Task Force Desperate (21 page)

Fortunately, the drive was short; around the corner, head south a hundred yards, turn again, and drive three hundred yards to the ocean. Danny was in Jim’s truck, already on his sat phone, and I could already see the plume of spray in the dying light as the hovercraft came in toward the beach.

The tanks took the main points of the perimeter. One of the T-62s rumbled past us toward the south, its squeaking treads throwing up small rooster-tails of sand as it went by. The commander was up out of the hatch, without a helmet, his hands on the spade grips of the DShK mounted on the cupola. We stopped our trucks high on the beach, and started unloading gear from the 3-ton. Getting the boats onto the hovercraft was going to be a bitch. I just hoped there was room.

The AP.1-88 hove into view, spray jetting out from underneath its black skirts. The hull was painted a standard white and red, and from a distance, it might be mistaken for a US Coast Guard craft. It drove up onto the beach easily, the saltwater spray being briefly replaced by sand before it grounded, the fans turning just enough to keep the skirt inflated without bringing the vehicle off the ground.

By the time it stopped moving, we already had most of the gear staged within a few yards. We first escorted, or in some cases carried, the hostages on board. Danny frog-marched Ali Mustapha up the ramp and aft. Mustapha was flex-cuffed, blindfolded, and gagged. We got a few looks from the Ethiopians about that, but I didn’t care, and I was pretty sure Danny didn’t, either. The kid had been hobnobbing with assholes who murdered Americans and took hostages. Fuck him. Once most of the hostages and our “guest” were aboard, we started hoisting the gear aboard. Several of the hostages came back down to the beach to help. When we tried to wave them off, they insisted, so we finally let them carry some of the lighter stuff.

The boats, as expected, were the hardest part. The AP.1-88 is a passenger craft, and wasn’t designed to carry a lot of cargo. It’s primarily a ferry. There wasn’t a hold or well deck to secure the boats and engines, so we wound up having to hoist them up onto the roof, and lash them down.

By the time we finished, it was full dark, and the Ethiopians were getting very nervous. I saw a couple pairs of ancient AN/PVS 7B night vision goggles, and the tanks had night sights, but for the most part, they had no night vision capability. They would have to rely on the tanks’ searchlights, and those were vulnerable to small arms fire. They were at a disadvantage at night, and they knew it. I thought about pointing out to the captain that he could let his men know that the rebels didn’t have any NVGs, either, but given how they’d just fucked our plans up, I wasn’t inclined to throw them a bone. Apparently, neither was anyone else.

Of course, I realized I was assuming the rebels didn’t have night vision. Certainly we hadn’t seen any sign of any, but we hadn’t seen any sign of the number of Type 63s they had, either.

Alek was the last man on. He stared at the Ethiopian captain, who was standing at the front of his Humvee, illuminated by the headlights, for a moment, then turned and stalked up the ramp. Two of the crew dragged the ramp back up and secured it. Then the deck started to vibrate harder, and the fans increased their turns until there was a howling scream coming from below us. I felt the whole craft wobble slightly, as the air pressure pushed the skirts up above the sand. Wind started to whip around us as the propellers mounted on the back went into reverse, pulling the vehicle off the beach.

I turned and ducked into the passenger compartment, to get out of the wind and spray. The place had been pretty well split, with the hostages forward, and the Praetorian operators aft with their gear. Most of the hostages looked quite a bit better, as the coast of Djibouti receded behind us. They were still in shorts and T-shirts; we hadn’t had extra clothing for them. Fortunately, it was hot enough not to matter all that much.

It was a quiet trip. Most of us either slept, tried to, or just sat on our gear, staring out the windows at the Gulf of Aden. It was too noisy to talk much, even if we’d been inclined to. I know I wasn’t.

I kept thinking of that Ethiopian captain, and wanting to punch him in the face. Sure, he’d tipped us off about Balbala, but then he’d turned right around and screwed us. Taking our trucks was going to put a serious damper on the operation, especially if we had to go inland to Baardheere. He had to know that, but didn’t care. He just wanted us out of his hair. Which begged the question in my mind, why had he even helped us in the first place?

I never did find out the answer to that question.

Turning from my reverie, I looked out the port, and saw the running lights of the
Baxley
getting closer. The sea state wasn’t bad; it usually was relatively calm on the Gulf, especially as compared to the nearby Indian Ocean. The
Baxley
actually looked like an island, hardly moving with the swell at all.

The hovercraft slowed as we came alongside the ship. I wondered exactly how we were going to get on; bulk carriers aren’t exactly like amphibious assault ships, they don’t have loading ramps or well decks like alligator navy ships do. My answer came a few moments later, as two of the ship’s onboard cranes swung out over the side, extending out until the cargo hooks were directly over the hovercraft. As one, they started lowering the hooks, while crewmen scrambled up onto the roof of the hovercraft, to where what looked like attachment points had been bolted or welded, I couldn’t tell which.

I watched, fascinated. There wasn’t any sign that they were going to disembark us or the hostages before hooking up. Were they just going to lift the hovercraft, cargo, passengers, and all, into the hold?

A moment later my question was answered as the crew secured the hooks to their attachment points, then climbed down off the spray-slick roof. One of them lifted a small radio to his mouth, and the cables started to pull taut. Below me, I felt, and heard, the fans slow and stop. Then we were rising up, out of the water, swaying slightly with the now-noticeable motion of the ship.

The cranes lifted us more or less straight up, until we were above the level of the gunwale, then started to retract their arms, pulling the hovercraft in, over the deck. The more I watched, the more obvious it became that the cranes weren’t going to be able to get us into one of the holds; they weren’t built with the range of motion to get two cranes lowering cargo into a single hold. But instead, they just retracted until the craft was all the way over the edge, and then let it, and us, down gently to the deck, next to the second cargo hatch back from the bow.

We stopped moving, and one of the crew came back from the pilothouse, and announced, “We’re going to unload now, gentlemen. Once we’ve got everybody off, we can readjust and stow the hovercraft in the hold.” There was a general bustle, as we started grabbing our gear and manhandling it toward the ramp, which was now being extended to the cargo hatch next to us.

There was still some hurried organizing to do, but none of us were planning on staying aboard all that long, so we found a corner of the hold, piled our gear, sat down against it, and went to sleep.

I woke up with a stiff back, a serious crick in my neck, and a sore buttock from lying on the steel deck. I levered myself up to a sitting position with a groan, and several
pops
from protesting muscles and joints. I’d put my body through a lot, between eight years in Recon and Special Operations, followed by this job. You’d think I’d get enough, eventually, but for some of us, it just doesn’t work that way.

I hauled my protesting carcass to my feet, looking around the dimly lit hold. The cargo hatch was closed, and dim green lights provided the only illumination. The hold was only about half full, and most of that cargo was in crates. Usually bulk carriers hauled grain, or some similar bulk cargo, that was poured into the holds and needed a bulldozer to load and unload.

Our corner was a jumble of gear, kitbags, weapons, and sleeping men. Imad was lying flat on the deck, his head barely pillowed by a jacket. Bob was on his side, his legs tucked up under him, his head on his kit, and Jim was semi-sprawled in almost a sitting position against the mound of his gear, his head lolling back, his mouth open and snoring.

My stomach growled, and I stretched before looking for the way out of the hold. I found it around the back of a shipping container, marked with a big green glowing “EXIT” sign. The hatch opened onto a ladder well, which led up to, conveniently enough, the galley.

I didn’t know exactly what time it was, but the galley was pretty empty. A couple of crewmen, or guys I assumed were crewmen, were sitting at a table in the far corner, but aside from Danny sitting at a closer table hunched over his laptop, there wasn’t anyone else there.

Danny looked up as I came in, and tiredly waved me over. I grabbed a couple of pastries from the open counter next to the hatch and complied.

“Dude,” I said, as I sat down, taking a bite out of what I thought was supposed to be a bear claw. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

He shook his head wearily. “Only when I can afford to.” I started to see why the guy was going gray. He squinted at me, his eyes bloodshot. “Is Alek up?”

I shook my head. “Snoring like a sawmill.”

A half-hearted hand wave. “Let him sleep. This’ll keep for another couple hours. He’s not going to like it any more than I do, though.”

I got that sinking feeling in my gut. “Oh, hell. What now?”

He looked up at me without raising his head. “Well, when I said that we’d be getting more support from Langley, I wasn’t lying. Unfortunately, that support hasn’t come in the form I’d hoped.” He swiveled the laptop around so I could see it.

The photo on the screen was of a jovial, bearded African, wearing a woodland camouflage jacket over a white t-shirt. He was smiling broadly at the camera, and had an AK-47 in one hand. “This is Mohamed Al-Jabarti,” Danny explained.

I frowned. I’d heard that name before, though I didn’t recognize the guy in the photo. Then it clicked. I snapped my fingers. “The pirate?”

He nodded, and swung the laptop back around to face him. “The same. He’s become something of a ‘godfather’ for piracy operations out of Harardhere and Hobyo. With the upswing that Al-Shabaab has enjoyed in the last couple years, thanks to Al Masri and his ilk, a lot of the ‘authorities’ in the area have taken to worrying more about Islamists overrunning their fiefdoms than pirates. Gives the likes of Al-Jabarti pretty much free reign.”

“So what’s he got to do with us?” I asked. “They want us to nab him too, in addition to meeting your contact in Baardheere?”

“Nope.” Danny leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. “They’ve paid him a rather sizeable sum, and we’re supposed to link up with him. He’s going to get us into the country, equipped with vehicles, and pointed in the right direction.”

“What?!” I almost came out of my chair. “We’re supposed to do business with fucking Somali pirates now? Have they forgotten just why our company was out here, within range to do their dirty work, in the first place? We came out here to fend off, and if possible, kill these bastards, and now they want us to work with them, trust them? What inbred, soft-headed fucking retard is running things at Langley?”

Danny shrugged, and put up his hands to placate me. “Not my call, brother, and believe me, I’ve already given them an earful about it. They won’t listen, and they won’t budge. They insist this guy is mercenary enough that he’ll help us out for three million.”

“Three million what? Dollars?” He shrugged again. “Oh, fuck me,” I swore. “They really think this guy is stupid enough to think three million dollars is much money anymore? We’ll get sold to Al-Shabaab as soon as we set foot on the ground.”

“What’s this about getting sold to Al-Shabaab?” Alek demanded from the hatchway.

Danny explained. Alek‘s response was loud, long, and profane. The crewmen across the galley stopped talking for a moment and looked over at us. Danny waved Alek to a seat. “It’s not quite as bad as all that, gents. Don’t get me wrong, it’s still pretty fucked up, but we’re pretty sure that Al-Jabarti isn’t doing business with Shabaab. Hell, there was a major shootout between his outfit and Shabaab types in Harardhere just a month ago. Word is that he hates Shabaab with a passion.”

“Maybe he hates Shabaab,” Alek pointed out, “but that doesn’t say he necessarily hates Al Masri and his people. Did anyone think to point out that we’re still figuring out just who we’re dealing with here to the big brains on the seventh floor?”

Danny leaned forward again, putting his elbows on the table. “Look, Alek, I’ve brought it all up. Problem is, we don’t have another way to get into Somalia right now. We might be able to get ashore up here in Puntland, but we frankly don’t have shit in the way of assets there. Even Saracen International got kicked out down there, when the UK government went after them a year ago. We’d have to get transport, intel, everything on the fly, and probably have to throw around a lot more cash than the three mil that Al-Jabarti is supposed to be settling for.”

He ducked his head as he gusted a sigh. “Look, I’m not saying we trust the fucker. That’s why you guys are so heavily armed and paranoid. He’s using this to gain some advantage, I know it and you know it. We just have to use him, and try not to get killed in the process.”

For a minute Alek and I just looked at him. Finally Alek broke the silence, his voice a low rumble. “So this is what we’ve come to,” he said heavily. “Trying to hire pirates to help find our people.”

“Hey, we work with what we’ve got,” Danny said. “No offense to you guys, but if I had any choice, I’d be doing this with Delta, not you. It is their job, after all. But they’re ‘otherwise engaged’ at the moment, or so I was told.” He laughed, a short, sharp bark. “Hell, it’s kind of old school, when you think about it. We’ve used criminals of all stripes in the course of intelligence gathering over the decades.”

I didn’t like it. From the look on Alek’s face, he didn’t like it, and I knew Danny didn’t like it. But it was all we had. I looked over at Alek, and caught his eye. I wondered if he was thinking the same thing I was--was it time to back out of this job? I hated to leave hostages in enemy hands, but this was increasingly looking like a suicide mission that was just going to get them killed faster.