Running Dark

by Jamie Freveletti

  “What do you want?” Herr Schullmann spoke in German. His voice held a gravelly tone, like that of a smoker who’d destroyed his vocal cords. He was in the same dark slacks from earlier, but he’d changed into a polo shirt that did little for his paunch. Sumner pegged him as a machine-tool operator made good. He had little doubt that if he were to meet Herr Schullmann at his factory, he’d find him with his sleeves rolled up and dirt under his fingernails. Sumner was raised in Minnesota by a professor father who, despite his advanced degrees, spent a great deal of time hunting, fishing, and skinning animals with his brothers. The rest of the family remained steadfastly blue-collar. They were pipefitters, plumbers, and electricians. Sumner spent entire summers camping with his uncles. He knew how best to deal with men like Schullmann. The trick was never to underestimate them. What they lacked in finesse, they made up for in ferocity.

  “I’d like you to meet Mr. Sumner,” Marina told her father. “He works for the Kaiser Franz. He wishes to ask you some questions.” Schullmann turned his head to look at Sumner. His eyes held a wary look.

  “What kind of questions?” He continued to look at Sumner but spoke in German and addressed his daughter.

  “Questions about how to armor something to withstand a rocket-propelled grenade,” Sumner answered in German.

  Schullmann raised his eyebrows. He waved at the croupier to cash him out. Then he gathered his chips, dropped them into a pants pocket, and headed toward the bar without another word. Marina followed him, her face set. Sumner wasn’t surprised at all. His take on the entire family was that the parents disliked each other, and this meant that the daughter would be stuck in the middle. Probably had been her whole life.

  Schullmann heaved himself onto a barstool and ordered a beer. He gave Sumner a curt nod that Sumner interpreted to be a request for him to order.

  “Seltzer water, lime,” he said to the bartender, now a young man with red hair and a towel thrown over his left shoulder.

  “You don’t drink?” Schullmann said.

  Sumner offered a barstool to Marina. She took one two seats away from her father, leaving Sumner the one in between. He pulled the chair out a bit and slid onto it.

  “Not when I’m on duty,” Sumner answered.

  “They come back?” Schullmann asked the question in a desultory manner, then swallowed a mouthful of beer. To Sumner it looked as though Schullmann wasn’t concerned about the pirates at all. Which was strange. The man had his entire family at risk, yet he sat in the casino playing craps and drinking. Sumner quelled his distaste. He wasn’t privy to the family dynamics and didn’t care to be. All he needed was this man’s knowledge about armor plating. He took a sip of the soda, enjoying the cool liquid. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized how thirsty he was. He downed some more of it before responding.

  “That noise—you must have heard it—was a grenade blast. They missed. We were implementing our own countermeasures, but it was difficult to be accurate given the darkness. Your daughter’s assistance was invaluable. She shot a flare gun at the precise moment that we needed it. Without the flare’s illumination, they might have been successful in their latest attempt to board.”

  Marina colored a bit at Sumner’s praise. Schullmann acted as though he hadn’t heard it.

  “What do you want to armor?” he asked.

  “The door to the bridge and a small section of the upper deck. Is it possible?”

  “What did you say you are armoring against?”

  “Rocket-propelled grenades.” Sumner used the English term before switching back to German. “I don’t know the German word for them, nor do I know the model.”

  Schullmann nodded. “Most likely an RPG-7. They’re the most common launchers used worldwide. I am quite familiar with this weapon, as I have had many discussions about arming a car to withstand them.”

  “Can it be done?”

  “On a car? With an additional nine-hundred-plus kilos of steel, an undercarriage that resists fire, run-flat tires, and a good driver trained to move that vehicle out of the hot zone during an attack—maybe, but not likely. The design of those explosives was based upon the Deutsche Panzerfaust antitank weapon. This is a powerful device. One hit is often enough. Two in the same general location will end the struggle. Arming the sides of the ship against a direct hit? You would need steel. Lots of it. And a way to cut it to fit the dimensions you require. At my factory we have large robotic arms that do this for us. The weight alone makes it difficult to do without mechanical assistance.”

  Sumner shook his head. “Not the sides of the ship, a small portion on top of the deck. Almost like a duck blind for hunting. Just something to hide behind when the grenades start flying. And I need it to be movable.”

  Schullmann grunted. “That is crazy.”

  “Surely you can improvise something? Anything is better than nothing.”

  Schullmann considered this. He drank his beer. “Plating is heavy. It has to be in order to work. Even a small amount to protect the bridge door would weigh many kilos. When it’s put on a car, the auto becomes far less mobile. In this case one would have to move the shield manually.”

  “Could we put it on a dolly? Move it around that way?”

  “One of those red dollies with rubber wheels that you see deliverymen use? Probably not. Best would be a flat dolly with iron wheels. Do you have one of those?”

  “I would think so. If only to transport the luggage and other items that provision the ship. I’ll ask the captain.”

  Schullmann ran a hand along his chin. Sumner waited, allowing him time to think. The German swallowed some more beer before speaking again.

  “You could try cage armor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Strips of steel spaced at intervals. Almost like a birdcage. It’s ideal for grenades, because it deflects them before they reach the target. There is a problem, though.”

  Sumner thought he already knew what the “problem” was. “As they are deflected, they explode. So whoever is within range of the explosion will die.”

  Schullmann nodded. “It’s a flaw. The cage system is used to wrap around an already heavily armored tank. It stops the grenade from piercing the armor, but it’s the armor on the tank that protects the inhabitants inside from the explosion. Just using the cage without another wall of steel is not a guarantee of safety.”

  “But the cage is lighter and easier to make than armor plating.”

  Schullmann nodded.

  Sumner stood. “Let’s make it. I’ll look for a dolly and some metal rails or steel rods that we can use to build a cage. I’ll get the ship’s mechanic to assist you.”

  “What about the design flaw?” Marina had been so quiet that Sumner had forgotten she was there.

  “I’m not going to have anyone inside the cage. I’m going to use it for another purpose entirely.”

  23

  VANDERLOCK WAVED EMMA TOWARD THE AIRPLANE. THE WORKERS were loading the last sack into the cargo hold. One had already jumped into his pickup and prepared to leave. She heard his car radio switch on with the motor. Township music filled the air. She paused to listen to the sound of pulsing beats and women’s voices.

  “What is it?” Vanderlock said.

  “Township music. It’s the second time I’ve heard it. I love it.”

  “I grew up with township music. I hate it,” Vanderlock said. He grabbed her elbow to help her into the jet. The workers had wheeled a small set of rolling metal stairs to the entrance. Emma stepped up and into the body, with Vanderlock right behind her.

  The jet’s interior had been gutted. Only the first row of seats remained, the rest ripped out to allow maximum cargo space. Wet burlap sacks filled every available inch. Twigs, leaves, and bits of dirt from previous flights covered whatever floor space remained visible. The entire plane smelled of damp leaves, earth, moss, and a hint of mold. Skeletal metal rails, and nothing else, separated the cockpit from the rest of the plane. Emma peered at the con
trols.

  “Can you fly?” Vanderlock said.

  Emma shook her head. “Not at all.”

  He lowered his frame into the pilot’s seat. “Join me.” He indicated the copilot’s chair.

  “You don’t have a copilot?”

  Vanderlock busied himself with the dashboard. “I often do, but he’s away for a couple of weeks. If I flew with passengers, I’d be grounded, but with khat? No one cares. The shipments must go on.” He snapped a headset onto his ears, checked that the workers had closed the doors, and flipped some switches. The props began to circulate. Vanderlock handed her a second headset over his shoulder, all the while making adjustments and checking the dash.

  Emma held the headset and hesitated.

  Vanderlock looked up at her. “Are you afraid of flying?”

  If you only knew, Emma thought. “I’m afraid of crashing. Flying is okay.” Despite the danger, uncertainty, and her exhaustion, Emma felt almost giddy with excitement. She’d never flown in the cockpit of an airplane that size, never thought she’d ever do so. The idea of experiencing flight from the nose of the aircraft rather than the bowels of the plane seemed safer somehow—the way riding in the front seat of a car was more pleasurable than in the back. She scrambled into the seat, snapped her seat belt, and placed the headset over her ears. Vanderlock turned and taxied for a minute to an empty runway. When they reached the beginning, he throttled the aircraft forward.

  The ground passed under their wheels faster and faster as the plane chewed up the runway. The liftoff felt magical when viewed from the copilot’s seat. One minute they bumped along, grounded, and the next they angled into the air, floating. Emma laughed out loud with the feeling of the jet pulsing upward and the view of only the vast sky in front of her. Vanderlock seemed to enjoy her excitement, because he smiled. He kept his eyes on the controls as he maneuvered the aircraft higher. When they reached cruising altitude, the plane leveled off. After thirty minutes he pressed some more buttons and visibly relaxed. He glanced at her, shaking his head.

  “You’re the first person I’ve known who has laughed while flying to Somalia,” he said.

  Emma refused to let her fear of what lay ahead eclipse the moment. “I love this,” she said.

  Vanderlock held her gaze. She couldn’t read his thoughts.

  “What do you do for Banner?”

  “Ah. I can’t say.”

  “Are you a mercenary?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Are you his girlfriend?”

  Emma snorted. “If I were, do you think he’d be sending me to Somalia?”

  Vanderlock shrugged. “Word is he hires ex-military women. Wouldn’t be unusual for those types to take dangerous missions.”

  “Tell me about the khat.”

  “Changing the subject?”

  “Yep,” Emma said.

  Vanderlock settled deeper into the seat. “The khat is picked in Kenya, driven to Nairobi, flown out of Wilson Airport to Mogadishu, and from there distributed throughout Somalia. Speed is important, because khat stays fresh for only forty-eight hours. After that it’s useless.”

  “How much is in here?”

  “Five tons. And I’m not the only flight today.”

  “How did you get into the business of flying it?”

  Vanderlock checked his dash before answering. “I always wanted to be a pilot, but opportunities were slim in South Africa where I grew up. I flew charter safari tours for a while, but dealing with rich tourists out of New York got old. Too much hand-holding for my taste. When a friend offered me the khat route, I jumped at it.”

  The whole explanation sounded a bit too pat for Emma. Give up a good job for making drug flights to the most dangerous place on the planet? Not likely, but she decided not to pursue it. Whatever secrets Vanderlock wanted to keep, they were no business of hers.

  “Have you ever been fired on?”

  He reached behind him to open a Styrofoam cooler shoved between a green duffel bag and the airplane wall. He pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to her, then opened another and took a huge gulp. He had stopped smiling.

  “I had a close call just last week. Surface-to-air missile came within fifty meters. I banked pretty hard and circled to take a look. Nothing else happened, so I landed anyway. Shocked the hell out of me. I’ve been flying the same route for two years now without incident. The insurgents know me and this plane. I’m still not sure if it was a mistake, some kid playing with a new toy, or deliberate, but it’s not a good sign.”

  Emma swallowed. Her throat had gone dry. “Any idea what might be happening?”

  “Things are deteriorating. The pirate activity is handled by the warlords. They’re cashing in to the tune of millions, but the rest of the maritime world is starting to push back. Banner’s stunt sent a message that the warlords couldn’t ignore. They’re responding by ramping up their attacks on anything that moves.”

  Emma felt a flare of anger. “Why do you call it a stunt?”

  Vanderlock raised an eyebrow. “Because he knew that the government in Hargeisa had no jurisdiction over those pirates. Hargeisa’s in a section of Somalia called Somaliland. It’s relatively peaceful by Somali standards, but it’s not separate from Somalia and its government isn’t recognized by the West. It’s just an area some warlord decided to take over. In fact, there’s no government in Somalia at all, so when the navy catches the pirates, they often just let them go again. Banner knew this but dragged them in anyhow.”

  Emma swallowed some water. “Sounds like he was making a point.”

  “That point being?”

  “‘Don’t mess with me. I won’t let you go.’”

  “He’s making that point against some very sick characters. They’re going to attack Banner and his people with all they’ve got. And that means you.”

  The fear grew. She tamped it back down. “I’ll take my chances.” She sounded tougher than she felt. She only hoped that she was convincing.

  “You sure are taking a chance.” Vanderlock tossed the empty water bottle into a small garbage bag that hung from the wall on a bungee cord. “Listen, it may be none of my business, but something doesn’t feel right here. When Banner moves personnel, he arms them to the teeth and they travel in groups for safety. His stealth guys operate alone, but they’re armed as well. And you? You show up with Roducci, one of the biggest arms traders in the world, but you have no weapons, no luggage, and no escort.”

  Emma in no way wanted to have this conversation. It would only serve to scare the hell out of her. She’d get to the second contact and take things from there. If Vanderlock was correct, she’d be in “relatively peaceful” Hargeisa in three hours.

  “You’re not armed that I can see,” she countered.

  Vanderlock pointed to a long metal toolbox strapped flush against the wall on Emma’s side of the plane. “Open it,” he said.

  Emma reached to the box, flipped open the metal clasp, and lifted the lid. An AK-47 rested on top of another, tubular-type device.

  “What’s the tube?”

  “RPG-7. Shoots rocket-propelled grenades.”

  Emma closed the box.

  “And then there’s this.” Vanderlock leaned forward in his seat, raised the tail of his shirt, and twisted away from her. A pistol nestled in a holster at the small of his back. “And this.” He put his left foot on the plane’s side, pulled back his pant leg, and slid a slender knife out of his boot. He held the weapon up for Emma to see before returning it to its place. “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.” Vanderlock’s eyes held a challenge. Emma chose to ignore the double entendre.

  “Please concentrate on flying this plane. You’re making me nervous,” she said.

  He resettled into the flight seat. “You don’t have a weapon, do you?”

  She felt her face flush. Truth was, she couldn’t shoot with any accuracy. If she held an automatic weapon and fired hundreds of bullets per minute, she might succeed in hitting a target, but
success was not assured by any means.

  “No,” she admitted. “I’m not a great shot.”

  Vanderlock shook his head in disgust. “Roducci has a trunk full of guns in that Mercedes of his. Least he could have done is given you one. Can you fight?”

  Emma was confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Karate? Tae kwon do? Anything?”

  Now Emma was getting angry. She didn’t need his derision just then. She pointed at his metal box.

  “Judging from that little collection you just showed me, fighting will get me nowhere once the bullets start flying. Listen, I’m a scientist and I just need to get to Hargeisa. I’m counting on you to fly me there. After that I’ll go my own way.”

  Vanderlock put a hand up as if to ward her off. “Fine. I’ll get you there.”

  They lapsed into silence. Emma gazed out the window. The fear had won. It overshadowed her joy at flying. She wrestled it back to manageable levels. She took several long, slow breaths to calm herself while she stared at the ground below them. She remembered a bit of advice a soldier had once given her: When in the field, sleep when you can. The sun on the windshield bathed her face, and the plane’s vibration soothed her. After a few minutes, her eyes grew heavy and she fell asleep.

  She awoke with a start. Vanderlock had a hand on her arm and was shaking her. “First you laugh, then you sleep. You’re a cool one.”

  Emma straightened up. She had no memory of falling asleep, and for a moment she was disoriented.

  “We’re landing.” He pointed to a spot far in front of the plane’s nose. “Over there is the city proper. Used to be a beautiful place back in the eighties. It’s a little bit of hell now. But we’re not going there.” Below them, battered buildings came into view amid the scrub and dust. Gaping holes and missing roofs revealed the extent of the destruction wrought by mortar shells. The entire landscape looked bleak, hot, and forbidding.