by Peter Telep
The van pulled up outside the apartments, and standing in the shadows of an alcove before a pair of warped wooden doors was a bony man with a square jaw and narrow mustache. If this weren’t Yemen, Ross might mistake this man for a carny working the Ferris wheel at Saint Matthew’s annual picnic back in Virginia Beach. He raked a hand through greasy hair and wiped sweat from his brow. He was probably Ross’s age, his temples as gray as hot briquettes. Although he was dressed in civilian clothes, Ross recognized him from the intel photo Mitchell had provided. This was Naseem, a colonel with the Yemeni Republican Guard and a paid informant working for the CIA. His gaze lifted to the street beyond them, checking with an almost mechanical precision for observers before he left the alcove and hustled down to the van, opening the sliding door.
Ross greeted him while the others went to fetch the rectangular, heavy canvas load out bags containing their tactical gear.
‘They didn’t tell me your names,’ said Naseem, his voice thin and barely rising above the van’s sputtering engine.
‘Operational security,’ Ross said. ‘You can just call me Captain.’ He proffered his hand, and Naseem was about to accept it when a police car rolled up beside another car parked about twenty meters down the street.
They both turned in that direction.
Just as one of the cops was getting out –
And the parked car exploded in a deafening thunderclap that shattered windows and sent a fireball swelling into the sky.
FORTY
‘Get inside,’ shouted Naseem, waving frantically to the team, then rushing forward to wrench open a door.
One by one the Ghosts stormed by Ross, who waited with Naseem, and once they were all inside the building’s entrance foyer, the van driver screeched off as car alarms triggered by the explosion continued to wail.
Ross returned to the door and stole another look down the street, where pieces of the police officer, now lumps of pink viscera, lay strewn in the road and splattered against the opposite building. The police car had been catapulted on to its roof, the windows shattered, the passenger’s side blackened and torn apart. A yellow mailbox that better resembled a fire hydrant had been blown out of the ground and had impaled the car’s trunk. Several dogs were charging the flames, barking, then running back to charge again. Dozens of people were on their balconies now, staring down not so much in horror but with a deep sense of dread, Ross could tell, as this was something painfully familiar. And there it was, that smell – the burning rubber, fuel, and the sickly sweet stench of human flesh.
The war zone.
He thought of going outside to see if anyone else was injured, but Naseem shoved himself in front of Ross and slammed shut the door. ‘Follow me,’ he ordered.
Shuddering off the adrenaline rush, Ross signaled the team, and they fell in behind the colonel, heading into the stairwell and double-timing their way up the stairs.
‘They’ve just started the bombing again,’ Naseem said as Ross got tight on the man’s heels.
‘Who are they?’
‘I’ll tell you in a moment.’
They climbed all six flights of stairs and came into a hallway of cracked plaster lit by dangling bulbs. Two armed men stood outside a door at the end of the hall. Naseem shouted for them to stand down as the team hurried behind. He unlocked the apartment door, holding it open as they filed inside.
The furnishings were meager, the rooms tiny, the entire place no more than 1,200 square feet by Ross’s estimate yet large by Aden standards. A hole had been cut in the ceiling near the doors leading out to the balcony, and an aluminum ladder led up to the roof, where at the moment a man wearing a pistol holstered at his waist was descending, his long scarf trailing behind him. Naseem muttered a few words to him before he hopped down and rushed toward the front door.
Then Naseem regarded the entire group, with Ross staring hard at the man, demanding answers.
‘The men you saw outside were not police officers. They were my men, protecting me,’ said Naseem. ‘But they must’ve figured that out.’
‘Who?’
‘We call them the Harak, but you may know them as the South Yemen Movement. They’ve been organized since 2007, and they refer to us in the north as dahbashi, basically savages. They want the south to secede from the government, and their numbers and support are growing. Up in the mountains of Yafa, there’s no longer any government control. They call it the “Free South,” and now they’ve begun flying their flags here, just outside of Aden.’
‘This like an Arab Spring thing?’ asked Kozak.
‘No, we had an uprising in 2011 to oust the president, which I’m sure you heard of, but this movement has been around for much longer,’ said Naseem. ‘Back in 1994 during our civil war, the north created several fatwas that advocated the killing of women and children and religious sheikhs in the south, branding them all Communists. That for me marked the beginning. Since then, the north has been trying to eradicate any southern identity and eliminate the desire for independence. But the harder they try, the deeper these people dig in. They see themselves as far more modern than us, abandoning the old ways, the tribes, and they view our military presence as an occupation.’
‘Sounds a lot like the American Civil War,’ said Pepper. ‘And if you’re heading in that direction, there’s gonna be a lot of blood.’
‘That’s why my guard troops are here,’ Naseem said. ‘The rumors of war are growing.’
‘I know a little about the Harak,’ Ross chipped in. ‘And I know it’s pretty rare for them to resort to violence. There have been a few incidents over the years, but nothing wide scale.’
‘That’s all changed,’ said Naseem. ‘One of their more famous leaders, Zion Haza, was recently executed in the north. He’s become a martyr, and his death we believe has sparked a new wave of violence. We’ve brought in two companies of Republican Guard and dressed them like local police to hide our numbers, but now …’ He drifted off into a thought, then suddenly faced them. ‘All of this is really none of your concern. You’ll remain here until your ship nears the port, and then I’ll take you to another safe house in Al-Ma’ala. From there you’ll be able to observe the ship and cargo operations.’
‘Excellent,’ said Ross. ‘And we appreciate your assessment of the situation here, but can we have a word in private?’
Naseem nodded and steered Ross into an adjoining bedroom, where on a small nightstand sat a pistol and a copy of the Quran, the image surreal and reminding Ross of any number of old Westerns he’d watched or read as a kid. ‘What is it?’ asked Naseem.
‘Back in 2011 during the uprising, more than seven thousand of your colleagues in the Republican Guard defected to the anti-government movement. Let’s just say the people in my community were watching that incident very closely.’
‘That’s true. I was in Nahm at the time, at our barracks. I fought against some of the traitors.’
‘You were there, all right. But you let them take over the barracks.’
Naseem shifted back a few steps, his hand drifting down toward the pistol holstered at his waist, right beside the short, curved dagger known as a jambiya. ‘Who are you?’
Ross shrugged. ‘I’m just a guy, and I’m asking – why are you lying to us?’
FORTY-ONE
Pepper was crouched near the window, watching as Aden’s ill-equipped fire services attempted to put out the burning police car with portable extinguishers instead of high-pressure water from a hydrant. Behind them lay a funnel-shaped scorch mark that extended from the asphalt near the mangled car’s chassis all the way to the opposite curb, where other first responders were gathering pieces of debris and shoving them in plastic garbage bags.
At the same time, Pepper was listening intently to the voices coming from the bedroom. The conversation had taken a turn for the worse, he feared, and as he was about to rise and head over toward the door, another explosion thundered from somewhere north, followed by a few shouts from men up on the roof.
The small group of firefighters down below shoved radios into their back pockets, and a trio fled in a pickup truck toward the sound of the detonation.
‘Somebody’s having fun with firecrackers,’ grunted 30K, coming up beside Pepper.
‘Nothing ever gets to you, huh?’
‘Actually this apartment does. Know why? Because we can’t defend it. The escape routes suck. Next building’s too far to jump. Gotta run a line of paracord. I’d rather be on the first floor.’
‘Me, too. This is shit. We’re bailing.’
The bedroom door opened and out stepped Ross and Naseem, the latter looking a little pale. ‘Stay away from the window,’ he said.
‘We get that,’ said 30K with a roll of his eyes.
Ross waved over Kozak and they huddled up, staring at Naseem, whose eyes had taken on a sheen that suggested he had something grave to tell them.
However, it was Ross who spoke first:
‘I had the major do a little extra digging for us when I heard our contact here was a CIA informant.’ Ross lifted his chin toward the colonel. ‘Naseem, it’s hard for me to accept that you betrayed your own forces during the uprising, only to tell me you’re working for them again.’
‘The situation is very complicated, and you don’t understand the politics of my country. You don’t understand how your loyalty must sometimes shift – if only temporarily – to get the job done. What I did was meant to save lives.’
‘I’m sorry, Colonel, but I don’t understand that at all,’ said Ross. ‘See these guys here? We’d die for each other. That won’t ever change. So let me ask you, pointblank, are you working for the Harak now? You plan on stabbing your own guys in the back?’
‘Of course not. What I did back then was necessary. But as I said, this is none of your business. They asked me to get you to a safe house near the port, and I will do that.’
‘Wow, shocking,’ said 30K. ‘Yet another local yokel we can’t trust. I say we dump this guy. We go down to the goddamned port, and when the ship arrives, we board her –’
‘And blow the whole operation,’ said Kozak. ‘Dude, that’s your gun talking.’
30K made a pistol with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Shoot first, apologize later.’
‘Captain?’ called Pepper. ‘We can’t stay here tonight. Not up here anyway.’
‘That’s correct, you won’t be staying here,’ said Naseem. ‘I have an apartment on the first floor as well, with a back door exit and van waiting outside at all times. This place is for our observers on the roof. I took you here in case there were more car bombs.’
‘All right, then,’ said 30K. ‘Let’s get down there, check it out, and order up some pizza.’
‘Pizza?’ asked Kozak in disbelief.
Naseem answered for 30K. ‘As a matter of fact, there is a Pizza Hut at the port, and they will deliver.’
‘I know,’ said 30K. ‘I saw it on Google Earth.’ He glanced at Pepper. ‘Double pepperoni?’
Pepper sighed. ‘Nah, pork’s illegal here anyway. Probably just a salad.’
Another explosion close enough to shake the building sent Naseem darting for the ladder.
The Ocean Cavalier was running ahead of schedule and would dock at the Port of Aden at exactly 3:41 a.m. local time. Current time was 9:04 p.m., and Ross was satisfied that, for the time being, the team was safe. Kozak had deployed the drone, which was now in a fixed position on a rocky escarpment overlooking their position. They had marked all the friendly forces within an eight-hundred-meter perimeter and were closely monitoring the comings and goings of any pedestrians brave enough to hit the streets. There had only been a few, mostly police or fire personnel. No hostile contacts identified thus far. The bombing had stopped, and Naseem maintained his argument that Harak forces were responsible. This wouldn’t be the first time they had targeted police and military checkpoints along the main highways.
That four men could devour a half dozen extra-large pizzas within fifteen minutes was a testament to the superior appetites of America’s Special Forces operators. Go big or go home. Even Pepper had succumbed to temptation and ripped into his pie like a honey badger who’d been starved for a week. They’d ordered two veggie lovers, two cheese lovers, one gunfire lovers, and one called the supreme leader or something like that, Ross had mused.
Now they were lying back, rubbing their swollen bellies like pregnant women and burping up toppings, when Kozak gaped at the drone’s remote monitor, leaned forward, and said quite evenly, ‘Holy shit.’
30K and Pepper were up on the apartment building’s roof within thirty seconds of Kozak’s report. They were joined by three of Naseem’s Republican Guard snipers, who were dressed in black fatigues and fielding Dragunov SVD rifles with attached night-vision scopes. The night was warm, the city lights shimmering out to the calm waters of the Arabian Sea unfurling like a black carpet in the distance. There was something strangely calm in the air as the drone of distant traffic faded and the barking mutts once scavenging through the endless alleys settled down for the night. A chill rippled across 30K’s shoulders.
He made another sweep, surveying the rooftops through his rifle’s scope, his chest tightening as he did so. ‘Ghost Lead, this is 30K.’
‘Talk to me, 30K,’ said Ross over the team net. They’d donned their Cross-Coms, plates, helmets and web gear, and the boss had made a point of avoiding optical camouflage, at least around these guys. Better they thought of the Ghosts as another Special Forces team and nothing more.
‘Boss, I’m patching you into my rifle’s scope,’ said 30K. ‘You see we got snipers on the buildings there, there, and over there, to the north. See these two guys up there? And check this out. Look at these bastards over here. And that guy way up there, on the clock tower.’
‘They’re wearing desert fatigues. Are they Naseem’s guys?’ asked Ross.
30K asked one of the snipers, who shook his head, then he confirmed that with Ross.
The bottom line was that Harak forces had posted snipers all over the rooftops in Crater. That, in 30K’s opinion, could mean only one thing.
He lowered his rifle and told Ross that they should get the drone out near Queen Arwa Road, the one leading through the mountain pass and over to the container port in Al Ma’ala – the only good route to reach the port without hiking across the mountain.
Or more precisely, their best escape route.
‘I know what you’re thinking, bro,’ said Ross. ‘Good call. I’ll see if we have a Keyhole in position.’
‘Drone’s heading out now,’ said Kozak.
30K shifted along the rooftop and came up alongside Pepper, who turned to him and said, ‘The sons of Noah called this place the land of milk and honey. Did you know that?’
‘What?’
‘Gilgamesh came here to search for the secret to eternal life.’
‘Did that pizza fry your brain?’
‘Wise men gathered frankincense and myrrh from the mountains here.’
‘Pepper, what the hell?’
‘Dude, this is sacred ground, and these guys here, they’re just turning it to shit.’
‘You mean because they built a Pizza Hut here?’
‘No, you idiot. I mean they keep fighting. You heard the man. The north and the south. It’s never gonna end. I can almost feel God here – and he ain’t happy.’
‘Maybe they should have a pizza party. Everybody loves pizza.’
Pepper almost smiled. ‘You should trade in your rifle for a briefcase and become a diplomat.’
‘Yeah, that’d work. I’d start a war everywhere I went. Funny thing is –’
30K broke off as Kozak’s voice crackled over the radio, his tone urgent:
‘Ghost Team, this is Kozak. I put the drone up on the highway – and we need to get the hell out of here! Right now!’
30K cursed, lifted his rifle, then trained his scope on the highway, panning northwest until his heart sank. He shot to his feet and rapped a fist on Pepper’s sho
ulder. ‘Come on!’
FORTY-TWO
Ross had deployed the second drone himself, taking the UAV to one thousand feet in a broad sweep of Crater’s south side. Superimposed over the streaming video was a city map identifying the roads and landmarks so that when the drone reached Al-Aydarus Street along which ran the mosque of Abu Bakr al-Aydarus and adjoining cemetery, he quickly designated the potential targets near the chipped stone wall below.
Men were rushing from a line of pickup trucks, carrying launch tubes, bipod support assemblies with heavy, round base plates, and optics and elevation/traverse controls through a pair of wrought iron gates and on to the cemetery grounds. The grave markers extended in somewhat haphazard rows for five hundred meters eastward, but these men kept close to the entrance, taking up positions along the perimeter wall, where there were no trees or tall buildings to get in their way.
‘Oh, are these clowns serious?’ Ross muttered as he zoomed in with the drone’s camera.
One group had already assembled their weapon, and a data box opened in Ross’s Cross-Com to display an ID and specifications:
L16 81mm mortar, standard used by British armed forces. US version known as the M252. Capable of firing smoke, High Explosive (HE), and illuminating rounds.
A good crew could launch fifteen rounds per minute, and it appeared these men were setting up as many as ten mortars within the confines of the cemetery. A second group was already transferring metal ammo cases the size of foot lockers across the cemetery, each one containing four to six rounds, Ross assumed. The cases were being piled up beside each firing position. Some teams had thrown open latches and were removing the projectiles, arranging them on the ground, their small fins and broad nose cones making them resemble atomic bombs from the 1950s.
‘Naseem! Get in here!’ Ross shouted.
The man rushed into the small kitchen, where Ross had been sitting with the drone’s remote. ‘I’ve got ten mortar teams out near the mosque and cemetery.’
