The Aden Effect

by Claude G. Berube

  “No sir. As far as I know he was through with that kind of work, so it must be something big for him to be brought back, especially in uniform.”

  Shaking his head, Golzari gave up. “What did I miss in the email, Gunny?”

  “Commander Stark was on the escort ship when pirates attacked it midway to the Socotra oil platforms. The ship was sunk and twelve of the eighteen onboard were killed. He survived.”

  “Jesus. I’m surprised the media hasn’t picked this up.”

  “There is no media here, sir. The government keeps a pretty tight lid on what gets out.”

  “What else did the email say?”

  “Five of the survivors are en route to Djibouti for medical attention. Commander Stark is flying up here on one of their helos. We were advised to prepare the landing pad for them. ETA is,” he looked at his watch, “about twenty minutes. Actually, I better get up there in case they get here early.”

  Golzari leaned back to do some thinking as the Marine turned to go. “Thanks for the decent tea, Gunny,” he called after him.

  “Anytime, sir. My people really appreciated what you did out there.”

  Golzari’s computer flashed suddenly back to life, and he started to retype his report. But he kept losing his focus. Stark was once again being an inconvenience. Instead of looking for more information on Asha, Golzari felt compelled to find out more about the growing enigma that was Connor Stark. Within minutes of logging in he had all the information on Stark that the Department of Defense personnel system had to offer. That consisted entirely of Stark’s commissioning date and the date he left the service—not left, was discharged. It was neither a standard honorable discharge nor a dishonorable discharge. What the hell was a “general discharge”? The final line added a bit more information: “Court-martialed. Subsequent general discharge.” When Golzari tried to access Stark’s court-martial proceedings through the Judge Advocate General’s computer system, all he got was a response that said “proceedings closed and sealed by order of the court.”

  Fascinating. For some reason Golzari’s thoughts drifted to the fall of Rome. When the Roman Empire became too rich and too bloated for Romans to defend, Rome contracted out its security and warfare to border tribes. That cost the empire dearly. Visigoth leaders such as Alaric served under Roman commanders and then turned on their masters. Golzari liked to think of himself as representing the modern Praetorian Guard designed to protect the emperor and government. That would make the mercenary Stark the new form of Visigoth. Alaric was the first barbarian to sack Rome, in AD 410, but he was not the last. The empire whose borders shrank as Roman beltlines expanded lasted another six decades. Was the United States another Rome, doomed to suffer a similar fate? Would Washington be sacked from without or from within? Would barbarians like Stark lead the way? Mercenaries were, after all, loyal only to their current employers.

  He chided himself for letting his thoughts wander again and redirected them to their proper course. Abdi Mohammed Asha was no longer simply a name. He was the tie to khat in Antioch, had probably murdered Dunner’s son and Officer Hertz, and, of course, had attacked Robert. And now he was right here in Yemen and had been in the company of two men who were planning to kill the U.S. ambassador. That deserved Golzari’s complete and undistracted attention, and yet he was wasting time thinking about Stark. Damn that Stark, he thought. And then, Speak of the devil. Above the sound of the embassy’s stuttering and unreliable air conditioner he heard the faint but growing sounds of a helicopter. The mercenary Commander Stark was back.

  Mukalla, 1040 (GMT)

  Asha pulled out a wad of khat, pushed it inside his mouth, and leaned on the railing of the balcony overlooking the harbor. No one had followed him here from Sana’a; of this, he was sure.

  “He called you by name?” asked Ahmed al-Ghaydah.

  “Yes, yes. He said ‘Abdi Mohammed.’ He knows my real name.”

  “How would he know it?”

  “From Dunner’s son. In America. It must have been from him. When he came back from Boston with the khat, the boy asked me who Abdi Mohammed Asha was.”

  “But where did he learn your name?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps he overheard it on the ship when he picked up the trunk of khat. It’s possible.”

  “Oh, no,” Ahmed said.

  “What? What is it?”

  “I was the one who had the trunk put on the Mukalla Hassan to be delivered to you.”

  “What of it?”

  “Faisal’s ship had captured a supertanker.”

  “So?”

  “He killed the captain and crew. He sent back the captain’s gold watch with Saddiq and told me to send it to you with the next shipment. I put it in an envelope with your name on it and put it on top of the khat bags in the trunk.”

  “You stupid faq’haa!” Asha leapt at Ahmed and grabbed his throat, nearly pushing him off the balcony before he threw the boy back inside the room.

  “Stupid child,” he yelled at him, kicking him in the abdomen and groin as Ahmed vainly tried to protect himself from the blows.

  “You can’t treat me this way!” Ahmed shrieked as he tried to crawl away from the Somali’s attack. “My father—”

  “Us kut! Nikkabuk!” Asha swore. “You wrote my name on an envelope? For anyone to see?”

  “Stop, Abdi, I beg you. I didn’t think anyone would see it but you.”

  “I never received a watch or the envelope, you idiot. There was nothing in the trunk but khat.”

  “But . . . but . . . I sealed the trunk with my own hands. It must have been inside the trunk when you got it.”

  “The trunk was not sealed, you fool. The Dunner boy opened it before he delivered it to me at the waterfall so that he could take some khat for himself.”

  “Then, the envelope and the watch . . .”

  “Clearly he took the envelope as well, fool.” Asha kicked Ahmed again and began to pace the room like an enraged lion. “I searched his car after I killed him. I would have found an envelope. There was nothing. That means he stopped somewhere before he delivered the khat.”

  “Where?”

  “Probably his room at the college. There was nothing else in the envelope?”

  “No. Only the watch. I put it in there myself.”

  “Don’t remind me, stupid child. The boy saw the envelope. He read my name. And then he left the envelope where someone else found it. The envelope with my name on it. Idiot! And what of the watch? Was there something special about the watch?

  “It was gold. What else would you have me say?”

  Asha kicked him again and Ahmed al-Ghaydah recoiled.

  “There was also writing on the back of the watch. I couldn’t read it. It wasn’t Arabic or English.”

  “What language? Think!”

  “It was like the lettering on my Russian pistol.”

  “What was the name of the ship Faisal captured?”

  “Katya P.”

  “A Russian name. The ship was owned by Russians?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then perhaps the writing on the watch tied the captain to the ship. And the ship would have made news. That was why the Dunner boy seemed frightened when he asked me who Abdi Mohammed Asha was—he connected that name with the pirated ship.”

  “But Abdi, the boy is dead. What does it matter?”

  “Shut up! I met the police officer and the federal agent outside the college. They must have found the watch and the envelope in the boy’s room. That is why the officer asked me about Abdi Mohammed Asha also. Get up, Ahmed. I am done beating you—for now.”

  Ahmed scurried to the bathroom to clean the khat juice from his face and clothing.

  So the federal agent was not killed by the train in London and is now in Sana’a, Asha thought. If he is following the khat shipment, then his next stop will be here in Mukalla. I will be ready for him.

  U.S. Embassy, Sana’a, 0815 (GMT)

  The walls of Ambassador Sumner’s off
ice trembled and the portraits, diplomas, and photos with politicians came dangerously close to falling from their hooks as the Navy helicopter landed on the roof. C. J. peered out the window and saw the hovering helicopter’s shadow on the compound below.

  She’s overcome her fear of exposure, Golzari thought. Or is it that something—or someone—makes her forget that? Golzari had found the American businessman Bill Maddox already present in C. J.’s office when he answered her summons. They shared a seat on her sofa. Golzari sat straight, his face impassive.

  “Bill, do you still fly your own helicopter?” C. J. asked without turning from the window, trying to make conversation.

  “No. I don’t have time anymore.” He leaned forward at the sound of a light knock at the office door.

  The ambassador’s secretary opened the door, and Connor Stark walked in wearing a Navy shipboard blue coverall uniform. He looked older than he had just two days before, the lines in his face deeper.

  Stark went straight up to Maddox. “Bill, I’m sorry. We lost twelve people in the fight. The pirates have the other two ships.”

  “Jaime?”

  “Being treated in a French military hospital in Djibouti. Her injuries were serious, but the corpsman on the ship thought she’ll be fine.”

  Maddox nodded at that bit of good news. “They released one of the supply ships a few hours ago—the Mukalla Ismael. What the hell happened?”

  They released the other ship so quickly? Golzari thought.

  Stark recounted the story—the prelude to the attack, the tactics of the assault itself, and the aftermath, including the heroism of the four remaining crewmembers and their captain, and the sight of the two captured ships steaming off into the distance. When he was finished he asked the ambassador for permission to sit.

  “C. J. . . . Madam Ambassador,” Maddox corrected himself, remembering that the DSS agent was in the office with them, “oil prospecting off Socotra is no longer a viable practice for my firm. Without U.S. forces to protect my people, I relied on my own security measures. They failed. I knew the people who were lost last night. I’m the one who has to make the calls to their families. And those will be the last calls I’m going to make because I’m pulling all of my people out of here—off the escort ships, off Socotra, off the platforms.”

  C. J. was stunned. Her plans couldn’t succeed without Maddox. “Bill, you can’t do that,” she begged.

  “The hell I can’t. I made an agreement with the Yemeni government to explore for oil and set up the platforms. We’re almost done. They can finish the damned thing. We’ve already lost too much to continue. Connor, do you agree?”

  Stark looked at C. J. “It’s not my call, Bill.”

  Maddox’s look took in both of them. “This isn’t Canada, and we’re not the same people we were back then. I’m finished.”

  C. J. pressed on her upper lip with one finger, furious at Maddox’s slip of the tongue in front of the DSS agent. Their common past was none of Golzari’s business.

  Golzari was intrigued by Maddox’s revelation of the relationship between these three seemingly disparate people—the political appointee, the businessman, and the merc. So they had all known each other in Canada. Would that have been about the time of Stark’s court-martial? He promised himself another look into the records.

  “Let’s stick with the matter at hand and not get into ancient history,” C. J. said, trying to get the discussion back on track. “How many people does your firm have out there now, Bill?”

  “Nearly three hundred Americans and about a hundred Indian citizens. It’s going to take some time to shut down the operations safely and evacuate everyone.”

  “How much time can you give me before you evacuate?” she asked.

  “Time to do what?”

  “To get the Yemenis to help with security out there. At least until you complete the last platforms.”

  “What makes you think you can get them to send their boats out against the pirates?” Maddox asked calmly. “They haven’t been willing to lift a finger so far.”

  “I think I can help with that, Bill,” Stark spoke up. “I’ve seen what’s out there. I might be able to help with the security situation.”

  “If I may,” Golzari broke in politely, “perhaps I should be the one handling security. I’m the embassy’s RSO.” He looked at Stark. “This isn’t part of the commander’s job and he doesn’t have the expertise required.”

  “What do you mean I don’t have the expertise, Golzari? I was here years ago before you showed up.”

  “Being a merc at sea doesn’t count, Commander, especially one who worked for the company in question here. You’re a walking conflict of interest.”

  “‘Merc’? You’re calling me a ‘merc’? Listen, you prick,” Stark’s voice shook the walls almost as much as the helicopter that brought him had done.

  “‘Prick’? I don’t think name-calling is necessary, Commander. Can’t we be civilized?” Golzari said rather pompously.

  “I don’t give a shit about civilized, Golzari . . .”

  Spoken like a true barbarian, thought the agent.

  “The ambassador, Mr. Maddox, and I are talking about people we know, about a mission that must succeed, and we sure as hell don’t need to include you in this conversation.”

  C. J. sat back and allowed the tension to escalate.

  “Maybe you would be better off now if you had brought me into the conversation, Commander,” Golzari said. “I know security. I’ve never lost anyone under my charge. Can you say the same? Never. And that includes this morning.”

  Stark abruptly stopped his move toward the agent when he heard the last statement.

  “What happened this morning?”

  C. J. spoke. “I was going to the foreign minister’s office and Special Agent Golzari detected and thwarted an attack on me, as I’m sure he’ll be happy to explain in a civilized tone. Am I correct, Agent Golzari?”

  “Of course, Madam Ambassador.”

  Golzari recounted the entire incident, then looked smugly at Stark awaiting the praise and admiration he was sure would follow.

  “You suspected an attack, you didn’t tell the ambassador, and you let her out of the compound?” Stark shouted in response. “What kind of idiot are you? What the hell would have happened if there had been more attackers? Or if you hadn’t seen them at all?”

  “I wasn’t certain an attack was going to take place,” Golzari answered. “You may recall an incident a couple of days ago in which I thought a member of this embassy was about to be attacked and it turned out the individual was simply being followed by a couple of mercs. Plus, we’re a little short-handed here. I had to handle it myself because you were out on a privately owned security ship playing Stephen Decatur and the Barbary Pirates. That was most helpful. You have the thanks of a grateful nation.”

  Stark hit Golzari square in the nose with a quick jab, then followed with a left hook, his meaty hands dropping the unsuspecting federal agent.

  “You’re under arrest for attacking a federal agent,” Golzari said from the floor, hands at his profusely bleeding nose.

  “That is enough! Both of you!” C. J.’s scream achieved a pitch a Wagnerian soprano would have envied. “Get up, Agent Golzari. And then have a seat. Everyone sit down,” she ordered as they obeyed like disciplined schoolboys. “Listen to me very closely. As far as I am concerned, Agent Golzari did a fine job today. So did Commander Stark. This is serious business, gentlemen. You will stop this infantile pissing match this instant. We will not fail at this mission. Do I make myself clear?”

  C. J. paused until she had nods from Stark and Golzari. “Good. Agent Golzari, I want you to continue your investigation. You will be consulted about security arrangements. Commander Stark, I want you to press the Yemenis to get their boats to sea—now. Mr. Maddox, I’m asking you to plan for evacuation only as a final contingency and to continue working on those platforms until we have an answer one way or the other. Bill
, I need you to give me a week on this.”

  Before Maddox could answer, Mindy’s voice came through the intercom. “Madam Ambassador, Ambassador Gavaskar and Captain Dasgupta just entered the main gate.”

  “Thank you,” C. J. said, slamming her palm on the mahogany table. The three subdued men didn’t move a muscle. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply and engaged in a tried-and-true calming ritual. The first few chords of Handel’s Concerto Grosso in C Minor flowed into her head. She knew by the second how much time elapsed as she slowed her heart rate and brought herself back from the precipice by reverting to the simple tock-tock-tock tempo of the pendulum metronome in her mind as one chord followed another. “Please have them escorted to the conference room, Mindy,” she added softly, “—and bring refreshments for them. We’ll be there in a few minutes.” Sumner took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “Well, Bill?” she asked. At his reluctant nod she rose.

  “Agent Golzari, have your nose attended to,” she calmly ordered. “Bill and Connor, I need you to join us in case they wish to discuss their citizens working on the oil platforms.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Maddox replied.

  “Commander, I’m sorry to ask this of you so soon after last night, but could you quickly change out of that coverall? This will be a short meeting.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  “Ambassador Gavaskar! It’s a pleasure to see you again,” C. J. said fifteen minutes later, offering her hand to the Indian ambassador standing in the conference room.

  “Thank you, Madam Ambassador,” he said, “it is likewise a pleasure to see you. We were deeply troubled when we heard about the attempt on your life this morning. I believe you have already met my naval attaché, Captain Jayendra Dasgupta?”

  Dasgupta bowed.

  Stark was struck by the difference between the two Indian men. In fact, Gavasakar and Dasgupta could not have been more different. The ambassador was relatively young—possibly in his early forties—with a smooth, thin face and thick, black hair accentuated by a few stray grays. He was as tall as Stark though not as heavily built. His naval attaché was half a foot shorter, with thinning hair and a lined, weathered face. His uniform showed him to be a surface warfare officer, as Stark had once been.