When the Somali coast loomed like an endless brown smudge on the horizon, Henri turned from the controls and called out to the men.
“Hey. We’re going to be there in a few minutes. Up and at ’em, non?”
Three faces stared back at him blankly, and then the men began going through a routine familiar to Henri – the sorts of things men who killed for a living had been doing for as long as that vocation had existed.
They began their descent, Henri plotting the course according to the GPS coordinates he’d been given, and within another ten minutes they were dropping into a desert wasteland, all sand and barren emptiness save for an occasional desiccated stream bed. The plane bucked as it was buffeted by thermal updrafts from the rising heat of the arid land, tossing it around as if it was being swatted by a bored deity’s hand.
The Cessna lined up on the road, if a dirt track could be described as such, and then set down on a wide stretch, dust billowing behind as its wheels skidded along the hard-packed sandy soil. Once Henri had slowed to a taxi speed he continued until he came to a wash where two vehicles sat parked in an adjacent flat area – an ancient Toyota SUV, at one time in its existence white, but now more rust than anything else – and a seventies-era Datsun pickup truck.
Henri pointed the plane at an empty spot near the cars and eased the Cessna to a stop. Behind him in the cabin the passengers were already moving, passing out assault rifles and pistols from one of the oversized rucksacks they’d brought aboard. Under normal circumstances that would have been alarming to any pilot, but this was Africa, and Henri was open-minded. He didn’t bat an eye when the youngest of the three swung the fuselage door open, rifle in hand, looking like he was going to war.
The men leapt out of the plane and waved at the three Somalis standing by the vehicles, also toting Kalashnikov AK-47s – the ubiquitous accessory for any well-dressed local – who waved back and beckoned them to approach. Sol went to greet the welcoming committee while the other two opened the cargo hold and dragged a large green canvas pack out of the Cessna’s belly, placing it carefully on the ground next to the door.
After a brief exchange, two of the rail-thin Somalis moved to the plane to help the new arrivals with the heavy cargo, and the four of them lifted it into the rear of the Toyota. Sol nodded, and the two natives climbed into the Datsun truck bed while the driver ambled to the front cab and slipped behind the wheel. Sol and his companions squeezed into the Toyota with their silent Somali driver, and a few moments later both engines roared to life in a cloud of blue smoke and pulled onto the road that traced the outline of the coast, headed north.
Ten miles later the little convoy slowed, and Sol consulted a handheld GPS. He turned and murmured to the driver, and the vehicles rolled to a halt as they reached the rendezvous point. Sol squinted at the harsh terrain, his eyes roving over the surroundings – he could just make out the ocean in the distance, maybe two miles away over a slight rise created by sand and wind, but desolate, like everything they’d seen up to that point.
Satisfied there were no obvious threats, he checked his watch and issued a few brief instructions to his companions. After grabbing their rifles, the pair quickly exited and moved to the rear of the vehicle where the pack was nestled.
At Sol’s prompting, the driver got out with him and headed toward the pickup truck, a hot gust blowing sand across the road, no sound marring the windswept tranquility of the landscape but that of the open desert and the burble of the truck motor. As they approached, the Somalis in the truck bed opened an old cooler and fished out bottles of water, their weapons resting easily in their laps, their dark skin seemingly impervious to the sun beating down. A few minutes passed, and then Sol’s men approached from the Toyota, walking slowly in the heat.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” the younger one said, eyeing the horizon before exchanging glances with Sol. The two Somalis in the bed shifted over, making room, and everyone clambered aboard for the bouncing ride back to the plane.
When the truck returned to the Cessna, Henri stepped from the wing’s shade and wiped sweat from his face, eyeing Sol behind the wheel, only his two men sitting in the truck bed.
“Where are the lads?” he asked as they hopped out, all three covered in a fine layer of tan dust.
“They decided to walk,” Sol said, his expression neutral. “Let’s get going.”
Henri took the cue – it was none of his business. The men boarded the plane, stowing their weapons in the now empty cargo hold, and then took their seats in the sweltering interior.
Henri cranked the engine over and it roared to life, and he coaxed the Caravan onto the dirt track. He fought to keep it under control as it bounced along, picking up speed, and when he saw a long, relatively straight stretch he firewalled the throttle, the sudden torque pushing everyone back in their seats. The big motor revved up effortlessly and soon they were airborne, the ravaged, drought-plagued Somali coast disappearing beneath the wings as Henri made a long, slow bank over land and then pointed the nose toward Yemen as they became a solitary dot in the lonely sky.
Chapter 7
Korfa watched through binoculars as the truck drove away, leaving the Toyota unattended at the agreed-upon spot a kilometer away. He waited a few minutes, scanning the road with the glasses, and then lowered them and turned to Nadif, who was waiting next to him with three of his most dependable gunmen.
“Come on. They’re gone. Let’s go get our money,” Korfa said, rising from his position behind a large rolling dune. The small group began trotting toward the waiting SUV, and in fifteen minutes they were at the vehicle, eyeing it suspiciously. Korfa gestured to the rear compartment, and Nadif moved to the cargo door and swung it wide.
The men’s eyes widened when they saw the rucksack in the back. Nadif stepped back, making room for Korfa, who took hold of the bag and unzipped it, pausing for a few moments as he eyed the contents before closing it back up. He shrugged off his backpack and ferreted around in it before extracting a device that had arrived the prior day from Mogadishu, along with instructions for its operation. Taking his time, he powered it on and then moved it slowly over the bag, watching the dial intently, and then stood back and methodically went over the entire vehicle. Satisfied, he switched the scope off and handed it to Nadif with a nod.
“It’s clean as far as I can tell. Are the keys in the ignition?” he asked.
Nadif hurried to the driver’s door and opened it. “Yes.”
“Start the engine,” Korfa ordered as he edged away from the vehicle. Nadif’s brow furrowed, and then he nodded and hopped behind the wheel as Korfa continued to distance himself from the truck, his assault rifle held loosely by his side.
The motor rumbled to life and everyone visibly relaxed. Korfa strode to the SUV and climbed into the passenger seat, while the three remaining men squeezed into the rear.
“Get us back to the ship. I feel exposed out here. We’ll count the money, and assuming it’s all there, we’ll clear out by this evening,” Korfa commanded, raising the glasses to his eyes once more as they bounced over the ruts and beat a trail across the dunes to the sea. He never stopped sweeping the horizon, on the alert for any trickery.
Their Mogadishu contact had provided the gizmo he’d assured Korfa would catch any transmitter or locator chip, but he knew nothing of these things, even after being coached to watch the lights and the meter, and was inherently distrustful of technology. This was the largest ransom he’d ever collected, and his experience had taught him that nothing worth having ever came easily.
The heavy SUV crossed the blighted expanse at a crawl, and took half an hour to reach the ship, anchored in the shelter of the large cove. Half the men were onshore, waiting, and when they saw the Toyota they began whooping, jubilant, the tension of the long standoff finally dissipated.
The old vehicle stopped at the shore and Korfa got out, followed by Nadif and his men. As the others gathered around, Korfa and Nadif moved to the rear of the truck and
watched as the pirates hoisted the rucksack between two of them.
“Come. Let’s get the bag to the ship. We’ll count it and then I’ll radio for the others to bring the trucks,” Korfa said. Once the money was verified, on Korfa’s orders transportation would be dispatched from the village of Eli, and then the pirates would disappear, the surviving crew turned loose to fend for themselves while they waited for their ordeal to finally end.
The men cheered again as their compatriots lifted the sack over their heads, carrying it like a holy relic to the shore and the waiting skiffs. Korfa grinned as he saw the excitement in their eyes – this was the kind of take that would be legendary, and his name would be whispered in hushed reverence for years to come.
He supervised the passage to the boats, reveling in his moment of triumph while keeping his expression somber. All the men boarded and the outboard motors revved as they cut across the natural harbor to the ship, looming in the water in silent witness.
Nadif had the two men carry the money to the captain’s cabin, where a cash counting machine sat waiting on the table. He and Korfa ducked into the room with the money while the two trusted gunmen framed the doorway, guarding the quarters as their leader went about his joyful task.
In the Toyota’s tire compartment, a red LED under the floor cover blinked for five seconds, and then switched to green.
The detonation vaporized the vehicle in a white-hot blast, and in a nanosecond the searing explosion spread, enveloping the ship and everything around the truck for half a mile. The distinctive shape of the mushroom cloud would have been wondrous to behold if anyone had lived to see it, but that wasn’t to be – everything in the vicinity was immediately killed, metal melting from the searing heat, the ship blown out of the water like a child’s toy by a chain-reaction that for a brief moment approached the temperature of the surface of the sun.
~ ~ ~
The men in the Cessna saw the fireball in the far distance as the explosion shot skyward, visible even though they were already sixty miles away. Henri’s eyes betrayed a flicker of shock as he craned his neck, and then he drew a controlled breath and focused on concealing his reaction. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Sol’s mouth, and he removed a satellite phone from the bag next to him and entered a number. A voice answered after a few seconds and he whispered several words in a foreign tongue, then switched the phone off and turned to look at the three packs stowed in the rear of the plane.
“How long until we’re over the Gulf of Aden?” he asked Henri, moving to the front of the plane, grabbing the seats for support as the craft bounced through a patch of turbulent air.
“No more than half an hour and we’ll be over water. Why?”
Sol retrieved a slip of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to him. “Change of plans. Head to this point. We’re going to make a little detour on the way to Yemen. My boys and I will be saying goodbye before we get over land again.”
Henri nodded warily and entered the coordinates into his GPS. “That’s northwest of our flight route.”
“Correct. Just fly the plane. Drop down to a few hundred feet above the terrain so we don’t get picked up by any of the longer-range radars.”
“You’re the boss. But there aren’t any in these parts – at least not around here.”
“Humor me. Hug the ground until we’re over the water. Once we get closer to the coordinates, we’ll ascend to where we can safely do a low-altitude jump. Have you ever done this before?”
The pilot grinned humorlessly. “There’s not much I haven’t done.”
“That’s what we were told. What’s our time till we’re in position?”
Henri consulted the GPS and performed a quick mental calculation. “Hour and a half, maybe an hour forty-five.”
“Good.” Sol reached over and jerked the headset cable out of the radio. “If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon not have any communication.”
“What about if we’re pinged by one of the naval vessels?”
The passenger took the seat behind Henri as they began their descent.
“Let’s hope we aren’t.”
~ ~ ~
An aide pushed through the doors of the conference room and cleared his throat, staring at the balding man seated at the head of the table. As chief of the Middle East division of the CIA, he wasn’t unaccustomed to being pulled out of meetings for one crisis or another, but by the look on the underling’s face, whatever had happened warranted serious and immediate attention.
“Gentlemen, would you excuse me for a minute? I’ll be right back,” he said to the assembled men, rising and making his way for the door before anyone had a chance to comment.
“What is it, Jackson?” he barked once the door had closed behind him.
“This is big, sir. NSA just informed me that a nuclear detonation occurred on the coast of Somalia twenty minutes ago.”
“What? Are you serious? Jesus. Somalia? What the hell…”
“Exactly, sir. It got picked up on satellite, and there’s no mistake. The signature is definitive.”
“Who the hell would nuke Somalia?” he asked, almost to himself.
“Unknown at this time, sir. What’s odd is the size of the blast. Preliminary estimates are that it’s in the five kiloton range.”
“That’s…that’s small. I mean, really small…”
“Yes, sir.” The aide was waiting for instructions.
“Call a crisis meeting in conference room C. I want everything we can get on the explosion, real-time feeds, the works. See if they can reposition a satellite so we can get visual. Do we know anything else besides it was a small nuke? Where in Somalia did it go off?”
“That’s the weirdest part, sir. It’s the middle of nowhere, on the coast. There’s literally nothing there. Closest town, if you can call it that, is eleven miles away – far outside the blast zone. Although there could be small amounts of fallout depending on the wind direction. But there’s nothing strategic there. Not that there is anywhere in Somalia. But still. It’s the ass end of the planet, literally.”
“So you’re saying that someone nuked a bunch of goats and scrub…?”
“I know. It doesn’t make much sense, sir. Unless it was some kind of a test…”
“Get everyone into the conference room. I’ll be in shortly.”
~ ~ ~
News of the explosion reverberated through the world’s intelligence communities, including those most proximate to the blast in the Middle East. Reaction was immediate as regimes in the region raised their alert levels to high, but after a few hours more questions remained than answers. Why had the first use of a nuclear weapon outside of a known test and those dropped on Japan during the Second World War been on a remote stretch of African coast – and who had detonated it?
~ ~ ~
Sol patted his two companions on the head and swung the door of the Cessna open, the plane having slowed to nearly stall speed, barely sixty miles per hour. It was holding level at a thousand feet, flying toward Yemen, and there was nothing in plain view other than a dot in the water in the distance – a super-yacht steaming toward the Red Sea.
“All right, gentlemen. Bombs away,” he yelled, and the two waiting men hurled themselves out into space, their parachute packs securely cinched for the low-level drop. Sol returned to the front of the plane and flipped the toggle on the explosive pack sitting by Henri, his head lolling to the side at an impossible angle, and after a final glance at the autopilot and the bomb timer, he edged to the open door and pushed himself out into the open sky. He waited two seconds before pulling the ripcord; the chute deployed and the harness bit into his thighs and chest, and then he got his canopy under control and steered himself toward the others, already well on their way to the waiting yacht that had slowed for their rendezvous.
Chapter 8
Present day, Moscow, Russian Federation
The contingent of soldiers stiffened to ramrod attention as two uniformed officers str
ode down the long hall to the ornate wooden double doors; both men bore insignia identifying them as generals in the Russian army. The taller of the two stopped and knocked, rapping twice, and the pair waited silently as footsteps sounded against the polished granite floor in the interior chamber.
The right-hand door swung wide and a thin man with severely cropped silver hair, wearing a dark gray suit and round steel-rimmed spectacles, offered them a permanent expression of a man who’d just swallowed something repellent as he stared at them for several seconds before motioning for them to enter.
“Generals. Right this way. The minister will see you now,” he said in a sandpaper voice, nodding to another doorway at the far end of the reception area. Moments later they were marching into the office of the second most powerful man in the Russian Federation – Alek Sureyev – who was sitting behind a desk the size of an aircraft carrier, with two morose-looking men seated in front of it.
“Generals Esina, Malerov. You know our colleague from the GRU – Tomkin, and from the FSB…Grigorovich?” Sureyev asked, not so much a question as a statement. Both generals understood that the presence of both the FSB, the Federal'naya sluzhba bezopasnosti Rossiyskoy Federatsii – the successor agency to the KGB, and the GRU, the Glavnoye Razvedyvatel'noye Upravleniye – the military intelligence agency, spelled huge trouble. To see the heads of the two rival groups sitting in the same office was more than disconcerting – it was unprecedented.
“Yes, of course,” confirmed Malerov, the older of the two generals.
“Good. Then, please. Take a seat. We have much ground we need to cover.” Sureyev paused, waiting for the officers to take the proffered chairs, and then resumed the ongoing discussion he’d been having with the GRU and FSB men.
JET V - Legacy Page 5
