Abu Kishaa lifted the pistol. He flipped it around, so he was holding the barrel and offered Logan the butt. He said, “Our new friends, the Jordanians, brought pistols for all of the Brothers. You must not have gotten yours yet.”
Logan reached out and took the pistol. “Thank you, Abu Kishaa.”
Abu Kishaa smiled and patted Logan on the shoulder. Then, he turned his attention to Sydney.
“My wife, how are you?”
Your what?! Sydney, what have you done? Logan’s mouth flew open behind his scarf.
Sydney responded in Arabic, “Husband, I am well. I heard from the Brothers Logan Connor is dead.”
“The False Prophet attempted to fool me. I sent him on a mission that he did not complete. If I weren’t so convinced of your loyalty, I would have you executed for his crimes.” He put both hands on her face and kissed her deeply. “But I know your love for me is real.”
Okay, Sydney, good call. My bad.
“The other one, Eric the Israelite, has called me from where he is imprisoned in Ireland. He says that Logan Connor attempted to orchestrate an ambush of our camp. We are moving. Pack only what you can carry.”
Abu Kishaa walked away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Now that Abu Kishaa’s band could move freely through Jordan, they moved along the highways. They traveled in a convoy of trucks, ATVs, dirt bikes, and a few horses. The little green men in tanks and Humvees led the way. The entire trip took almost six hours before they reached the Jordan River.
At the Jordan River, they met Ibn Kitab’s Rightful Custodians of the Two Mosques. The entire camp loaded into large trucks waiting on the east bank of the river. They left behind their four-wheelers, trucks, and even the horses. The loading of all of the different people took another two hours. The Brothers orchestrated the escape, prodding with the barrels of their rifles and barking orders. Some people started to have second thoughts about getting into the semi-truck trailers and leaving behind everything from their camp. They’d already left behind everything to follow Abu Kishaa, and they were being told to abandon everything again. Abu Kishaa offered soft words and supposed wisdom from Chemosh. If that didn’t work, the Brothers offered the barrels of their guns.
A man and his wife tried to flee. They loaded onto a dirt bike and spun the tires up the gravel road. They were no more than thirty yards away when a Brother sprayed them with a burst of bullets. They were thrown from the bike, crashing into the sand. Blood seeped through their clothes and onto the road. The bike lay where it fell, with the engine still idling. That was about all anyone needed to see. The loading process went in an orderly fashion after that.
They moved up the ramps into the backs of the trailers. Some were clean and used to haul freight; others bore the stench of animals, alive and dead. The lucky ones got into trailers with refrigeration. But most of the trailers had no ventilation at all. Abu Kishaa stood with Sydney and his other wives at the back of the crowd.
Logan went about his Brotherly duties with dedication, herding people towards the awaiting trucks. When one was full, he stopped the line as they were directed to the next truck. The trucks, one by one, pulled away carrying the devoted. He didn’t speak, though. His accents needed work. It was best to just avoid speaking. He would just grunt and point.
Abu Kishaa walked casually to the water. He stepped into the river, and the water washed around his ankles. Then, the impossible happened. He took a step up and placed his foot on the top of the water. He took another step and strode confidently across the surface of the water.
Despite not meaning to speak, Logan gasped, “Just like Jesus. No. No, he’s not. There was only one person who ever walked on water. How is this happening?”
The followers standing in the line began to yell and scream and sing. They believed they saw a miracle.
Logan walked casually towards the boat. He walked around the back and peered into the murky water of the Jordan River, where a Plexiglas plank was bolted to the back of the boat, just below the water’s surface. It was nearly invisible. If he were to stand on it, it would be transparent, and it would look like he was walking on water.
Just another trick from Abu Kishaa, the trickster. It was a good trick, though.
After that, the faithful nearly trampled each other, trying to get in the trucks.
Finally, they got down to the last truck. It was larger than the others to carry the supplies and tents from the camp. Sydney and the wives stood watching as Abu Kishaa paced impatiently.
As the supply truck doors were closed and locked, Abu Kishaa made his way to a black Humvee with darkened windows. Without a word to the wives, he got in and was rushed away. One of the Brothers directed the women to another waiting Humvee. Logan moved toward the last vehicle in the long line. They would follow along the Jordan River, and that would take them to the Mediterranean. If they were lucky, they’d meet the Jubba River Militia somewhere on the open road. He set his phone to send regular coordinates to Abiy in Ethiopia. If everything went to plan, Abiy was forwarding those coordinates to someone in the Jubba River Militia. This seemed to be working pretty well. For the first time since he’d been discovered back in Alabama, something seemed to be going his way.
Now, he just needed to develop a strategy for fighting a road battle filled with trucks full of innocent people. They don’t teach that in spy school.
The caravan bounced on the narrow road along the Jordan River. The river was murky brown at certain points and churned with splashing white rapids and foamed at other spots. Some sections were as green as well-kept grass. Logan grew up around the Mississippi, Missouri, and the Red Rivers. Those were massive, thundering waterways that could get so wide you couldn’t see across them. Barges twice the size of eighteen-wheelers trudged through those waters. The Jordan River was almost a creek compared to those. Logan could throw a baseball from one side of the river to the other. At some points, he could even look down and see the river bottom.
Nevertheless, they rolled on. Eventually, reaching a modern highway and were able to speed up. Mile after mile, they wormed their way through either Lebanon or the northern tip of Israel. Logan wasn’t exactly sure.
The trucks began slowing and then parked. Logan could see the sun beaming over the Mediterranean Sea that gleamed brilliant blue with sparkles of light dancing on the surface of the water. The water curved over the edge of the earth and vanished against the horizon. The coast of Lebanon stretched out on either side of them, but ahead of them was only blue water. At that moment, Logan understood something fundamental about the ancient world. He understood the Bible, Quran, Roman history, and the Byzantines better than ever before. Looking out on that endless expanse of choppy cerulean water, it was almost impossible to think there was something greater than this. Whatever was on the other side of all that water must seem to be the other side of the world. He knew now why every Western religion and every Western civilization was born on these shores.
Almost an hour later, two container ships came into view. Abu Kishaa’s followers grew restless with the lack of movement and were banging on the inside walls of the trailers. Eventually, the engines started, and one by one, the trucks began rolling out. No more than ten miles away, they came to an abandoned freight port. There was a docking area and the skeleton of a sizable steel-sided building.
The boats flew flags from flagpoles on the top of the highest containers. They were red flags with black lettering in Arabic. They were written in Arabic calligraphy, so Logan couldn’t quite read them, but it looked like something about two mosques.
The supply trailers were strapped down, and great hooks lifted them and swung them on board. The loading went quickly and smoothly. Like so many sheep, the faithful were herded onto the ships. Once everyone was on the container ships, Abu Kishaa, the wives, then the Brothers went up the gangplank.
A gray-haired man with a thick beard stood on the railing, watching everyone go up the ramps. Abu Kishaa made his way on board, and the m
an shook his hand.
They spoke in Arabic. Abu Kishaa said, “Ibn Kitab. It’s good to see you.”
Ibn Kitab smiled and said, “Is it good when you’re on the run?”
Abu Kishaa shrugged. “Muhammad spent his entire life on the run.”
Ibn Kitab could only shrug. “True.”
* * *
Sydney wove her way through the narrow streets created by the space between containers. She told the other wives she would explore the ship; they were sure Abu Kishaa would not like it. Sydney assured them she wouldn’t get lost. After all, where could she go? They are on a boat in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. Besides, she thought, she finally earned Abu Kishaa’s trust, and all it took was months of lying and sleeping with him.
She was on the same ship as Abu Kishaa, the Brothers, and Logan. They must be somewhere at the back of the containers, she thought. The vessel was as long as three football fields. She couldn’t know exactly where they were, however.
Sydney spotted a container with a ladder. For the first time in months, there were no Brothers around. So, she could move freely.
Sydney climbed to the top of a container and stared out over the Mediterranean. It was hard to believe this was a sea enclosed on all sides by countries. It was basically a lake that connected three continents. However, unlike any lake she grew up around, there were tides and rolling waves. It vanished over the horizon like an ocean. She knew that Turkey was to the north. Greece, Italy, and France were to the northwest. But from where she stood, they were totally alone on the ocean.
A single boat came across the horizon, bouncing along the choppy water. The craft was a black inflatable boat with an outboard motor whining. Six men sat on the sides of it, clutching AK-47s and wearing brown tactical gear.
Everywhere militia boats began popping up, all filled with men carrying AK-47s. How many would there be? She couldn’t make out any symbols on their uniforms. She hoped this was the Jubba River Militia that Logan called. He promised them free reign over the Jordan River in exchange for their help. She wondered if they knew how very small the river was and how shallow. They may be free from Interpol, but Jordan and Israel were likely to frown upon Ethiopians on the water dividing them.
More boats came roaring behind the lead boat. They appeared on the water like water bugs on a pond. The number grew to twenty mismatched boats racing across the water. Sydney tried to get a quick count of how many fighters there were. There were six men on the lead boat and about six to twelve on the inflatables. There were a few fishing boats that carried upward of twenty. It looked like about 200 militiamen in total.
As they approached, Brothers started scrambling. Some crawled onto the tops of containers and took up shooting positions. Sydney patted the bedroll that she carried on her back. From the outside, it looked like a sleeping ball roll and several abayas. In reality, it was some clothes wrapped around an AK-47 and a Dragunov. She sat on the edge of a container and watched the militiamen approach in their boats.
She thought to herself, at least the tanks and Humvees are out of commission.
Just then, a third ship appeared on the water, trundling towards them. This ship carried two tanks and ten Humvees. The Jordanian crews rode on their vehicles.
The Jubba River Militia boats fanned out into a straight line. Shooters took up positions with their AK-47s, and the Brothers took up positions facing them. For a second, there was a silent pause. Militiamen were staring at them from their inflatable boats. Brothers stared down at them from the tops of containers. It was something akin to the heavy tension you feel before a storm. The air was right for a bloodbath. After what seemed an eternity within a minute, a Jubba River militiamen fired off a blast of bullets.
The bullets ripped into one of the Brothers. Bloody bullet wounds blossomed on his linen clothes. His body went limp, and he flopped into the Mediterranean with a splash. After that, the firing exploded unchecked. Brothers sprayed bursts of bullets into the water below them. Militiamen blasted volleys of shots up at the containers. Some of the bullets ripped through militiamen. Others ripped through Brothers. Most of them slapped the water harmlessly or collided with the sides of shipping containers. It resembled a revolutionary war battle. The Brothers were stuck on shipping containers. The militiamen were on their boats; they fought from two moving lines at continually moving targets. They shot at each other from their positions, hoping that their opponents would break before they did.
Brothers fell on the tops of containers, splashing in the water, or splattering against the ship’s deck. Militiamen flipped over the edge of their boats, sinking to the bottom of the sea.
The sound of gunfire was constant and exhausting. From what Sydney could tell, the militiamen were winning the battle. That was good. However, the ship full of tanks and Humvees hadn’t made its way to them yet. They were slow-moving ships that took a long time to get where they were going. Eventually, the large vessel finally reached the other two container ships. It lined up with the rest.
The Jordanian soldiers slid into their positions. Each tank was armed with a 105-millimeter M68 rifled gun that shot a rocket the size of an average person’s arm. A soldier popped up behind the gun on each tank. The soldier on the first tank swung it around to face a boat. The militiamen in the boat noticed and started firing volleys at the tank. The soldier simply ducked behind the metal shield on the gun and waited for the bullets to stop. He poked his head up, sighted the gun, and fired. The gun sounded like thunder to Sydney’s ear and shook the entire container ship, sending a shockwave that flapped her hair.
The 105-millimeter bullet slammed through a militia boat with a surprisingly small splash. The inflatable boat folded up like a broken lawn chair. Two of the militiamen on the craft were sucked under as the rubber grabbed them like a glove and dragged them down. A few of the other militiamen flipped over into the water. They tried to tread water and wait for rescue. That was a futile proposition because Jordanian soldiers popped up in the shooting bays of the Humvees. They spun the 50 caliber guns around to face the rows of militia boats.
50 caliber guns thudded in rhythmic patterns. The sound was like a drumbeat made out of thunder. The 50 caliber bullets ripped limbs off militiamen and tore ragged holes in their chests. The militiamen managed to pick off a few of the 50 caliber gunners, but they were quickly replaced by other soldiers.
Sydney’s attention was drawn from the bloody battle when she heard footsteps thudding against the roof of the container. She looked up and saw Logan running towards her.
Logan slid to a knee next to her. He said, “This is going bad. We need you to get the Dragunov and even it up.”
Sydney replied, “If I start shooting Brothers, our cover is blown.”
Logan replied, “Sydney, this is the endgame.”
Sydney sighed. She unrolled her bedroll to expose the Dragunov sniper rifle. Logan pulled his AK-47 off his shoulder.
“Get the tanks and the Humvees,” Logan said.
Sydney laid down on her stomach, flattening her feet behind her. She put the rifle to her shoulder and her cheek to the butt of the gun. She stared down the scope with her mouth slightly open. Logan knelt next to her with his AK-47 to his shoulder.
The Dragunov barked and sent a recoil rippling from Sydney’s shoulder through her body. Logan watched the force roll through her body. Her butt jiggled like the surface of a pond. He couldn’t help but think how beautiful she looked. It wasn’t a great moment to be preoccupied with the shape of her bottom, but he found that he thought about her body every time they faced death together. He turned his attention back to his rifle. He swept the scene, watching to see if anyone would notice shots from the top of the storage container going the wrong way. The chaos of the overlapping and never-ending bullets covered her firing.
Sydney aimed at the next tank gunner. She sighted him and pulled the trigger. His head whipped sideways, and he slumped dead on the gun. She turned her attention to the men shooting the mounted guns on
the Humvees. She fired faster. One by one, they dropped. She fired ten shots. Ten shots, ten dead soldiers. The bolt locked back on the Dragunov. She dropped the magazine out and shoved a new one in. She sent the bolt forward and lined up again.
Logan couldn’t hear what the soldiers were saying. The Jordanians were ducking their heads and sweeping their guns from side to side. One of them shouted something and pointed up at the container.
Sydney cursed and slid backward. The Jordanian soldiers turned their attention to the container. They started firing clouds of bullets at them. Logan ducked down. The shots all flew over their heads or slammed into the sides of other containers. They had the higher ground. Logan lifted his AK-47 over his head and fired a few shots at the Jordanian soldiers on the other container. Some of them must have ducked for cover because the firing slowed down.
Logan heard yelling off to the side. He peeked over the edge of his container to see a Brother climbing up the ladder. He tucked his head back in when another volley of shots rained down. Logan shouted at Sydney, “Sydney, AK. Now.”
Sydney dropped her sniper rifle and picked up the AK-47 she took from the Brother in the desert. The Brother’s head poked up over the edge of the container as he climbed up the ladder. Logan dropped him with one shot to the side of the head. Another Brother came up right after him. This Brother lifted his AK-47 and shot blindly at them. Logan scrambled on all fours, trying to get out of the line of fire. Sydney stayed calm in the eye of the bullet storm. She sighted the AK-47 and squeezed the trigger. The bullet she fired ripped through the Brother’s hand. He dropped his AK-47 as his blood spattered on the rifle.
Logan leaned over the edge of the container. Three Brothers down below were aiming up at him. They shot a few bullets at each other before Logan sank back onto the roof. They were trapped up on an island.
Sydney shouted behind him, “Logan. We have a problem.”
Logan looked where she was pointing. A Jordanian soldier hopped back on the 105mm gun. He swung the gun around to face them. There was no way he could hit them with that massive gun. The angle was all wrong. He wasn’t aiming at them, though. The soldier tilted the weapon down. Sydney fired at him, but the bullets bounced harmlessly off the shield in front of the soldier. The tank gun barked. An exploding round hit the container they were on. The doors ripped off, and fire burst into the container.
East of the Jordan (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 2) Page 15
