Choke Point

TWENTY-THREE

Kozak and 30K had established an observation post on the roof of an old British aircraft hangar at Tobruk Airport. They had donned NLA desert fatigues and were carrying the same weapons as those local troops: AK-47s and Russian TT-30 pistols. The hangar beneath them had been buffeted so severely by the wind and sand that most of its surfaces had been worn smooth, while a thick layer of sand had caked along its sides, allowing it to vanish into the landscape, as though it were some desert animal’s burrow rather than a World War II storage facility.

Tobruk Airport was one of many small, third-world airstrips Kozak had visited during his travels. The single main terminal was a meager rectangular box, and of course, if you took a commercial or business-class flight, you had to disembark via roll-up stairs and hike your butt across the tarmac to get out of the heat. Apparently, there had been plans for a big renovation and modernization of the airport before the civil war. Now it might take years before that project was put back on the table. The Libyans had more important things to consider first — such as rebuilding and reinforcing their government.

For his part and much to his satisfaction, Kozak was operating the drone crawler and had flown it over to the end of the runway, where several emergency vehicles were parked. The drone was parked atop the cab of a fire truck, and from there he watched close-up images of the incoming flights, while 30K checked them against the terminal data being sent from Fort Bragg. Analysts there had ‘accessed’ the terminal’s system and drawn the flight data because, wouldn’t you know, that data wasn’t available on the web, even though it should be public knowledge. Third-world airport to be sure.

‘Can’t we just leave the drone, have its signal sent to the web, and pick it up from there? This way we can go back to the church and cool off?’ asked 30K.

‘And if something goes down?’ Kozak challenged. ‘Our response time would be like what? Twenty minutes? Nah. We gotta be here. Come on, you know you love it. You just like to bitch and moan to pass the time.’

‘Yeah, well, even my sweat is sweating right now.’

A dark brown bird with a pale red neck wheeled overhead. Was it a vulture? Yes, it was, waiting for them to keel over.

‘We ain’t dead yet,’ 30K grunted while hoisting his middle finger at the vulture, giving the bird the bird as it were.

Kozak blinked sweat out of his own eyes. ‘Whew. Yeah, you’re right. It’s hot. Ten million sunblock ain’t enough. But if you can’t take the heat —’

‘Hey, remember how I said I’d find Admiral Nimitz’s baggage?’

‘His name’s Ross.’

‘Yeah, well, I found it.’

Kozak’s eyes never left the remote’s screen. ‘It’s his son.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Pepper found out. Just drop it.’

‘What happened?’

‘You told me you knew.’

‘Sounded like a bad divorce.’

Kozak shifted over and slapped a palm on 30K’s shoulder. ‘His little boy died. I don’t know how, but I’m asking you as a friend and a colleague to let this go.’

‘I’ll let it go if I’m sure his head’s clear.’

‘Are you serious? You think Mitchell would have given him a Ghost Team if he was a basket case? Come on, dude, get real. Ross is as squared away as they come. He’s just had bad times — like everyone here.’

‘I’m not so sure. Some guys hide it good. But then, when it all goes to hell, they lock up because they weren’t clear.’

‘It kinda went to hell back in Colombia, and as far as I’m concerned, the captain rocked it. Maybe I should be worried about you. Maybe you’re, like, OCD about Ross. Paranoid. Maybe you’re going to spend more time watching him instead of keeping your eyes on the primary target.’

30K spoke through his teeth. ‘We’re trusting that man with our lives. I want to know — I deserve to know — that his head is in the right place.’

‘I could say the same thing of you.’

The sound of plane engines drew Kozak’s attention skyward, and there it was, a medium transport with high-mounted wings, boxy fuselage, and a conventional tail. As the drone recorded its final approach, those images were automatically sent to one of the GST’s aircraft databases, which automatically scanned them until a match was found, the file displayed in Kozak’s HUD:

‘I’ve seen those planes in Afghanistan,’ said Kozak. ‘I think Blackwater used them for dropping cargo.’

‘Yep, looks familiar to me, too. We might want to get down there and put a tracker on it.’

‘Why?’

‘’Cause it ain’t on the list. No flight plan filed. Just came in. Landed. Just like that. And you don’t see security rushing out to meet the plane, do you? Like they’ve all been paid off and know about it.’

‘Well, that’s red flag city right there. I’ll call it in.’ After a few words with Ross, Kozak received permission to move in and plant a GPS tracker, along with a listening device (if they could get inside the cabin).

They crawled back to the edge of the hangar’s roof and descended a rusting maintenance ladder clinging to the hangar’s side wall by only three of the original twenty bolts.

Below lay their dust-covered Tacoma pickup truck, and with sighs of relief to be out of the sun, they both plopped into the cab, wincing over hot seats. Of course there was no air-conditioning, the unit having died some years ago, according to one of the NLA troops who’d loaned them the ride.

They’d counted a total of six airport security guards near the terminal, and several more near the main parking field. Before the war, the Army had a detachment here, but now, with everything in transition, a private firm had taken over, at least temporarily, but they were poorly staffed and probably even more poorly trained.

Nevertheless, Kozak and 30K had still chosen a stealthy approach, coming in from the south, along a low-lying dirt road with the old British hangar and a few scattered fig trees shielding them from view.

As they followed the same path out, Kozak recalled the drone while 30K steered them toward a row of seven Quonset-shaped hangars situated on the north side of the runway. The hangars were large enough to house medium-size aircraft like the C-212, were constructed of aluminum, and were, like the old British hangar, heavily weathered by the sun and sand. The C-212 was already taxiing along a road leading out to them, and its pilot would, they assumed, pull inside one of the hangars or park in the lot behind.

‘That security team will see us now,’ said Kozak. ‘No way around it.’

‘I’m not worried about them.’

‘Well, let’s see what they do.’

After a few seconds, 30K blurted out, ‘Hey, before we leave this country, remind me to get us some magrood.’

‘What is it? Libyan whiskey or something?’

‘No, you Cossack. It’s a date-filled cookie. They’re so good. Probably the only good thing in this whole shitty sandbox.’

‘You’ve been here before?’

‘Been to Tripoli a couple of times. Got ’em in the airport. Hey, look, he’s turning inside.’

The C-212 slipped into the last hangar on the right, and 30K veered suddenly off the road to park beside the first hangar. Whether it was the time, the heat of the day, or even the day of the week, Kozak wasn’t sure, but the place looked dead. No activity at all, all the other hangar doors shut tight, no cars around, nada.

He and 30K were about to get out when a black airport security jeep rolled up and out hopped the puppy patrol. They must have been waiting for them behind one of the hangars to launch their ‘ambush.’

The fatter guard with a button missing at his navel shook his head, three chins wagging, and said, ‘Who did you piss off to get assigned here?’

‘No one,’ said 30K in Arabic. ‘Mohammed Darhoub, military advisor of Transitional Council, asked us to come out here and observe you. So far your security is bullshit and your men are filthy whores. We were up on that old hangar all day, and not one of your stupid bastards spotted us. What kind of sorry-ass shit is that?’

The fat man’s eyes grew glassy, and he regarded his partner, a guy who looked like he hadn’t eaten in a month. ‘We got no reports of this?’ he cried.

‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said 30K. ‘You guys look like you’re trying your best, and it’s really hot out here, so why don’t you head back? I’ll tell our boss you picked us up at the hangars and were right on it. But you can’t tell anyone we were here or that I’m cutting you a favor, okay?’

The fat man rolled his eyes. ‘Okay. Just promise me. Don’t say shit.’

30K smiled. ‘Get out of here.’

They climbed into their vehicle and, with a fart of exhaust, rumbled off.

‘Dude, that was crazy,’ Kozak told him.

‘You spend enough time in bars, talking to people, bullshitting, practising how to intimidate people, and it all pays off.’

‘I thought you did most of your negotiating with your fists.’

A gleam came into his eyes. ‘Sometimes the negotiations break down. Let’s roll.’

Kozak followed 30K along a path behind the hangars. They kept tight to the walls and avoided the windows mounted within a few of the back doors. When they reached Hangar 7, the sound of a diesel engine rumbled past the thin walls, and before they could react, the vehicle pulled out — a nondescript twenty-four-foot-long cargo truck, not unlike a U-Haul rental.

Out of reflex, Kozak reached into his holster and let fly the drone. He immediately got the bird in place behind the truck to get a tag number and description, sending real-time video back to Ross.

The words Al jamahiriya, which were used by Gaddafi to refer to Libya and to argue for his ideologies, were embedded on all vehicle registration plates, and they were present on this truck’s tag as well.

‘Good work, Kozak. Keep that intel coming,’ said Ross.

Before the driver or anyone else was the wiser, he recalled the drone, then he and 30K shifted furtively to the front of the hangar, whose main doors had been left open. Kozak peered around the corner, holding his breath.

Inside lay the plane, and along the left wall were parked four more cargo trucks identical to the first.

Suddenly, voices echoed from inside, and from the corner of his eye Kozak spotted an airplane mechanic in greasy coveralls striding across the hangar toward the airplane, with a second mechanic in tow. Kozak gave 30K the hand signal, and they fell back behind the open doors.

‘We’re putting a lot of time into this hangar,’ Kozak said. ‘You sure about this?’

‘They got the plane, the trucks, no flight plan, come on, dude, what do you need? A sign that says, “We Smuggle Cocaine for Less”?’

‘Okay, you’re right.’

‘Of course, I’m right. Now they’ll track that truck with the satellite. If it arrives at the warehouse, bingo, we’re good to go,’ said 30K.

‘What now?’

‘Can you get the crawler in there so we can eavesdrop?’

Kozak hoisted his brows. ‘I got a better idea.’