by Jack Mars
“In the past several years, the Tunisian and Algerian militaries, along with an assist from French Special Forces, as well as drone surveillance help from the United States Africa Command, have managed to effectively destroy AQIM’s presence in those countries. As a result, the group moved south across the desert, allied itself with Tuareg tribesmen with similar extremist Salafi views, and began to seize territory. They now control a huge swath of northern Mali, and much of the south as well. They have a large area of influence in Niger, where the central government is weak, and control part of southern Libya, a place that is essentially lawless. The country of Chad is considered a failed state, with a government in collapse, a population either barely subsisting or on the brink of famine, and a military open to the highest bidder. AQIM moves with impunity there, crossing the porous border between Niger and Chad at will.”
“You said earlier that they are probably the wealthiest terrorist organization on Earth,” Ed said. “Where do they get their money?”
“Diversification,” Trudy said. “With the governments of Mali, Niger, and Chad barely functioning or nonexistent, AQIM is able to loot raw materials, including oil, but also gold and salt. These countries have long histories of slavery, ongoing to the present day, and AQIM has been able to exploit slave labor, as well as seize local livestock. They frequently intercept foreign aid deliveries. In some cases, they participate in the smuggling of migrants moving across the Sahara to the ports in North Africa, and in other cases they simply tax that activity, since they control the major routes north. They kidnap wealthy landowners and businessmen in their area of operations, and hold them for ransom. They also control or oversee both the drug trade and prostitution.”
“Sounds more like a mafia than a terrorist organization,” Swann said.
Trudy nodded. “They’re sophisticated. They never take their eyes off the prize, which is the restoration of the caliphate. But in the meantime, some of the leaders are becoming vastly wealthy. They treat local Muslim populations relatively well, which insulates them from outside attacks. In places where government services have completely collapsed, they provide a measure of security, in some cases even distributing food and water. When they can, they like to catch flies using honey. This is where they differ sharply from Boko Haram, who operate on their southern flank, and tend to create a civilian bloodbath wherever they go.”
“And now Boko Haram has stolen their toy,” Luke said.
“It would seem so, yes.”
“Why did they have it, whatever it is, and what do you suppose they planned to do with it?”
“Attack the West, of course,” Trudy said. “They are stockpiling increasingly advanced weaponry, and we believe they financed, and provided the weapons for, the Paris stadium attacks. From their point of view, AQIM were driven south by the colonialist French and their collaborators.
“They also see themselves as under attack from the United States. The airbase where we’re going to land in Niger is also the Special Operations base from which we launch top-secret interdiction and search-and-destroy missions. The region is enormous, but we have drones in the air twenty-four hours a day, and American drone strikes have killed at least one hundred AQIM in the past two years, along with at least thirty civilians. Things are ramping up in the Sahel, they are coming under pressure from us, and my opinion is that they’d like to pull off a large-scale attack on the United States or Europe, something spectacular, like their Saudi Arabian brethren managed back in 2001.”
Swann put his hands on top of his head. “Why don’t we just let AQIM and Boko Haram fight it out? Maybe they’ll kill each other off.”
“And when they’re done, we can just swoop in and pick up the mystery weapon?” Ed said.
Swann nodded. “Exactly. The easiest mission you ever went on.”
* * *
Luke fell into a restless sleep during the flight. His dreams were strange, dark, nightmarish. A night skydive, where he was dropped into a river by mistake. That had happened during the Congo mission, but all the men were Delta Force, and recovered easily. In the dream version, Luke couldn’t get his heavy pack off underwater. He struggled until his breath ran out. Then he held it some more. Then he drowned, water racing into his lungs and stomach, and he was floating. But now the water had changed; it was lighter, a very light blue, not the dark water of the Congo at all. In the morning, a maintenance man at a condominium complex found his body at the bottom of the swimming pool.
He was awakened by midair turbulence. The lights were out and the rest of his team was asleep, sprawled out in various parts of the darkened cabin. Luke looked out the window, and was surprised to see nothing but darkness. Africa, a place where the sun beat down mercilessly all day—maybe they called it the Dark Continent because there were no lights at night.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
January 29
6:05 a.m. West Africa Time (12:05 a.m. Eastern Standard Time)
Sambisa Forest
Borno State, Nigeria
“Okay,” the man said to no one. “I’m here.”
To the east, the sun rose over the dense green wilderness.
The ancient truck bounced slowly over the rutted and pitted road. Everything was dry as a bone, and a cloud of dull orange dust followed the truck for at least a mile. The truck—an old military troop transport with a green canvas awning covering the back—reached the top of a steep hillside. All around, the endless forest fell away in a breathtaking panorama.
The driver put the truck in park, engaged the foot brake, killed the engine, and waited. His window was down, and the morning air was a mad cacophony of bird calls and screeches. He could already feel the heat of the sun on his arm. It was going to be a hot day.
The man had driven through the night from Lagos. Just as he had been promised, no one had tried to stop him. He came across no military checkpoints, and answered no questions about the cargo in the back of the truck. But it was a long way all the same, and he was tired. He was having a hard time keeping his head upright. He would like nothing more than a bit of food and water, and a pallet in a shady place to sleep the heat of the coming day away.
About fifty yards ahead, where the road began to head downhill, a group of men appeared. Or maybe they had always been there—it was hard to tell because they blended so perfectly with the surroundings. They were dark men, they wore green uniforms, and most wore green floppy sunhats. A few wore dark kufis instead. They all carried large rifles. The man in the front waved the truck driver on.
The driver turned the key and the engine rumbled into life. It sounded like a bad cough. It was a small miracle that the truck had made it this far. With infinite care, the driver guided the beast slowly downhill, up and down over the giant potholes. The thing in the back was heavy, and even though it was strapped down tightly, it tended to throw the top-heavy truck off balance.
As he came down the hill, the men in front of him pushed back a gate to the right of the road. The gate was camouflaged in dense foliage much like the forest itself—unless you knew the gate was there, you would never notice it. Its absence revealed another road, little more than two deep ruts in a long narrow alley cleared of trees and undergrowth.
He pulled the truck to the end of this side road, engaged the brake again, and turned off the truck. A man appeared at his window. The man’s eyes were hard.
“Out,” was all he said.
The driver climbed down and followed the man back to the gate. They walked out of the trees and into the early sunlight. At the top of the hill, the rest of the militants were laying mats out for morning prayers. The driver was not particularly devout, but he knew it made sense to join them. These men were Boko Haram, and they tended to kill people over much smaller offenses than not saying prayers. It seemed to the driver that remaining alive made more sense than dying.
As he and the militant walked up the hill, the driver glanced back at where he had parked the truck. The gate was closed again. Now, less than fifty m
eters from it, he couldn’t even quite tell where it was.
Blown on a light breeze, the dust cloud the truck had kicked up was dissipating across the green hillsides. Other than that, there was no sign the truck had ever been there at all.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
10:15 a.m. West Africa Time (4:15 a.m. Eastern Standard Time)
Nigerien Air Base 201
Agadez, Niger
“There it is,” Mark Swann said. “Our home away from home.”
Everyone watched out the windows as the SRT plane approached the city of Agadez, its rectangles and triangles of compounds and dirt roads forming a mosaic, the surrounding reddish beige of the desert stretching out in all directions as far as the human eye could see.
“Your home,” Ed said. “Stone and I will keep moving from here.”
Luke spotted the base to their left just before the plane banked toward it. From the glimpse he got, it didn’t look like much—a couple of runways scratched into the sand, probably one for planes and one for drones, a large hangar with a rusty corrugated roof, a control tower, and some barracks.
The plane dropped altitude quickly, coming fast, then straightened out just above treetop height. Luke caught an image of a red stone wall perhaps two stories high, topped with looping razor wire. Then the plane bumped the runway hard, and the pilots reversed thrust, slowing the plane abruptly. It zigged and zagged on the sandy runway just a touch as low-slung buildings and sheds zipped by. A moment later, it slowed to taxi speed.
In a few minutes, the plane taxied to a paved area, not far from the hangar, which loomed about a hundred yards away. Parked to either side of the taxiway were the relics of junked and cannibalized planes. There was a long, low Quonset hut on the pavement, which must qualify as a terminal of sorts.
Two men stood together in front of it. Both men were tall, wearing camo fatigues. One man was white, the other very dark black. Behind them stood a phalanx of armed guards, all of them Africans, in uniforms Luke didn’t recognize, which he assumed were the Nigerien military.
A moment later, Luke and his team stood on the concrete, the sun already beginning to beat down, and a hot, dusty wind blowing. The wind must be gusting to nearly gale force from time to time, and it had particles in it that were a type of grit.
“Agent Stone?” the white man said. He was middle-aged and very fit, with a broad chest and square head. His hair might have been dark at one time, but was now flecked with gray and white. He wore the uniform of the United States Marine Corps.
“I’m Colonel Jim Talbot, USMC.” He reached a hand out and Luke shook it.
“Pleasure, Colonel. Luke Stone, of the Special Response Team. This is my on-the-ground team, in my opinion among the best of the best—Trudy Wellington, Ed Newsam, and Mark Swann.”
“Everyone,” the colonel said, “may I make your acquaintance with General Diallo of the Nigerien Air Force. He is the commanding officer here.”
The general shook hands with the men. He nodded at Trudy, but did not extend a hand.
“Hello,” he said. “Welcome. Yes. Welcome.” He smiled at them, but the smile seemed somewhat forced, almost pained.
“General, thank you for extending us this courtesy,” Luke said.
The general’s smile faltered the tiniest bit. He looked at the Marine colonel.
“The general doesn’t speak much English. But he’s learning.”
The general held up his index finger and thumb about two inches apart. “Little,” he said. Then his smile seemed genuine. His secret was out, and now he could relax.
“Our mission is to keep you all comfortable and safe while you’re here,” Colonel Talbot said. “And to lend you whatever assistance we can to make your operation a success, while protecting and maintaining its top-secret status. I imagine you folks might be looking to rest up a bit after a long flight.”
“Actually we’re pretty anxious to get started,” Luke said. “We slept on the plane. Maybe just a bite to eat, a cup of coffee, and a tour of our quarters, especially our command center, if you don’t mind.”
“Colonel,” Swann said, “I understand you fly drones from this base.”
The colonel raised a finger. “That information is not widely shared. But yes, we do.”
“I wonder if I might commandeer one for the duration of our visit,” Swann said. “I’m an experienced drone pilot. I imagine you guys are flying MQ-9 Reapers?”
The colonel seemed hesitant. “Ah, we’ll see what we can make available.”
Swann shrugged and said nothing. Luke nearly smiled. If Swann wanted a drone, he was going to get a drone. If need be, the President of the United States would see to that. He wondered for a moment what, if anything, the colonel knew about their operation.
Luke and his group began to walk toward the Quonset hut, but the colonel stopped them with a hand in the air.
“Before we go any further, I just want to alert you to Rule Number One of this base. Obey this rule and your stay here should be relaxed and productive. And that rule is never step off the base without an armed escort, preferably of four to six men. If you make an unauthorized departure from the base, there is nothing we can do to protect you.”
“Are there militants in the town?” Luke said.
The colonel shook his head. “Not really. But there are currently some paranoid theories about the presence of American troops at this base circulating throughout the town and the nearby countryside. The tribes here can be superstitious, and that has led to a certain level of tension. In any event, there’s plenty of clean food and water on the base, sanitary facilities, entertainment, opportunities for exercise, and reasonably comfortable living accommodations. It isn’t home, but it is a nice place to stay.”
Luke gestured at Ed. “The two of us will be moving on to the forward operating base at Diffa as soon as possible. Probably this morning.”
The colonel nodded. “Yes, I understand.” He indicated Trudy and Swann. “But for your intelligence team, there is no need to ever go off the base. In fact, there’s no need to go near the walls or fences. Indeed, we urge you not to.”
He broke out into a broad smile.
“Now let’s go get you some breakfast.”
* * *
“You guys are the hotshots, huh?”
The mess hall was battered and sparse, the stone walls painted a drab green, the paint not even reaching to the edges—as if the workers gave up before they could finish—and every flat surface seemingly made of aluminum sheet metal.
There were overhead fans spinning slowly, which did little but push the hot air around. There was no air conditioning.
The man who spoke sat slumped back at a table near the serving area. He was one of very few people in the place; the troops had already eaten. He was a white man with deeply tanned skin. His hair was long, but tied up on top of his head in weird knobs with thick rubber bands. He had a thick beard that could be red, or blond, or brown—whatever color it once was had been bleached by the sun. He wore a white wife beater T-shirt, showing off his round shoulders, his broad chest, and his veiny biceps. He wore tan and brown camouflage pants and heavy boots. His big arms were folded across his chest.
Luke approached the table with his tray. He had orange juice and coffee, plus eggs, sausage, potatoes, and some bread and butter—all of it piled high. To Luke, it looked pretty good. He was hungry.
“And you are?” he said to the man.
“Dunn. Paul Dunn. I’m your local guide. They flew me up here last night. I’ve been waiting for you. But I tell you, you look to me like you’re gonna die out there.”
Luke smiled and slid into a seat at the table. “Well, they sent me a white guy with an American accent to lead me through West Africa. This is the guy who supposedly has local knowledge. So yeah, I probably will die. Through no fault of my own, however.”
Paul Dunn grinned. He was missing a few teeth, but not necessarily important ones—molars for the most part, and one of his top canines. Th
ere were a lot of redundancies with teeth. You could lose a few without sacrificing much besides looks.
“I like you already,” he said. “You’re Stone?”
“The very same.”
“You’re famous, Stone. But out here, that ain’t gonna mean much.”
Swann sat down next, followed closely by Ed. Trudy brought up the rear. No one in the group had changed clothes yet, but Trudy had taken off her sweater. Now she was wearing a Betty Boop T-shirt that hugged her curves.
“I tried to make some toast, but the toaster isn’t in the mood to cooperate,” she said.
“Well, well, well,” Dunn said. “What do we have here?”
“Nothing for you,” Ed said around a mouthful of eggs.
Dunn glanced at Ed. Something sharp and hard sparked in his eyes, but for the moment he said nothing.
Ed kept staring at him.
“Don’t do that, man,” Dunn said.
Ed shrugged, but didn’t turn away. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t look at me like that, all hard and mean. This ain’t Pittsburgh, brother man. I’ll send you home to your mama in an envelope.”
Ed smiled and shook his head. “Oh man, buddy…”
Luke smiled, sighed, and shook his head. It was always this way. That’s why you built your team from the inside out, pulling people close, sticking together for a long time. Because when you went outside your own circle, invariably they gave you a crazy person.
“Everybody, this is Paul Dunn,” Luke said. “Apparently, he’s our local guide. If we have any questions, we’re supposed to ask him, because he knows so much about West African culture and customs.”
He looked at Dunn. “The rest of us all know each other. Trust each other. We’ve worked together for years. Sometimes we go to barbecues at each other’s homes. This mission came about on the fly, so you have us at a little bit of a disadvantage. Would you like to share anything about yourself?”
