by Peter Telep
‘Good man,’ Ross told him. He let his head fall back on the seat. ‘I’ll be glad to get out of this rain.’
TWENTY-TWO
The flight from Bogotá to Tobruk, Libya, was approximately 5,600 nautical miles, with a seven-hour time change. The Group for Specialized Tactics had been issued their own dedicated aircraft and pilots, mostly for Close Air Support, but there were always two or three Ospreys or C-130s at their disposal.
Waiting for them in Bogotá was, indeed, a CV-22B Osprey – the US Air Force variant for the US Special Operations command. The tilt-rotor vertical takeoff and landing (VTOL) military transport was primarily used for long-range missions and was equipped with extra fuel tanks and terrain-following radar, along with other special operations equipment such as the AN/ALQ-211, a system that provided detection against radar-guided threats and the cueing of countermeasures like chaff dispensers via integration with the CV-22’s entire self-protection suite.
During the interminable flight that involved several midair refueling operations, Pepper scanned through all the intel they’d received on the new target. He reviewed the locations of the airport, the warehouses, the connecting roads (both paved and unpaved), along with a more detailed map of the city. After that, he familiarized himself with the broader area of operations. He’d once had a high school instructor who’d taught American history through scandals and conspiracies, and ever since then, he’d been fascinated with the past.
As it turned out, Tobruk was steeped in military history, most notably at the beginning of World War II, when it had been an Italian colony. The city was strategically important to both the Axis and the Allied powers because of its deep water port. You could bomb the hell out of the place, and yet makeshift piers could be quickly erected to maintain those vital supply lines for the desert warfare campaign. Additionally, the escarpments and cliffs to the south provided a natural bulwark against invaders, allowing the peninsula to be defended by a minimal number of troops who, even if overrun, could more easily cut off an attacking army’s supply lines. Finally, just twenty-four kilometers away from the port was the largest airfield in eastern Libya. It was plain to see why so many countries wanted control of the city, its port and the surrounding territory.
Tobruk was indeed captured by British, Australian and Indian forces, then wrenched away by famed Lieutenant-General Erwin Rommel, whose forces held the city for more than a year before they were driven out during the Second Battle of El Alamein. There were a number of World War II cemeteries in Tobruk, including the Commonwealth Cemetery, the English Cemetery, and the French and German Cemeteries.
It was quite a different world now. For some, the port’s strategic importance rested squarely on drug smuggling and terrorism instead of military conquest.
Now weary of his studies, Pepper closed his eyes and turned up the volume on his iPod. Johnny Cash’s ‘God’s Gonna Cut You Down’ began with its heavy downbeat, quivering guitar, and gruff admonishments from the man in black himself.
Less than forty-eight hours later, that same song was playing in Pepper’s head as he raced west toward Tobruk along Libya’s main coastal highway toward a heat haze rising like the devil’s breath in the distance.
The motorcycle between his legs was a Kawasaki KLR650 with single-cylinder carbureted engine that whined like a lawn mower, but its simplistic design allowed most third-world mechanics with limited means and skills to repair it. The bike had been around since the late eighties, and parts were abundant.
Was Pepper a motorcycle aficionado, well versed in the history of bikes from around the world? Hell, no. He wouldn’t have known those obscure details were it not for the garage owner who’d rented him the machine. For some reason, the short, yellow-toothed grease monkey felt the need to ‘sell him’ on the bike, but Pepper had reassured him that it was perfect and they’d pay double to rent it for a few days. He’d been dropped off at the garage, which was just a kilometer from the airport, and was now headed back toward the port, following the exact same route of the motorcycle courier the team had observed arriving at the warehouse office in the morning, about six hours prior.
Although he still wore the ache of jet lag behind his eyes, the old Ray Bans felt sweet, and the dry desert air was a welcome change from that Colombian rainforest, which had been like walking through loaves of warm bread. He eased on the throttle, checked his rearview mirror, and watched as a truck shimmered up from the black plains behind him.
Ross sat at a small desk, studying satellite images of the warehouses.
Their contact, Darhoub, had provided the basement of an old Italian church within which they’d set up a small command post. The church had peeling plaster walls, a single spire, and was only a five-minute drive from the pier and the Fadakno complex. Once their satellite dish was safely concealed behind the spire, Ross had established communications with Mitchell and had received another set of intel files.
A knock came at the door.
‘Come on in.’
‘Here he is, sir,’ said one of the NLA troops, a lieutenant who escorted the lean, broad-shouldered man into the basement. He was about Ross’s age, had wavy, coal-black hair, a week’s worth of beard, and wore a T-shirt beneath a dress shirt stained near the buttons. Dust rose up his black pants to the knees, and a cheap Casio watch hung loosely around his wrist. He looked like one of Darhoub’s NLA soldiers out of uniform, but when he opened his mouth, his English was perfect, that of a native speaker, with a slight Southern accent. ‘Captain Ross, nice to meet you, sir. I’m Captain Abdul Maziq, ISA.’
Ross turned away from the desk, rose and shook hands. ‘Good to see you, Captain.’
‘I’ve just put three observers on the warehouses in addition to Darhoub’s men. My local contacts here in Tobruk tell me the warehouses have been here for about five or six years. Trucks come back and forth from the airport; some parts are shipped in and offloaded at the dock, but there are always a number of motorcycle couriers making the airport run. Could be delivering company mail or small parts orders to other customers … or at least that’s what they want us to believe.’
‘One of my operators is on a bike right now.’
Maziq grew wide-eyed and nervous. ‘You’re sending him in? What’s his cover story? What’s he look like? Can he –’
‘Take it easy, Captain. He’s not doing anything. Just following the run. If we need him to pose as one of their couriers, we’ll be good to go.’
Maziq sighed deeply. ‘Please, Captain, let me do my job first before you make a move.’
‘I know the drill. I worked with a few of your buddies in Waziristan.’
‘You know Halitov and St Andrew?’ Maziq asked.
‘I know those guys well.’
Maziq grinned through a thought. ‘Damn, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen them.’
‘We went through a lot together. Bottom line is they trusted me, and so can you. I’m not here to steal your thunder.’
‘Good. Because I’m here to make sure you have yours, so give me some time. I’m working with all the three-letter agencies on signals intel, and that takes a while.’
‘Not Langley, though, right?’
He nodded. ‘The major was very specific about that, but they’ve got a man here. I’ve known about him for a while. We’ve IDed him as Tamer Abdel Kahlek. They just call him Tamer. I’d like to temporarily shut him down while we conduct our operations, if you understand me correctly.’
‘I do. Just get me the intel on him.’
‘It’s already being sent over. Now, if I’m correct, you have two more operators. Where are they?’
‘You getting nervous again?’
Maziq snorted. ‘I’m afraid of ghosts, especially the ones who like to shoot first and apologize later.’
Ross’s mouth fell open. ‘We’re, uh, just an ODA team …’
‘Okay, whatever you say.’
‘They told you who we are?’
‘I spoke to Mitchell myself
. I used to be a Ghost, before you guys became the GST.’
‘Wow. He never said anything.’
‘It’s really not important.’
‘So if you don’t mind me asking, why’d you leave?’
‘The group was changing, there were politics involved, and I just needed something different,’ he said with a deep sigh.
‘Politics? In the military?’ Ross asked, beaming through his sarcasm.
Maziq grinned crookedly. ‘I was always good at this part of the job. Couple of guys I knew on ODA teams were recruited by the ISA and ran ops in the ’Stan, so I went for it. Haven’t looked back. And I’m happy to support your operations.’
‘We’re happy to have you. And I understand what you mean about needing something different. I really do.’
‘So about your other guys …’
Ross checked his watch. ‘If I’m right, they’re a few hours away from heat stroke, and they’re about to call and remind me.’
TWENTY-THREE
Kozak and 30K had established an observation post on the roof of an old British aircraft hangar at Tobruk Airport. They had donned NLA desert fatigues and were carrying the same weapons as those local troops: AK-47s and Russian TT-30 pistols. The hangar beneath them had been buffeted so severely by the wind and sand that most of its surfaces had been worn smooth, while a thick layer of sand had caked along its sides, allowing it to vanish into the landscape, as though it were some desert animal’s burrow rather than a World War II storage facility.
Tobruk Airport was one of many small, third-world airstrips Kozak had visited during his travels. The single main terminal was a meager rectangular box, and of course, if you took a commercial or business-class flight, you had to disembark via roll-up stairs and hike your butt across the tarmac to get out of the heat. Apparently, there had been plans for a big renovation and modernization of the airport before the civil war. Now it might take years before that project was put back on the table. The Libyans had more important things to consider first – such as rebuilding and reinforcing their government.
For his part and much to his satisfaction, Kozak was operating the drone crawler and had flown it over to the end of the runway, where several emergency vehicles were parked. The drone was parked atop the cab of a fire truck, and from there he watched close-up images of the incoming flights, while 30K checked them against the terminal data being sent from Fort Bragg. Analysts there had ‘accessed’ the terminal’s system and drawn the flight data because, wouldn’t you know, that data wasn’t available on the web, even though it should be public knowledge. Third-world airport to be sure.
‘Can’t we just leave the drone, have its signal sent to the web, and pick it up from there? This way we can go back to the church and cool off?’ asked 30K.
‘And if something goes down?’ Kozak challenged. ‘Our response time would be like what? Twenty minutes? Nah. We gotta be here. Come on, you know you love it. You just like to bitch and moan to pass the time.’
‘Yeah, well, even my sweat is sweating right now.’
A dark brown bird with a pale red neck wheeled overhead. Was it a vulture? Yes, it was, waiting for them to keel over.
‘We ain’t dead yet,’ 30K grunted while hoisting his middle finger at the vulture, giving the bird the bird as it were.
Kozak blinked sweat out of his own eyes. ‘Whew. Yeah, you’re right. It’s hot. Ten million sunblock ain’t enough. But if you can’t take the heat –’
‘Hey, remember how I said I’d find Admiral Nimitz’s baggage?’
‘His name’s Ross.’
‘Yeah, well, I found it.’
Kozak’s eyes never left the remote’s screen. ‘It’s his son.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Pepper found out. Just drop it.’
‘What happened?’
‘You told me you knew.’
‘Sounded like a bad divorce.’
Kozak shifted over and slapped a palm on 30K’s shoulder. ‘His little boy died. I don’t know how, but I’m asking you as a friend and a colleague to let this go.’
‘I’ll let it go if I’m sure his head’s clear.’
‘Are you serious? You think Mitchell would have given him a Ghost Team if he was a basket case? Come on, dude, get real. Ross is as squared away as they come. He’s just had bad times – like everyone here.’
‘I’m not so sure. Some guys hide it good. But then, when it all goes to hell, they lock up because they weren’t clear.’
‘It kinda went to hell back in Colombia, and as far as I’m concerned, the captain rocked it. Maybe I should be worried about you. Maybe you’re, like, OCD about Ross. Paranoid. Maybe you’re going to spend more time watching him instead of keeping your eyes on the primary target.’
30K spoke through his teeth. ‘We’re trusting that man with our lives. I want to know – I deserve to know – that his head is in the right place.’
‘I could say the same thing of you.’
The sound of plane engines drew Kozak’s attention skyward, and there it was, a medium transport with high-mounted wings, boxy fuselage, and a conventional tail. As the drone recorded its final approach, those images were automatically sent to one of the GST’s aircraft databases, which automatically scanned them until a match was found, the file displayed in Kozak’s HUD:
ID confirmed. CASA C-212 designed and built in Spain for civil and military use. Also manufactured under license by Indonesian Aerospace. Non-pressurized, low-flight-level. Turboprop used in a variety of utility and paramilitary roles due to low cost, large cabin, rear loading ramp.
‘I’ve seen those planes in Afghanistan,’ said Kozak. ‘I think Blackwater used them for dropping cargo.’
‘Yep, looks familiar to me, too. We might want to get down there and put a tracker on it.’
‘Why?’
‘’Cause it ain’t on the list. No flight plan filed. Just came in. Landed. Just like that. And you don’t see security rushing out to meet the plane, do you? Like they’ve all been paid off and know about it.’
‘Well, that’s red flag city right there. I’ll call it in.’ After a few words with Ross, Kozak received permission to move in and plant a GPS tracker, along with a listening device (if they could get inside the cabin).
They crawled back to the edge of the hangar’s roof and descended a rusting maintenance ladder clinging to the hangar’s side wall by only three of the original twenty bolts.
Below lay their dust-covered Tacoma pickup truck, and with sighs of relief to be out of the sun, they both plopped into the cab, wincing over hot seats. Of course there was no air-conditioning, the unit having died some years ago, according to one of the NLA troops who’d loaned them the ride.
They’d counted a total of six airport security guards near the terminal, and several more near the main parking field. Before the war, the Army had a detachment here, but now, with everything in transition, a private firm had taken over, at least temporarily, but they were poorly staffed and probably even more poorly trained.
Nevertheless, Kozak and 30K had still chosen a stealthy approach, coming in from the south, along a low-lying dirt road with the old British hangar and a few scattered fig trees shielding them from view.
As they followed the same path out, Kozak recalled the drone while 30K steered them toward a row of seven Quonset-shaped hangars situated on the north side of the runway. The hangars were large enough to house medium-size aircraft like the C-212, were constructed of aluminum, and were, like the old British hangar, heavily weathered by the sun and sand. The C-212 was already taxiing along a road leading out to them, and its pilot would, they assumed, pull inside one of the hangars or park in the lot behind.
‘That security team will see us now,’ said Kozak. ‘No way around it.’
‘I’m not worried about them.’
‘Well, let’s see what they do.’
After a few seconds, 30K blurted out, ‘Hey, before we leave this country, remind me to get us some
magrood.’
‘What is it? Libyan whiskey or something?’
‘No, you Cossack. It’s a date-filled cookie. They’re so good. Probably the only good thing in this whole shitty sandbox.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘Been to Tripoli a couple of times. Got ’em in the airport. Hey, look, he’s turning inside.’
The C-212 slipped into the last hangar on the right, and 30K veered suddenly off the road to park beside the first hangar. Whether it was the time, the heat of the day, or even the day of the week, Kozak wasn’t sure, but the place looked dead. No activity at all, all the other hangar doors shut tight, no cars around, nada.
He and 30K were about to get out when a black airport security jeep rolled up and out hopped the puppy patrol. They must have been waiting for them behind one of the hangars to launch their ‘ambush.’
The fatter guard with a button missing at his navel shook his head, three chins wagging, and said, ‘Who did you piss off to get assigned here?’
‘No one,’ said 30K in Arabic. ‘Mohammed Darhoub, military advisor of Transitional Council, asked us to come out here and observe you. So far your security is bullshit and your men are filthy whores. We were up on that old hangar all day, and not one of your stupid bastards spotted us. What kind of sorry-ass shit is that?’
The fat man’s eyes grew glassy, and he regarded his partner, a guy who looked like he hadn’t eaten in a month. ‘We got no reports of this?’ he cried.
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said 30K. ‘You guys look like you’re trying your best, and it’s really hot out here, so why don’t you head back? I’ll tell our boss you picked us up at the hangars and were right on it. But you can’t tell anyone we were here or that I’m cutting you a favor, okay?’
The fat man rolled his eyes. ‘Okay. Just promise me. Don’t say shit.’
