Choke Point

THIRTY-SIX

‘It could’ve happened to anyone,’ Kozak told 30K as they rushed to repack the weapons pallet and get the forklift back in operation.

Pepper had already jumped behind the controls of the second forklift and was removing a pallet, noting, too, how terrible the traction was while bringing the lift down the truck’s aluminum loading ramp, which buckled under the load.

30K’s lift had started sliding halfway down the ramp, and he’d tried to correct it, but one wrong turn had sent him toppling over the side. His forklift’s tires were bald — perhaps an indication that these guys were doing some serious shipping.

They finished with the pallet, and 30K got back to work, his cheeks still flush with embarrassment.

Once they were finished loading the plane, Pepper squeezed the back of 30K’s neck and said, ‘Driving a forklift. How hard can it be?’

30K wrenched himself free. ‘Yeah, yeah, old man. I’ll keep my day job. Pays better anyway.’

They relieved the FARC guards of their Fadakno uniforms and distributed them based on the nearest sizing. Kozak’s pants were pretty baggy, but he didn’t complain and overtightened the belt. The black ball caps helped conceal their faces.

They shook hands with and thanked Maziq for all his help.

‘Oh, I’m not done with you yet,’ he said with a smile. ‘The ISA never sleeps. So yeah, be safe, guys, and even though none of us exist and everything we did never happened, it was good to work with the old team.’

‘You miss it now, huh?’ Ross asked.

Maziq smiled and raised an index finger. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

Kozak climbed into the C-212 with the rest of the team. Four seats attached to the bulkheads were positioned up front, just behind the cockpit, while the rest of the cabin had been stripped for cargo loading. They buckled in, and Ross sat in the copilot’s seat, mentioning how he’d maintained a private pilot’s license for the last ten years. The C-212 was usually operated with a copilot, but Takana said that his employers had preferred he work alone. For now, though, he seemed to welcome the assistance.

They took off without incident, Takana getting clearance from an air traffic controller who was on the group’s payroll. The overbearing hum of the turboprop engines made it impossible to converse without headgear and microphones, so they just mouthed words and gestured to each other. The only electronic communications allowed now would be made by Takana.

Kozak leaned back in his seat and studied some maps of Sudan and the surrounding terrain, part of a map system stored on his tablet computer’s flash drive. Takana had already suggested that Port Sudan was not the weapons’ final destination, and this had Kozak scanning the map and wondering where they were headed and what means of transport would be used.

Once he’d exhausted six or seven proposed routes and his eyes had grown weary of staring at the screen, he glanced over at 30K, eyes slammed shut, mouth open, his snoring almost as loud as the turboprops. Pepper was listening to his iPod, and Ross was monitoring the instruments.

Soon they were flying over Cairo, with the undulating expanse of the Nile River scrolling into view. Pepper saw it, too, and he motioned for Kozak to have a better look. Funny how the tourist in them never died. They traveled the world over on covert missions but never stopped appreciating the sights, sounds and cultures they encountered, along with the food — especially the food. Kozak swore as he realized they’d forgotten to get some of those magrood cookies 30K had promised. Maybe some other time.

Yes, all this world travel was definitely a bonus when the locals weren’t pointing guns in your face.

Near the end of their flight, and with nothing else to do, Kozak had done the math.

The trip from Tobruk to Port Sudan New International Airport was a grand total of 1,036 nautical miles and utilized all but a few gallons of the C-212’s fuel. They were, according to his calculations, flying on fumes by the time they hit the tarmac. When questioned about how close they were cutting it, Takana was nonchalant.

They taxied off the main runway (in truth it was the only runway in yet another small, third-world airport still referred to as ‘international’), and Takana pointed to a group of single-story office buildings with a dozen or so cars parked outside. At the far end of the lot was a nondescript warehouse about twice the size of the ones back in Tobruk, and beside it, parked adjacent to the loading docks, was a tractor-trailer with the images of a plane, boat and truck superimposed over a blue globe painted across its sides. Written beneath the logo in both Arabic and English were the words ‘GSIC — Global Shipping International Company.’

From the back of the trailer emerged a group of men dressed in dark coveralls with the GSIC emblem on their breasts. They were unarmed and got to work extending the truck’s loading ramp.

Kozak was damned happy to be getting out of his seat. He felt like a Russian mafia victim, wearing the four-hour flight like a pair of concrete pants with matching boots.

‘Okay, gentlemen, welcome to the Port of Sudan,’ Ross said, sounding like a commercial flight captain. ‘We hope you enjoyed the flight.’

‘It sucked,’ said 30K. ‘No whiskey? No peanuts? What the hell?’

‘And no hot flight attendants?’ Pepper asked, feigning his outrage. ‘I’m never booking again.’

Kozak shook his head. The lame humor kept them calm against thoughts of a firefight right here, right now.

Ross turned to Takana. ‘You do all the talking.’

‘Okay,’ said the pilot. ‘They usually unload. We just stand back and watch. There is not much to say.’

‘Where does the shipment go from here?’

‘You asked me that back in Tobruk. I told you I don’t know. The port is about ten miles north. Maybe they go up there. I usually just refuel. Sometimes I fly right back to Tobruk. Sometimes I go home for a week or two. They will tell me what to do.’

‘I bet you’ve thought about quitting, but you were just too scared,’ said Ross. ‘You thought if you quit, they’d wind up killing you because you know too much.’

‘I have thought about that.’

Ross’s tone grew more serious. ‘Then just remember, buddy, we’re holding your ticket. You’ll have immunity. Your family kept safe. If you try anything here, you’ll be throwing that all away. And for nothing.’

‘I am a man of my word,’ Takana said slowly, forcefully. ‘I hope you are the same.’

Ross gazed unflinchingly at the pilot. ‘My word is my bond. And you have it.’

Takana nodded.