Ground Zero

by Don Pendleton

  Marina and Frank could hear their captors from the tent in which they were now confined. They—like George and Carla—had been unshackled for a short period to enable them to bathe and change into clothes that were provided for them. They were given water and food, and although they were then shackled again, it was noticeable that they were being afforded a level of care that had not been theirs just a few hours before.

  Hours? How much time had passed since they had been taken? It was impossible to tell as the delirium of heat and dehydration had overtaken them.

  A medic—or at least, a pirate with some kind of medical knowledge and a rudimentary medical kit—had come and seen to George, dressing the wound, disinfecting it crudely and making him scream. The medic looked into his eyes.

  “Concussion,” Marina said clearly and carefully. The guard nearest her jabbed her with the stock of his AK-47, making her wince, but it had the desired effect, as the medic turned to her.

  “Him— He...?” the medic asked, miming a vomiting action. Marina shook her head, and the medic nodded slowly as he turned and looked into George’s unfocused eyes once more. “No, not bad. He be all right,” he said definitively.

  When the medic and the women who had assisted them with bathing, changing and eating had gone, they sat alone in the tent. There were guards outside, but since they were shackled, their captors had seen no reason to stay on top of them.

  It gave Marina the chance she had been waiting for to speak to Frank. She shuffled across the sandy floor so that she could lean toward him and keep her voice as low as possible.

  “What’s coming next?”

  Frank pondered that for a moment before replying. “If it runs to type, they’ll contact the U.S. Embassy and say they have us. They’ve got our ID from the yacht, and they’ll supply evidence. Our families will be informed and told that the government can liaise but not take any part in negotiations. Then it’ll be up to the families—George’s dad will want to pay straightaway. They’ll ask for a high sum to begin, and I’ll bet he’ll pay that—”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Marina said levelly. “There will be interested parties in government. What will they do?”

  Frank’s jaw tensed. “Careful what you say. They won’t do anything unless it’s obvious they have to. Keep it a regular situation and it’s fine. If it’s not, then they’ll see what is known before they make a decision.”

  Marina looked away. She didn’t want to see her husband’s face when she spoke again.

  “What if certain things are known and that makes it worth more to someone other than the government? What happens to us then?”

  The silence told her all she wanted to know. For the first time since they had been taken, she began to feel that the situation seemed hopeless, and tears burned and in her eyes.

  “Don’t—” Frank was cut off by the sound of someone approaching from outside. The tent flap was thrust aside by one of the guards, and a tall, thin man with a goatee and a hard cast to his eyes entered, his gaze sweeping over them.

  “So this is what they bring me,” he said softly.

  “What do you plan to do with us?” Frank asked, hoping to cut to the chase. Perhaps he seemed too keen, too quick. It caused the Somali to look at him with an amused detachment.

  “What would any so-called pirate do with a Westerner?” he asked mockingly, rolling his tongue around the words. “We will ask for money for you. That’s what we want, after all, isn’t it? You are a piece of meat that we can sell at market to make some of the money that your kind have made so necessary in the first place. You take our freedom, you make us live by your economy, you starve us of the resources and take others without comeback, and then wonder why we have to strike back in whatever way we can?”

  “But we’re not at war with you—” Frank began.

  “We are at war with the world. It is all we can do to survive. In order to do that and see that our people do not starve as they have for generations, we must use whatever means are made available to us. So we take from boats that are stupid enough not to be well defended and we take money from fools who want to see their families again. They would not do as much for us. And then, every once in a while, something a little better falls into our hands. There are people who appear to be tourists and yet may be so much more.”

  Marina looked at Frank. He was white with the effort not to vomit. He knew what the Somali meant. Marina felt faint. She could see that George was still oblivious to what was going on, and Carla looked somewhere between terrified and confused. Not Marina. She realized that the pirates knew about Frank’s value to the U.S. government, and that could only mean death for three of them, as they were surplus to requirements.

  What made her feel worse—what had made Frank go white with fear—was that she knew that although she would most likely die, there was a worse fate in store for her husband.

  The Somali stepped forward and cupped Frank’s chin in his hand—surprisingly small for someone his size—and said, “A man with your brain is worth much to many. We shall see what they have to say. It is a pity we can’t just cut it out and sell what you know without having to worry about anything else. But perhaps there are ways of doing this....”

  Marina’s vision swam as she thought of what they would do to her husband. Frank stayed silent, but she noticed that a wet patch had spread across his groin, and she knew the fear that he was trying to hide.

  She knew at that moment that there was no hope.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It took Bolan long hours in uncomfortable troop transports to get as far as Yemen. His cover story wouldn’t stand up to too much scrutiny, so he swerved any questions by spending most of his time sleeping. He’d slept in far worse conditions, and if he was right in his assumptions, then he wouldn’t have much opportunity to rest once he reached his destination.

  During the time that he was awake, he occupied himself by scrolling through his secure smartphone and absorbing the intel he had been sent. He was soon up to speed on the current state of play in the seas and the land along the coast. The complex situation in Somalia, where Puntland and Galmudug seemed to have contrary policies, would not make it easy to negotiate the territory. Puntland had set up its own maritime police force to work alongside the two multinational task forces, but even so it had its hands tied when the pirates went inland and crossed over provincial lines. The authorities had a hard job, and he didn’t envy them. Under any other circumstances he would have sought their aid, but the way things lay at present, he needed to stay so far under the radar that he was subterranean.

  Under the radar in the sense that no one could know where he came from and who he represented; with a wry grin to himself, he doubted that having Grimaldi and Dragonslayer around would be keeping “under the radar” in any other sense whatsoever.

  After landing at Camp Lemonnier at Djibouti, the former French colony across the Gulf of Aden from Yemen that was currently the U.S. headquarters for anti–al Qaeda activity, he went through the military clearance procedures as usual and, on pretense of leaving the base to meet up with the rest of his unit for a long-awaited reunion, drove out of U.S. territory and into the Arab land beyond. He needed to pick up some hardware for his trip, and he needed to contact Grimaldi and arrange a rendezvous.

  As he drove, he pondered the situation facing him. Currently he had no indication of where his target resided. If his enemies did not show their hand in some way, then he had to figure out a way of tracking them. It would have been nice and easy if he could have just slipped across the Gulf and into Yemen immediately. Arms were plentiful there, and his war chest would have been welcomed. Intel would also have been easier to obtain, since from Yemen it was a straight line to Somalia and the Islamist group al-Shabaab, who were known to have affiliated themselves with al Qaeda.

  Geographically, Djibouti was closer t
o Somalia; politically, it was a different story. Pirates who just wanted to cash in were easily handled. Those with a political agenda were harder to slap down.

  As things stood, the Executioner was in a position where he had a task to perform and at present little idea of where the enemy was located.

  No worries. He’d take it one step at a time. The soldier’s network of contacts across the globe, who knew him under many names over the years of his War Everlasting, extended to Djibouti, and he had somewhere in mind to purchase his armament. He intended to keep munitions to a minimum for ease of movement. Grimaldi and his aircraft’s souped-up gun ports would be good backup.

  After a half-hour drive, Bolan pulled into the courtyard of a stucco house that indicated a man of some wealth was resident. It stuck out in the district, which was generally run-down and poor. Bolan was greeted as a friend, even though he had never met the man. A call during which he had been able to drop names and details that ensured his credentials had been enough. A perusal of the merchandise the man had to offer and a selected purchase that was expedited by the cash from his war chest that he had been able to bring with him, and soon he was on his way again.

  Step one complete. After making sure that he had not been followed, he drove to a secluded spot and punched in a speed dial number.

  “Jack? Where are you?”

  “Close enough, Sarge. I’ve been here for six hours, waiting for you. What took you so long?”

  “You’re a funny man, Jack. Anyone ever tell you that? I had a few essentials to purchase, but I’m ready to go. We need to rendezvous. Can you get clearance for the base here?”

  “If Bear can get Hal to pull a few strings. You know the stupid thing, Sarge? I’m in Somalia now, just to your southeast. How come it’s easier for me to find a back door into here than it is to get into somewhere we’ve actually got forces?”

  “Because Somalia is still bandit country in places. You land here and it could cause an international incident. You land there and someone will just make you an offer for Dragonslayer. Or try to kill you and steal her.”

  “Funny you should say that... I said no, but maybe in stronger terms. Can’t you make it down here?”

  “I could, but if we get a line on where our targets are, then it’ll be quicker to hit and run.”

  “Good point. Get me that clearance and see what intel has come in.”

  “And what are you going to be doing while I’m doing all the work?” Bolan asked wryly.

  “Me? Sarge, I’m going to be heading to Djibouti—that’s the kind of faith I have in you.”

  * * *

  MCCABE PUT DOWN the phone and looked at the sheet of paper on which he had just scribbled the results of his conversation. He could have read an email directly and just printed it, but he preferred to do things the old-fashioned way. It gave him someone to shout at on the end of the phone if he wasn’t happy with what he heard. And, frankly, he was far from happy.

  After passing the Secret Service agents who nodded him through, McCabe gave a perfunctory knock and entered. Four men were seated in a semicircle with the President, who looked up at McCabe.

  “Gentlemen, this may be news of the matter I was referring to,” the President murmured.

  “Sir, we have news from Somalia regarding Foster and his traveling companions. It’s not good from a security point of view, sir.”

  “Tell me the worst,” the Man ordered.

  “The worst is that they know who Foster is and that what he knows could be of potential worth to them. I don’t know how they know, sir,” he added, forestalling the question. “But the fact is that there are a number of ways they could have ascertained who Foster is, including torture. If it comes to it, then someone will pay this end—”

  “Okay, but for now we just need to get him back. What are they asking?”

  “Ten million dollars for all four hostages. The good news is that the other three are still alive. The bad is that they’re probably considered little more than deadweights in the deal, and if we don’t settle over Foster—”

  “They won’t be coming home,” the President finished. “Ten million is a lot for piracy. More than the British have had to pay for any of their people. Unofficially, of course. But I guess they figure Foster’s knowledge makes him worth that to us...or to anyone else who values the intelligence he carries. Do we know if they have made any other bidders aware of who they have?”

  McCabe shook his head. “Not for sure, but the problem they may have is that if they go public too soon, then they could attract too much attention. Puntland is working hard to wipe these guys off the face of the earth, so most of them are in Galmudug. That has a heavy Islamist presence, and those guys would kill—literally—for Foster.”

  “So why not go directly to them? Why ask us first?”

  McCabe sniffed. “We’re more likely to have ten million than al-Shabaab, who would be likely to want our boys to hand Foster over for nothing more than the greater glory of Islam. That’s fine when you’re dead, but it doesn’t feed villages or families and doesn’t buy you guns.”

  “So the last thing they want is for the local warlords or rival pirates to know too much too soon. That buys us a little time, I guess. How long have they given us, and have we made any kind of track on them?”

  “Twelve hours. They contacted us via email, which was sent from a smartphone. I’m figuring that it was a stolen and ripped one that they thought was untraceable through Lord knows how many hands. But I tell you, sir, you’ve got to love these Scandinavian phone manufacturers. They leave a back door that means most GPS can’t be totally knocked out, and we’ve got these mothers pinned down. They’ve taken the hostages inland about sixty-five klicks. I’m guessing—though it’s not relevant—that they landed at a fishing village about twenty klicks from where the yacht was located, as there’s very little else around there that would give them the opportunity. Of course, when our operative has completed his mission...”

  “Point taken, but let’s concentrate on getting our people back first,” the President stated. “You know I’ve given Hal Brognola the authority to coordinate this. Have you told him yet? What about our operative?”

  “You’re the first person I’ve told, sir. Brognola informed me our operative is in Djibouti awaiting further intel and is ready to move.”

  For the first time in several hours the ghost of a smile flickered across the President’s face.

  “Then what are you waiting for, Mr. McCabe?”

  * * *

  BROGNOLA TOOK THE call in his office. Within moments of speaking to McCabe, he’d relayed the intel to Aaron Kurtzman at Stony Man Farm, the nation’s most covert antiterrorist installation, so that he could add it to his data for analysis and relay. Then he called Bolan.

  “Hal, I was about to call. I need to speak to you,” the soldier greeted him.

  “Striker, not as much as I need to speak to you,” Brognola began before detailing what he had just been told and the action he had taken. Bolan listened intently before filling the big Fed in on his own progress and the contact he had made with Grimaldi, leading to the pilot’s request.

  “You know, normally I’d be moaning at you and Jack for that, as it’s not going to be easy, but under the circumstances I’m pretty sure a word from the President in the right ear will ensure top-level secrecy and no one outside the immediate landing field being told.”

  “That’s good, Hal. I’ll call Bear and get him to provide me with any satellite images and maps of the target area. Soon as Jack can get here, we’ll hit the sky. You make your call. I’ll make mine.”

  * * *

  “MOVE, YOU MOVE now—get up!” The guard seemed panicked in his haste, prodding all four of them in turn with the end of his weapon and yelling, falling into his native tongue as his words got more hysterical.
>
  Marina was still fuzzy from sleep—the first she’d really had for some days—and was slow to react. For a second she couldn’t remember where she was; then it came back to her, and the feeling of dread descended again.

  “What—” She felt the sharp jab of the rifle again and yelped in pain and surprise. The guard yelled something in her face. “It’s okay, no real panic...” She heard her husband’s voice, surprisingly calm in the sudden flurry of activity. As she righted herself on the camp bed, she saw he was already sitting up. Once she, too, was upright, the guard devoted himself to yelling at George and Carla, who were inevitably slower. Looking at him again, Marina could see that the guard was no more than twelve or thirteen. Intoxicated with power and a gun; scared that he would anger his chief and be stripped of the rank he had attained.

  “Frank, what the fuck is happening?” she asked. Her words were angry, but her tone was weary and resigned.

  “Nothing to worry about.” He allowed himself a bark of an ironic laugh. “It’s just a precaution. They’re moving us on to another location.”

  “Why would they do that already? We’ve only been here a day or two.” She was aware of the whine in her voice. Their clothes were clean, they had been well fed and the beds were if not soft, then tolerable. They were still shackled, but she would expect that. Frank’s voice had an edge that he tried to hide, unsuccessfully. “They must have made contact with the government and issued their demands, whatever they are. That’s why we’re being moved. They probably think that they’re untraceable, but they’re not so stupid as to take that for granted.”

  Marina felt a sinking sensation inside her. It continued, like a stone in her gut, as they were led out by a phalanx of armed man and loaded into yet another flatbed truck. Around them, the camp was being packed, ready to move on. Most of the people would come with them, only a few remaining in what had once been their village. They knew they may face the wrath of an incoming force, but they feared the local pirate chiefs more. It was not a situation to foster hope.