mud hut in Iraq or Afghanistan only to see an armed haji loose a few rounds in your direction before retreating into a back room, and rather than charge in blindly you chuck a grenade, yell frag out, hit the deck, and then charge in as the dust clears...and a back door stands open and the haji is gone. You stand shocked and shaking as a three-year-old girl and her baby brother are bleeding out on the dirt floor and the scent of hot blood floods your nostrils and utter heart-rending remorse and disgust fill your head while you puke your guts up in a corner. Well, those are sights, sounds, smells and dark deeds not easily put to bed until washed into unconsciousness with a bottle of tequila. None of us talk about what visits us in the night, but all of us who’ve puked our guts up over deeds done that can never be undone, have gargoyles creeping through our heads who laugh crazily, do back flips, and awaken us in sweat-soaked bedding.
I’m happy to see Skip’s not among the many who couldn’t live with the wages of war.
I’m not ashamed to say I love the guy and am not surprised he dropped everything and showed when Pax put out a distress call.
“Been watching the news,” Pax says, with a laugh. “You’re either a hero or a terrorist, depends on who’s reporting. Good chance you’ll get a bill for the damage to the ship as you were instructed, or so the BBC says, to stand down. And the CIA, Military, FBI, and various other anagrams want to chat with you about the reported death of a retired Army General whose body they are conducting a search for.”
“First, dumb fuck, you mean acronym, not anagram.”
“Fuck, I must be tired too, to have a Neanderthal like you correct my vocabulary.”
“An anagram is when you say ‘funeral’, like the mission we’re about to undertake, and rearrange the letters to read ‘real fun’. Get it?”
“Yes, a-hole, I get it. Let’s do word games back home.”
“Second, Tolliver was a hell of a guy and took two ragheads with him. He’d be up for the medal of honor were it enlistment time. And they can take the General’s demise up with Missus Tolliver. She knows more than I. Let’s see,” I offer, after a long draw on the Jack, “Couldn’t be more than a few mil in damages. Maybe they’ll ask for the burial cost of a couple of dozen jihadists? Nothing would surprise me.”
“Likely,” Pax replies. “Taj tracked the ship to a tiny port on the Algerian coast, thanks to marine location dot com and the fact the dumb fucks didn’t disable the ship’s GPS. The ladies were transferred to six canvas-covered military style trucks and are off into the desert.”
I lean over and eye Sa’id. “Any idea where they are going?”
He looks a little perplexed, then answers, “The Sheik would not bring them to his compound in Algeria. He is a clever man and would not lead your drones there. There are over one hundred women and they will need shelter from the desert sun and co
ld, to be fed and sheltered. I would look for somewhere between this town Melilla and his compound. Somewhere with lots of space under cover, out of the sun. You Americans say follow the money, I suggest you follow the road between this town and his compound.”
“It’s time to give me Alia’s cell phone number.”
“Not until we are in Algeria.”
I yell forward to Charlie Glascock, the pilot. “Hey, fragile dick. What’s our altitude?”
Charlie leans out and looks back into the cabin. “Fourteen thousand, dipshit, it’s a short hop.”
I lean forward with my hands on my knees and give our guest a hard stare. “Sa’id, do you know what sixteen feet per second per second is?”
“No, I do not.”
“That’s the rate of acceleration you’ll reach until wind resistance keeps you steady. You’ll hit the surface of the Med after many mikes…that’s minutes...in the air. You’ll have some time to pray that Allah accepts you.”
“You cannot throw me out of this airplane.”
“The fuck I can’t. The phone number?”
He eyes me, then cuts his eyes away as I have his attention. Then rattles off her number.
I nod. “That cell phone better be travelling across the Sahara or you’ll be shark bait.”
I turn to Pax. “How about putting Taj on it?”
“I was already dialing.”
“And does Taj have any thoughts?”
“I’ll call him, get him on that number, and see where we are. He is finding us ground transportation and a couple of locals. I’ll be receiving an e-mail with some intel. You look like hammered dog shit. Get some sleep. I’ll wake you before we touch down.”
A good idea, so I put the seat back and am fly-fishing on the Tongue River in Wyoming in about a half minute. A much better dream that the nightmares I’ve been living. I'm now comfortable. Where I was basically operating alone on the ship, it will be a pleasure to go into action with compadres I can depend on, who’ll watch my back as I’ll watch theirs.
