Pirate Alley: A Novel (39 page)

Tarkington had enough military power at his command to wipe this corner of Africa off the map. If anything happened to the hostages, he intended to use it. He had told all his superiors that, and none of them said no.

Yet, if anything happened to the hostages, he and Grafton had lost.

Tarkington didn’t intend to lose.

Just now he watched a small green spot moving on an infrared image captured by a drone over Eyl. There were plenty of other green spots, some of them moving, but the computer techs said this one was Tommy Carmellini crawling for Ragnar’s lair. Jake Grafton was in there.

Toad tried to see the telltale traces of SEALs crawling up onto the beach. Nothing. Since they were wearing wet suits, which were indeed wet, their forms should be colder than the sand still warm from the sun. As the water dried, the cold signature would disappear. As the heat of the men’s bodies slowly exceeded the temperature of the cooling sand, they would again become visible in infrared. But not yet.

Tarkington hoped the Shabab didn’t have night-vision or infrared technology. He and Grafton had made this plan assuming that they didn’t. Watching Carmellini creep along, Toad crossed his fingers.

“Thirty minutes, Admiral. Battlestar”—the
United States
—“is launching aircraft.”

“Thank you.” Toad arose from his chair and went to the head. There wouldn’t be time later.

*   *   *

Yousef el-Din had spent most of the afternoon and evening in conversation via shortwave with his colleagues in southern Somalia, who of course knew his plans quite well. They informed him about media coverage of the
Sultan
hostage incident, and the fact that the two hundred million in cash was on its way to the task force via air. That fact had been splashed across every newscast in the world.

Ragnar’s shortwave radio was in shambles, so the Shabab had transported theirs from West Eyl to the lair and lugged it to the penthouse, where the reception would be better due to the height, and the fact that, unlike East Eyl, the beach town didn’t sit in a river valley surrounded by rimrock hills.

When he wasn’t chattering to his colleagues, Yousef el-Din prayed on his regular schedule. He normally prayed five times a day, unless he was in combat.

Yousef was deeply devout. He knew that he and his men would need Allah’s help after they had the money and killed the hostages. Still, the Shabab’s friends all over the Muslim world would grow in prestige and power, and Allah be praised, the final battle between good and evil would be one giant step closer.

Yousef did not think he would survive the wrath of the allied task force. To go to Paradise as a martyr, with the blood of infidels on his hands, after having fought Allah’s war against the nonbelievers … well, it was heady stuff for Yousef el-Din. He could feel the Prophet’s spiritual presence, giving him strength for the days ahead.

When he finished praying, he thought again about the money. Two truckloads of currency. He would have his men hide it in the desert, at a place known to his Shabab colleagues in the south. If he didn’t live, they would find it and use it to fund jihad.

Allah akbar.

But the Americans! After he blew up the fortress, or machine-gunned the hostages, they would be outraged, naturally, and would lash out, like snakes. One of the places they would storm was this building—and the basement was full of explosives! He had inspected the weapons treasure trove earlier this afternoon.

The weapons were tempting, enough to outfit hundreds of men, but with two hundred million dollars the Shabab could buy a shipload. Perhaps even several nuclear warheads. The North Koreans were a reliable source, and of course there were the Bulgarians. And these days the Iranians were anxious to tangibly assist anyone who was the enemy of their enemies, of whom they had many.

After his evening prayer, Yousef gathered his lieutenants and issued orders. They must be ready for tomorrow.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO

I managed to reach the back corner of the building without being seen. I had crawled the whole way, taking advantage of every shadow, every turned head, and eventually I reached the corner of the building on the dark side, away from the fire in the plaza.

I had my headset on, so I could hear reports from everybody involved in this operation, if they were on my freq. I thought the SEALs were, but they hadn’t said much. A few minutes earlier I had heard Willis Coffey say that he was in position. I triggered the mike. “Tommy going in.” I got a Roger.

I took one more quick look around, then began free-climbing the building.

I had studied that building since I arrived in Eyl, and knew precisely how it could be done. During my college years I was a rock climber, which was the perfect sport for a guy who aspired to burglary. I had an interesting youth, one that I tried to avoid discussing in polite company. Of course Jake Grafton knew—he knew everything. The thought occurred to me a few years ago that he had spent so much of his life around straight arrows that he was amused by bent ones.

I gained the second floor in just a few seconds, hauling myself up by my fingertips. Try it sometime. If you think chin-ups are difficult, this will be an interesting challenge for you.

I reached a window, devoid of glass. Maybe it had been shot out in the excitement last night … or some kid threw a rock through it just to piss off Ragnar.

I looked in, saw no one and crawled through in less time than it takes to tell.

The lightbulb hanging from the ceiling was lit. I reached up and unscrewed it. It’s something in my character—I feel safer in the dark. I pulled the Ruger from my backpack and checked the safety.

The hallway was empty. I checked each room, then listened in the stairwell. Heard people coming down. Ducked into an empty room and waited. I felt naked with all these lightbulbs burning. Should have completely disabled the generator, not just turned it off. Maybe I should ask for a do-over.

Three of them, by the sound. They went on down.

I went back to the stairwell, listening carefully. Went on up to the next floor and eased my head around the corner for a look. There sat a guy on the floor outside one of the rooms. No one in the other direction.

The man was about twelve feet from me, more or less. Chewing khat and looking bored. His rifle rested on his lap. If I didn’t drop him with the Ruger and he shouted, this gig could go south fast.

For a few seconds I hoped he would get up, walk away, or toward me. Anything but just sit there. Yet even as I thought about it I heard someone come into the lobby down below. Two of them, and their voices came up the stairwell, which was a sounding pipe. I heard footsteps on the stairs.

Out of time. I stepped out, squared around and, as the startled guard turned toward me, shot him in the face. He swayed, his mouth opened to scream. I ran the three steps to him, put the muzzle of the silencer against his forehead and pulled the trigger.

Tried the door. Unlocked. Pushed it open, grabbed the AK and dragged the guard inside.

Jake Grafton was sitting against the far wall, watching me. He started to say something, and I put my fingers to my lips, silencing him.

The guard was still alive. At least his eyes were fluttering, though unfocused. I don’t know much about brain injuries, don’t want one myself, and if I ever get one, hope someone will quickly send me along to the next adventure. That’s what I did for the guard. Took his head in one hand, twisted sharply and broke his neck. His body went limp.

Voices in the hallway were coming this way. I left the guard where he lay, tossed Grafton the AK and stepped back out of sight.

Voices. Gabbling. Probably remarking that the guard was supposed to be here. They came through the door together, saw the guard and froze for just a second. I shot them both above the ear. Down they went.

“I’ve got Grafton,” I whispered into my headset mike.

“Roger that.”

I helped myself to an AK, motioned to Grafton, and we slipped out the door.

Paused to listen.

Down the stairs to the second floor. Grafton wasn’t quiet. He was trying, but to me we sounded like a symphony warming up.

I froze to listen some more. People talking in the lobby.

We had to chance it.

Down to the ground floor. A squint into the lobby. Two guys standing there talking, one with an AK, the other with an RPG-7 launcher and a bag of warheads over his shoulder, looking out into the plaza. Fortunately the window glass was long gone, so there would be no reflections.

I could just hear the hum of the generator in the basement.

I motioned to Grafton. I wanted him to step through the door, then turn left and go down the stairs to the basement armory. When I saw that he understood, I checked the guys, then gave him a nudge. He went. When he had made it, I followed. The diesel generator was louder here.

Going down was going to be iffy. Someone in the basement was going to get another free shot at our legs.

Well, we couldn’t stay here, and the noise helped mask our footsteps.
Suck it up and do it, Tommy.

I led off, the Ruger in my right hand and the AK in my left.

Thank God the room was empty. We cleared the stairs and I walked over for a look into the other room. Just piles and piles of weapons.

Grafton didn’t say anything. Just stood and looked.

He wandered into the other room.

After he had had his looks, he whispered, “Thanks, Tommy.”

“Do you still have your pistol?”

“Still do. A little hideout popper.”

“When the shit hits the fan in a few minutes, one of these guys may rush down here to shoot an RPG into this mess. Blow us all to kingdom come.”

Grafton didn’t say anything to that. He started walking, looking at everything.

In less than a minute he stopped and pointed. I looked. He was pointing at a battery. From a car or truck. Wires on the top. We walked toward it. Saw that there were actually three batteries, wired in series. The positive and negative wires ran to a radio-controlled switching unit, then into a box of PVV-5A.

“It’s set to blow when someone triggers it,” Grafton said. He walked over to it and crouched down. I was right behind him.

“This wasn’t here last night,” I told him.

“Ragnar wasn’t in a hurry to get to Paradise,” he replied.

The simplest way to safety the thing appeared to be to merely pull the wires off the batteries’ terminals. Grafton must have thought so, too, for that is what he did.

“Look around,” he hissed. “See if there’s another rig like this.”

There wasn’t.

Grafton, Mr. Sunshine, said, “Well, if there is another trigger unit we’ll find out soon enough.”

With the generator droning monotonously, we hunkered down in the doorway arch between the rooms where we could watch the stairs. Grafton must have been glad to see me, because he punched me once in the arm and gave me a quick grin.

I looked at my watch. Three minutes to go.

*   *   *

Two companies of marines were spread out on the dunes above the beaches, one company to the north and one to the south. They had spent the last two hours getting into position, aided by armored personnel carriers that delivered them to within a few hundred yards of their combat positions.

From where they lay, they could see the plaza and the numerous armed pickups that sat there, and those that buzzed around aimlessly, apparently piloted by nervous drivers.

*   *   *

The guards at the fortress never heard or saw the British Royal Marine commandos. They came out of the darkness like ghosts, cut throats and pulled the bodies into the brush. The whole job took two minutes.

Then they sifted into the fortress through the gun ports. The lieutenant found Captain Penney standing by the kitchen area with his officers and saluted.

“Lieutenant Mick Laycock, sir, Royal Marines.”

Arch Penney’s jaw fell. As the marine held the salute, he realized he should return it, and did.

“The admiral asked me to inform you, sir, that transport has been arranged. Your passengers and crew will be driven to the airport as soon as possible.”

“The airport?”

“Yes, sir. Transports, sir. I don’t wish to be forward, sir, but I suggest you inform your people and organize them as you wish.”

“Yes, Lieutenant … What did you say your name was?”

“Laycock, sir. Royal Marines.”

“Indeed.”

“If I may make a suggestion, sir? You might wish to get your people away from these openings in the wall. As a precaution, sir.”

Arch Penney grabbed the young man and gave him a bear hug.

*   *   *

Bullet Bob Quinn was watching from the
Sultan
’s bridge. Mike Rosen and High Noon were there, too, sharing the binoculars and night-vision scope. Two other SEALs manned the Big Fifty machine gun, one to shoot and the other to ensure the ammo belt fed properly. Quinn had the Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle lying nearby on the deck, but he thought the guys on the beach and the marines on both sides probably had enough firepower. Really, there is such a thing as enough.

Rosen was excited. He could feel the tension, tangible as smoke.

For the last ten minutes Quinn had been watching a boat being launched from the beach. Apparently the holy warriors were coming out again to check the ships and harbor area. The boat was under way now, heading straight for the anchored cruise ship.

Bullet Bob keyed his headset mike. “Vince, do you see the approaching boat?”

“Roger.”

“Take him out when I give the word.”

“Roger.”

Vince was standing on the topmost deck of the liner with an M-3 recoilless rifle on his shoulder. This reloadable weapon fired an 84 mm warhead and could take down anything up to a tank. This one was equipped with an ambient-light-gathering sight, so the boat showed quite clearly on the dark sea. Vince could even see the crewmen. He counted heads. Eight. Fairly small boat propelled by an outboard engine. The exhaust of the engine whispered in the night air.

Another SEAL was on the pilot sponson, actually just inside the ship, waiting, in case the fighters boarded before the bell rang.