Kozak charged through the warehouse, arrived at the tractor-trailer driver’s feet, and began to examine him, searching his pockets and coming up empty. ‘No ID on this guy. I don’t see a cell phone around here. Maybe in the truck. No visible signs of trauma, no gunshot wounds, nothing,’ he told Ross. ‘Died with the cup in his hands. Maybe he was poisoned.’ Kozak removed the cup and tucked it into his pack, then began snapping close-up photographs of the man. A coffeepot sat on the desk, the carafe half-full, and Kozak reminded himself to grab a sample.
He had just taken his third picture when 30K shouted from across the warehouse, ‘Kozak! Get out right now! Run!’
30K had cut the combination lock with his portable laser torch, had removed his safety glasses, and had swung open the heavy container door, which squeaked loudly on its rusting hinges. He’d turned and directed his flashlight into the container –
Which was empty, save for two things:
Their tracking beacon … and a 9,600-pound Daewoo G25e forklift sitting askew in the container.
The SAMs were gone. Transferred to another container. And once the crew had finished, they’d left the forklift behind, but the dumb shits hadn’t tied it down. The forklift had shifted on its own, coaxed by the ship’s pitch and roll.
And he’d been wrong. There were three things inside the container …
Their tracking beacon was now taped on top of four or five blocks of C-4 rigged to a motion-activated detonator. The good news was that the forklift had blocked the path to the motion sensor receiver; however, 30K’s flashlight had just energized a photovoltaic cell – probably a jerry-rigged nightlight from one of the ship’s sea cabins – that had cranked up some kind of blinking backup timer.
30K didn’t get an exact count of those blocks of explosives. He’d already gone into fight or flight mode, deciding in that millisecond that yes, holy shit, it was flight time. Get out!
Ross was hollering for a SITREP over the radio as 30K bounded for the side door, then slowed, whipped back, spotted Kozak. ‘Come on, buddy! Come on!’
30K’s eyes were literally tearing at that moment, and his voice was cracking. He could tell Kozak was already scared out of his mind, but that was okay. If they were going to survive – and that was already doubtful – they needed an inhuman effort.
By the time Kozak reached the door and 30K was about to turn back, toward the end of the pier and the water beyond, the explosion came like a thousand lightning strikes and a thousand crashes of thunder all at the same time, his hearing suddenly gone, the night sky turning white. Even though the mass of the five-ton forklift absorbed and deflected nearly half of the blast pressure, 30K’s frame was struck by a tremendous force that launched him like a Wiffle ball into the air and across the pier, the wind whipping so hard that it blinded him.
That he remained conscious was either a blessing or a curse, he couldn’t decide. It either meant he had a chance to live or a few more seconds to contemplate his death.
He thought he heard Kozak shout, but he wasn’t sure. There was no life flashing before his mind’s eye, just that resigned thought that, yes, he was about to die.
Yet as a warrior through and through, he’d taught himself to abandon that negativity and just go on.
So maybe he wouldn’t die. Maybe he’d have one hell of a story to tell those apes back at Fort Bragg …
Ross gasped and watched the warehouse burst into a hundred thousand flaming pieces, the fire and smoke beginning to rise as he sprang away from his position and bounded for the stairwell.
Pepper was just behind, and they reached the street within another few seconds and were racing across the road and down on to the pier as heat from the blast struck like jet engine exhaust.
An alarm blared out near the end of the terminal, a second explosion booming from within the piles of debris, knocking down a small section of the warehouse’s wall that had remained standing. Fires were raging now, the flames six meters tall, the place a powder keg of noxious chemicals.
Ross coughed and waved his hands in front of his face as he jogged along the road, leaping over sections of aluminum, shipping pallets splintered and burning, along with a tattooed arm that nearly sent him tripping to the asphalt.
They reached the back of the warehouse, saw how the cars parked there had been blasted clear across the lot and into the water some eight meters below.
Ross ran along the pier at the water’s edge, spotting a few of the cars in the darkness, a glimmer from a rear bumper, a sudden coruscation from a side mirror as the vehicles began to sink …
And then it began to settle in, like talons clutching his heart, the nails piercing valves, the blood beginning to spill and slowly kill him.
His men had not escaped. 30K and Kozak were dead.
FIFTY-TWO
What 30K saw at the moment might’ve been painted by an artist who’d swallowed some magic mushrooms, a long-haired recluse who preferred watercolors and whose pallet was limited to simply black. And white.
As for the rest of his senses, well, they seemed jerry-rigged back together with electrical cords, duct tape, and a dab of Gorilla Glue.
30K blinked. He blinked again.
A baritone hum rang in his ears.
The sky was a tarpaulin of black with thin gray scratch marks, as though from a cat, and the water, which he felt now on his neck, was like a warm and salty soup. He could finally taste the waves and began to wince and spit.
And then, slowly, his vision returned, the pier growing distinct, the men gaping at him from above in their fatigues and helmets, their mouths working, their words garbled against the hum.
He began to paddle forward, marveling over the fact that his arms and legs still worked. He craned his head and screamed, ‘Kozak? Kozak?’
The problem with being a geek is that you know too precisely how explosives and other ordnance can kill you, which was why Kozak should not have stolen a look into that open shipping container to spot that C-4. He could have spared himself the misery.
But no, he had, and even as he’d vaulted forward, knowing that he might only have a few seconds to live, he’d been contemplating the math, calculating how much force the explosives would produce, how much air pressure the human body could survive versus the pressure produced by the explosion –
And he’d been doing that right until the explosion stole all of his senses.
It was the pier, the descent, and the water combined that had helped to save their lives, he concluded as he swam toward 30K, barely hearing the man’s voice above that sound in his ears that reminded him of the Emergency Alert System.
His mind kept taking him back to the exact moment of detonation. They’d been launched like RPGs, carried by the blast wave, then had drifted out of it to plunge into the water before further damage could be done to their bodies. Had they not been adjacent to the pier, Kozak speculated that they would probably be dead – the pressure, debris turned to shrapnel, and the fires all vying with one another to kill them.
There might also be an easier explanation. The monks back at Saint Tikhon’s would simply call it a miracle and stop there. No need to calculate God’s will.
Kozak sighed as he thought about how they’d tell his mother of his death. The dreaded car, the men in uniforms getting out, she back in the kitchen of the restaurant, coming to the front door, dropping the spatula in her hand.
Ross and Pepper were hollering and pointing for them to swim toward an adjoining dock, where several ladders led down to the water, allowing smaller craft to berth. Kozak saw the ladders and came up alongside 30K, who was talking to him, but again, Kozak could barely hear a word.
They reached the ladders and shakily ascended. Not two breaths after they crawled on to the pier, Oliver was there with his van, and Ross and Pepper helped them inside. Despite the warm air, Kozak was shaking like the misfiring engine of his first car – a 1987 Mustang GT, and he realized that all this shuddering was not from the cold. He’d had some close calls as a Ghost, but ne
ver anything like this.
30K glanced at him, mouthed some curses, then held up his fist. Kozak banged fists, then threw back his head and began to chuckle, softly at first, then at the top of his lungs, laughing like a madman – all the stress coming out.
And 30K was right there, joining him.
FIFTY-THREE
‘They arranged to have the weapons transferred to another container – either in Massawa or while en route to Aden,’ Mitchell told Ross via a video call. ‘They searched the boxes and found our beacon.’
‘We think they poisoned their driver, too. Any ID on him?’
‘Nothing so far. But I’m afraid the weapons could be anywhere now. I’m sorry, Captain. Time to come home.’
Every muscle tensed, the blood feeling as though it had ceased running through Ross’s veins. He knew if he spoke now, argued in any way, he’d regret it. The major was right.
Or was he?
There was something gnawing at Ross, something about that driver that had been strangely familiar, but he’d been unable to make the connection.
And there was a connection. There had to be; otherwise the feeling wouldn’t persist.
‘I understand, sir. However, we’ve still got some skirmishes in the city. Once we think it’s safe enough, we’ll have Oliver get us back to the airport, if you could send us a ride back.’
‘Roger that.’
‘And, sir, what about the cocaine we tagged in Tobruk? Second team find anything?’
‘Believe it or not, it’s still sitting there in that warehouse. They know they’re being watched, and they don’t want to reveal more of their shipping route. They’ll move it, but they’ll send it someplace else – maybe even back to Colombia.’
‘I wonder if Takana gave us up at the airport. I shouldn’t have let him do all the talking.’
‘Honestly, Ross, I would’ve made the same call, and I don’t think he did – not with his family at stake. They had observers and something spooked them. Don’t beat yourself up over it.’
‘Roger that, sir.’
‘I’ll contact you once your evac is en route.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Ross slammed shut his notebook computer, shifted across Oliver’s living room, and went to the window, where below the emergency crews scrambled to put out the warehouse fire.
The F-word escaped his lips three times as Pepper reached his side. ‘It’s okay, sir, we did our best. We can walk away feeling confident about that.’
Ross turned back toward the sofa, where 30K and Kozak were seated and sipping warm tea, their eyes bloodshot, faces ashen. They’d nearly shaken hands with the reaper – and so had Pepper.
And for what? To walk away after coming this far?
Balling his hands into fists, Ross faced Pepper and said, ‘Mitchell’s cutting me some slack now, but they’ll hang me when we get back.’
Pepper took a deep breath. ‘You mind if I speak bluntly?’
Ross couldn’t help the sarcasm in his tone. ‘Permission granted.’
‘I get what you’re feeling. First big op. New guy. Not even from the Army. Trying to prove something. You want it all to go down by the numbers, but with us, it never does. It’s sloppy work. That’s why we get it. Always loose ends. We try to put out fires before they start, but while we’re doing that, some asshole is playing with gasoline right behind us. But what am I saying? You were a SEAL. You know the drill. They won’t hang you.’
A chill suddenly woke at the base of Ross’s neck. ‘What did you say?’
Pepper shrugged. ‘You want me to repeat the whole thing?’
‘No, no, you said I know the drill. That’s it!’
‘That’s what?’
Ross stormed back to his computer, threw back the lid, and logged on with shaking fingers.
‘Sir, what the hell?’ Pepper asked.
‘That guy with the tattoos. Those weren’t just any tattoos. I’ve seen them before. I just couldn’t remember till now. It was back in ’05. We were doing some anti-terrorism drills in Jakarta, and we had a couple of local liaisons to work with. I remember one guy having all the same tattoos. He’d told us about them, but I still can’t remember what the hell he said. It was Jakarta, though.’
Ross dug out his phone and called Diaz. ‘The driver with the tattoos. They’re Indonesian. See what you can get on them. Specifics. And I need it yesterday.’
‘Shit, I’ll have it for you last week.’ Diaz winked and broke the link.
With a rising pulse, Ross called their old buddy Maziq from the ISA and put in a request for a list of every ship that had left Massawa and Aden, along with all their destinations. Maziq said he’d establish the search parameters and get back to him ASAP.
‘Sir, you think we got a lead here?’ asked Pepper.
‘Hell, yeah, I do. The way you beat these guys is through their mistakes. The little things they overlook.’
Ross clicked on the pictures Kozak had taken of the driver. The guy had been wearing that sleeveless T-shirt so they could see how the tattoos came in black lines down the center of his neck, across his Adam’s apple, then spanned his shoulders like an oversize necklace. More lines ran vertically down his arms and across the backs of his hands, while rings encompassed his wrists.
Oliver, who’d been listening to them from his own computer station, lifted his voice. ‘I’ve heard back from one of my contacts down at the terminal. The driver’s name was Shihab. He was a foreman there, but he’d only been working for about three months. He handled special deliveries and didn’t talk with anyone. He might’ve stayed at a private residence while he was here since my contacts at the hotels don’t show any registry under his name, nor have any of them seen him. With those tattoos, he’d be fairly memorable.’
‘Thanks for that, Oliver,’ said Ross. ‘And I’m telling you, I think this guy’s the key.’
‘I don’t know,’ said 30K from the sofa. ‘Yeah, you’re right about beating these guys through their mistakes, but how did they screw up? I mean, the missiles are gone and we’re sitting here …’
Ross held up an index finger. ‘You just wait. And I’ll show you.’
FIFTY-FOUR
A piece of debris must’ve struck Kozak’s shoulder blade during the explosion, because he had a welt the size of a grapefruit forming there. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, strangely fascinated by the wound. After a moment, he rinsed his face and frowned over the commotion coming from the living room. He ventured outside to find everyone huddled around Ross’s computer, with Diaz’s face appearing in one window, Mitchell’s in another. Diaz was glancing offscreen, scanning a report:
‘Those tattoos are Mentawai from Sumatra, Indonesia,’ she explained. ‘They come in three phases. The first takes place during childhood, at eleven or twelve, with tattoos beginning on the upper arms. The second happens at eighteen or nineteen, when they get tattoos on their thighs. The third and final phase occurs when someone is fully grown. What interests me the most are the tattoos on your driver’s wrists.’
Ross nodded. ‘They look newer, don’t they?’
‘Yeah, they do. Maybe a few weeks, maybe just a month ago, suggesting that he’s been there recently.’
‘Suggesting that maybe they recruited him from that area,’ said Ross. ‘And he’s been coming back and forth.’
‘You could be right,’ said Diaz.
Another window opened on Ross’s laptop, and now Maziq had joined the call. ‘Hello there, Captain. I have the information you requested – all the ships that left both Massawa and Aden after the Ocean Cavalier arrived. I used a six-hour window. But I have to tell you, the list is pretty long. I count seventeen vessels between both ports.’
‘Are any of those ships headed for Sumatra, Singapore or Malaysia?’ Ross asked.
‘Checking.’
‘Ross, I admire your tenacity, but this is a long shot,’ said Mitchell.
‘I know that, sir, but if you’ll just give me a chance. I
’m confident they recruited this guy out of Sumatra.’
‘This is interesting,’ Diaz said. ‘About three months ago, Saif Hamid was spotted in Singapore before we lost him. The sighting has been confirmed, so he was definitely in the neighborhood.’
‘I’ve got three ships all headed in that general vicinity,’ said Maziq. ‘Two out of Massawa, but this one looks like your best bet. She’s a Panamanian-registered bulk carrier, Duman. She arrived in Aden at 0623 local time and pulled out at 1420. If the weapons were transferred to another container, they could’ve been off-loaded to the container yard in Aden and just sat there until Duman arrived.’
‘That’s exactly what happened,’ Ross said.
‘Duman’s not scheduled to arrive in Singapore for another eleven days.’
‘Eleven days?’ asked Pepper.
Maziq frowned. ‘She weighs thirty-six thousand tons, and her max speed is only twelve knots.’
‘What’re you complaining about?’ said 30K. ‘That’ll give you plenty of time to heal up.’
‘Ms Diaz? Maziq? Thank you for the intel,’ said Mitchell. ‘We’re in your debt. Now if you don’t mind, I need to speak to Captain Ross.’
‘No problem, sir,’ said Diaz. ‘Good to see you again.’
‘You, too.’
‘I’m here if you need me,’ said Maziq before his comm window vanished.
Mitchell waited a moment, then cleared his throat. ‘Captain, you might be on to something, but I have to say … I’ve still got a lot of reservations. Let me gather a little more intel, and I’ll get back to you. In the meantime, your evac is still on the way.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Ross. ‘We look forward to hearing from you soon.’ He ended the link and glanced up at Kozak. ‘We’re not walking away.’
Kozak sighed with relief. ‘Hell, no, sir.’
The next morning Ross and the others were driven to the airport by Oliver. Before they boarded the Gulf Stream jet that Mitchell had sent for them, they said their good-byes to the old man, who pulled Ross aside. ‘You lost someone close to you, which is why you asked about my daughter. The pain is who you are …’