The Hawaii Job: (A Case Lee Novel Book 5)

by Vince Milam

  “Welcome!” he said in thick-accented English. “Welcome. I am Ahmed Maziq. And Mr. Lee? Which one?”

  I stepped forward and shook hands. Marcus, Bo, and Catch remained huddled and scanned the area. Catch focused on the distant Tuareg tribesmen. Marcus lit a cigar. I switched to Arabic.

  “Are they a problem?” I asked and tilted my head toward the armed tribesmen.

  “They are seldom a problem.”

  There were a half-dozen ways to parse his response.

  “These supplies we’ve arrived with. For the Libyan Army?”

  “Yes. Come, come. I am honored to show you my offerings,” Maziq said and pointed toward the warehouse.

  “Where are the Libyan Army soldiers?”

  “Who can say? Come, come,” he said, signaling us to follow.

  “Are the Libyan soldiers in town?”

  “They are not. They may arrive today. Or later. One cannot say.”

  He halted and cast a large smile toward my teammates.

  “Is that our plane?” I asked, pointing toward the old military transport.

  “It is most excellent, is it not?”

  “There appears to be an engine problem.”

  “Not a problem! Maintenance. Only maintenance. Come, come.”

  I turned and translated our conversation for the team, asking them to look, not point, toward the Tuareg warriors. Didn’t want any action on our part triggering an event. Maziq barked in Berber toward his men. The westerner hard at work on the aircraft engine dropped a wrench and cussed in a Slavic language. The tool rang out as it hit concrete. There were no other sounds—no passing vehicles, no aircraft overhead, and no other people spoke. The sun baked, and the surrounding desert glared its reflection. Middle of nowhere, baby. Not a bad thing.

  “Catch, you and I follow Case and the fixer. Let’s take our kit with us. I’m not leaving it while sticky fingers crawl all over the place,” Marcus said. Stone-faced, wearing dark sunglasses, he’d yet to acknowledge Maziq. “Bo, go check the aircraft. Then meet us inside.”

  We clambered up the rickety aircraft stairs and gathered our gear. As we descended, Maziq yelled at several men. They dropped what they were doing and approached us, clearly ordered to tote our stuff.

  “La, la,” I said in Arabic, wagging a forefinger. No, no. We’ll handle it. They stood unsure, not wishing to risk their boss’s wrath. “We’ll carry things,” I said to Maziq. “Thank you for the offer, but we prefer carrying our own bags.”

  Loaded down, Catch, Marcus, and I trailed Maziq as he made a beeline toward the warehouse. Bo angled off for plane inspection. The camelback Tuareg warriors watched, unmoving. Their dark blue attire stood in stark contrast against the bright Sahara sand.

  “The first order of business is getting armed,” Marcus said as he walked alongside me. “Everything else is secondary at this point. I’m not comfortable with our position.”

  “Roger that,” Catch said.

  Several steps later, Marcus asked me, “In your experience, how’s this going so far?”

  Here again stood the striking difference between people who lived normal lives—or in Bo’s world, seminormal—and the Case Lee lifestyle. We’d made it this far. No hiccups, no major challenges. Yeah, our next air transport appeared as a low-bidder outfit. Maziq’s choice, and expected. And we hadn’t been exposed to the weaponry selection yet. But here we were, no one had shot at us, and we were repositioning toward a protected spot. So far, things had gone pretty well, given the circumstances.

  “Par for the course, Marcus. Par for the course.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Well, here’s the bad news. Sometimes I don’t either.”

  Chapter 28

  Maziq led us into his warehouse; twenty degrees cooler in an instant. The largest front portion was reserved for supplies similar to those we’d flown with. A tin wall, not quite ceiling height, separated the back 30 percent of the building. Maziq unlocked a single door in the wall and stepped through. He turned, waved a hand with a flourish, and invited us to join him and eyeball his wares.

  Open crates, old steel shelves, and a 1950s government-grade desk. His office. And weapons. A great number of weapons. From the Italians were Beretta AR70 assault rifles and 9mm pistols. The Beretta stock, stowed behind a locked door, had clearly grown legs and walked away from a previous shipment under Maziq’s care. Glock pistols from Austria joined others along the steel shelves. The Czechs contributed CZ 82 pistols and a few BREN assault rifles. Several Belgian FN P90 submachine guns with their weird configuration. Russian AK-47s, French FAMAS rifles… a potpourri of deadly weaponry collected God-knows-how. From the US and occupying one entire corner, an old Ma Deuce—an M2 Browning machine gun, .50 caliber—squatted on a large tripod. Massive and devastating, it had been developed before WWII and was still used by the US military as well as other countries around the world. Catch would drool over it, but with the tripod it weighed in well north of a hundred pounds. An issue for our as-yet-unseen vehicle. Scattered among the more modern weapons, sure enough, were several old bolt-action British Enfield rifles, circa WWII.

  Maziq beamed and invited us to wade through the selection. We did.

  “Focus on common ammo,” Marcus said as he inspected an HK 9mm pistol’s firing mechanism. “Let’s stick with 5.56 NATO for rifles. Select fire. We should pick a common platform for interchangeable parts. The same with 9mm pistols and submachine guns. We aren’t toting a wide variety of armament or ammo with us.”

  We focused as well on the least-used equipment. Much of the selection had seen better days. Maziq asked me if there was anything in particular he could help us with. I responded in the negative, and he told us to take our time while he supervised the unloading of the Airbus cargo. As he departed, Bo entered.

  “Well, looky here, my brothers,” he said and reviewed the scene, hands on hips. “Gift packages under the corrugated-tin Sahara tree.” He looked my way and winked. “Calm seas in a roiling world.”

  “Tell me about the plane,” Marcus said, inspecting a Belgian assault rifle’s chamber mechanism. “In terms I’ll understand.”

  “A craft awash with nostalgia and poignancy.”

  Marcus shot a look my way.

  “Find out about the plane. You have the ability to interpret.”

  “What’s the make and model, Bo?” I asked.

  “Antonov An-26. Built by the comrades of the old Soviet Union. I cannot tell if it was assembled with endearment, but it has traversed many a mile.”

  “The pilots?”

  “Ukrainian. Quite adept, it would appear, at keeping the old girl airborne. One of them almost speaks English.”

  “What’s wrong with the port-side engine?”

  “Why, nothing, according to their rather fatalistic view.” He wandered among the weaponry and hefted different weapons. “Shall I make the selection, fearless leader?” he asked.

  “No,” Marcus responded without looking up from his inspections. “Will the damn thing fly?”

  “At some point. The two Ukrainians are owner-operators. I doubt if they view this spot as their retirement community.” Bo wandered over and inspected crates of hand grenades. “If I am to be excluded from weapon selection, at least allow me perusal of the side goodies.”

  Marcus shot me a hard stare.

  “So, Bo, will we take off the next hour or two?” I asked.

  “I have been assured so by the one who speaks a bit of English. ‘No problem,’ is the prevailing theme. We should toss an ‘inshallah’ into the mix for good measure.”

  We continued wading through the selection. Maziq’s yells drifted through the open door, as did the sounds of unloading cargo. Weapons were inspected, field stripped, and reassembled. After thirty minutes, Marcus made an announcement.

  “Alright. We go with the HKs. They’re the least used among this bunch, and they’re affiliated with the ammo we flew here with. The 416 rifles and the 9mm pistols.”
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  Marcus had always been a German Heckler & Koch guy, so his decision didn’t surprise me. And the rifle was a fine weapon, perfect for the close-in action we’d engage in among the rat’s nest of tents and narrow passageways and high rock walls of Musa Kibir’s Janjaweed stronghold. I was less enthused about the pistol selection. A .40 caliber wasn’t available among our selection, but plenty of .45s were. Big bang, old school. But I didn’t argue. In most firefights, the sidearm pistol rarely made an appearance.

  “And this,” Catch said as he displayed a Russian Dragunov SVU sniper rifle. Marcus wouldn’t argue with Catch over his selection. If a five-hundred-yard headshot was required, as it might be, we wanted Catch happy.

  “And a bevy of these lovelies,” Bo said as he juggled three Swiss-made RUAG fragmentation hand grenades. Bo’s decision would stand. As our spearpoint, his use of grenades often sounded a firefight’s start.

  “Please stop juggling those,” Marcus said. “At least until my old ass is clear of you.”

  “Alright. I’ll let Maziq know we have to shoot these before a final selection,” I said. “And we require night-vision scopes.”

  “Roger that,” Marcus said. “Let’s get out of these civvies and geared up.”

  We stripped and donned desert fatigues. Strapped on webbed belts for ammo magazines and a pistol holster and fighting knives. Webbed fighting vests for more ammo, field medical kits, grenades. Also kneepads, elbow pads—the entire process not too far removed from knights donning their ancient armor as they, too, prepared for battle.

  Maziq wandered in as we finished and enquired about our selections. I told him, as well as the requirement we fire every weapon multiple times as a test. And night scopes.

  “Of course, of course. Simply step outside. There is plenty of ammunition!”

  “The night-vision scopes?”

  “Ah, it is most unfortunate I do not have those.”

  “You told me you did.”

  “And I assure you I once did. When? Who can say? But not now.”

  He continued smiling, the cash register ringing in his head as the other three gathered weaponry. I told the team we were blind at night except for the night-vision binoculars Marcus had the foresight to purchase at Cabela’s before we left. Let them know Maziq had assured me they were available when we first talked.

  “You gotta be shittin’ me,” Catch said.

  “An unexpected vortex,” Bo said. “One we must ride.”

  “Screw the vortex,” Marcus said. “We’re stuck with a daylight attack. Dammit, that’s a big deal.”

  It was. A night attack stacked more odds our way. We could sight with our weapons. They couldn’t. A big freakin’ deal.

  “A daylight attack with iron sights,” Catch said. “At least for you poor bastards.” He lifted the scoped Russian sniper rifle and smiled.

  The lack of riflescopes during the day didn’t bother me. We’d fight at close quarters. Besides, we were each more than proficient at a couple hundred yards without a scope. Or at least we used to be. It was the higher-risk daylight aspect that stuck in my craw.

  “This is cause for a large discount,” I said to Maziq. His face fell. “A large, large discount.”

  I turned and addressed the team.

  “We can tote these outside and fire them. Let’s get to it.”

  We did. As we carried a dozen rifles and pistols and ammo magazines and ammo boxes, Catch badgered Marcus.

  “What about the Ma Deuce?” Catch asked, referencing the .50 caliber M2 machine gun parked in a corner.

  “No.”

  “C’mon, Marcus,” Catch continued. “Let’s say we run across a few pickup trucks filled with bogeys. We’ll make short work of them with that puppy.”

  “No. Case, ask that lying son of a bitch where our vehicle is.”

  I did.

  “Not to worry! It will arrive soon. A fine, fine vehicle, I can assure you.”

  Translation—he was enacting repairs on a contraption in Ghadames twelve miles away. Men welded or wired or replaced parts or all of the above while Maziq spoke.

  As we set up alongside the warehouse, sun blazing during what was the cool season, the agonized start of an aircraft engine filled the space. The old Soviet propeller turned, slowly at first, then built up speed as black smoke poured from the exhausts. As it caught and revved and the smoke dispersed, both the Ukrainians looked our way, smiled, and gave two enthusiastic thumbs up. I returned a tight nod. Jeez Louise. A six-hour-plus flight to Goz Beïda lay ahead. As per the Ukrainians, no problem. My teammates shot me a “Really?” look and returned to the business at hand. Two minutes later the Ukrainians shut down the now-repaired engine.

  I was heartened with the weapon selection. The crux of the mission was our attack against the Janjaweed clan. The weaponry now available upped our odds for success. A daylight assault hurt us, no doubt, but the day’s earliest light as an attack window would suffice. It had to. But so far, so good—even if the mission was half-assed in many ways.

  We fired weapons, sighted them, and discussed individual selections. As we began firing, the Tuareg warriors disappeared down the back side of a large dune. Slipped away, melted back into their culture, their world. Can’t say I was sorry to see them go, although a small slice of me watched their departure with a sense of poignancy. I’d never know them, or see them again. Yet we’d shared this place for a few hours, separated by a cultural chasm deep and wide. A weird sadness filled me as the blue-clad camelback warriors, their figures distorted by heat waves, disappeared. Maybe it was my acknowledgement of our tenuous situation while they’d remained as they had for centuries. Or a desire for tribal stability—my tribe’s safety and stability—or a fleeting moment where emotions of loneliness and risk and yearning bubbled up. Strange. So damn strange.

  Chapter 29

  Catch built two small rock cairns—one at two hundred yards, the other at five hundred—and took his time sighting the Russian sniper rifle. Bo pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it with all his might without any warning. The action of his toss sent the rest of us onto the dirt, accompanied with a string of expletives that would peel paint.

  “Quality control, gentlemen. No need to thank me,” was Bo’s sole response after the explosion.

  Once we obtained a sworn promise from him to cease tossing any more explosives, we stood and knelt and lay on our bellies cutting loose with high-velocity bullets, both single shot and full auto. Alongside us was a tin warehouse where the sound of cargo being rearranged was accompanied by barked yells from our fixer. Farther away, two Ukrainians prepped an old Soviet-era airplane for a fifteen-hundred-mile flight across the vast and unrelenting emptiness of Libya, Niger, and Chad. Just another day at the office.

  As we settled on the top rifles and pistols—with two extra of each, as per Marcus—the now-empty Airbus from Malta fired its jet engines, taxied to the end of the one runway, goosed it, and took off.

  “There goes our emergency exit,” Marcus said. He fired another cigar and threw a thumb toward our aircraft. “It’s down to us and the Soviet Air Force.”

  A dust plume announced our ride’s approach. A small Suzuki jeep. Way small. No roof, no windshield, the little four-cylinder engine straining, remnants of what was once a white paint job evident in spots. At least the tires looked decent, although the spare had the tread of a racing slick.

  Bo sidled alongside Catch and said, “There goes any hope Ma Deuce is joining us.”

  “Hell,” he replied, “I’m not sure our rucksacks are joining us.”

  I nodded toward Maziq an affirmation and took the wheel as his people climbed out. I drove the little vehicle around the warehouse, up and over a small dune. The brakes were shot, the engine was on its last legs, and there were no shock absorbers. But it ran. Not fast, but it ran. It would do.

  Maziq and I wandered away from my teammates and his workers. Stood on sand alongside the runway and negotiated. I’d brought the duffel filled with cash, unop
ened. The usual histrionics followed, although my threat of walking away from the whole deal was borderline absurd. It took fifteen minutes. Discussions and hand-waving back and forth before I agreed to an exorbitant price.

  “We’ve got company,” Catch said in a booming voice as he stared into the northern sky’s glare.

  We stood stock-still, sunglasses on, hands shielding our eyes. A small dot materialized through the heat waves, becoming larger. When it became clear that a substantial prop-driven cargo plane approached, I addressed Maziq.

  “Who is that?”

  He shrugged, uninterested. “The Libyan Army.”

  I passed on the information, and we scrambled. Back into the warehouse where we hustled to collect our kit and arms and ammo and grenades into a pile. I ran outside for the jeep. Maziq stood, back toward the runway, and spoke Berber into a cell phone as the military cargo plane touched down and rolled past him. I started the jeep, whipped alongside Maziq, and insisted he join us. The cargo plane braked, did a one-eighty, and headed for the terminal. I stood on the jeep’s driver seat and waved a circular hand toward the Ukrainians, who both stood smoking under their plane’s wings. The rear loading ramp was already lowered, one end resting on concrete. Fire it up, boys. We’re getting out of here.

  Inside the warehouse, we stacked and packed our kit within the jeep and discussed next steps. The roar of the approaching cargo plane rumbled through the tin-enclosed space.

  “What’s he think?” Marcus asked, pointing toward Maziq.

  I asked.

  “This is not a problem! They come often, stay a week or two, and depart. This is not a problem!”

  “Well, four armed-to-the-teeth westerners might be a problem, Maziq.”

  “It is not their concern.” He smiled. I didn’t. “I will speak with their commander. He is an old and trusted friend.”

  “Yeah, you do that. Right now.”

  As he strolled through the open warehouse doors, checking his cell phone and sliding on his sunglasses, I passed on his claims.

  “It damn well ought to be their concern,’ Marcus said. “If they’re what passes for Libyan military personnel. It’ll be hard to miss four suited-up foreigners with military weapons in their backyard. What the hell does he mean ‘not their concern’?”