Fog of War

Chapter Fourteen

After the bone-rattling Cessna flight in warlike conditions, the comfort of the Gulfstream G650 airplane was the right cure for Justin’s sleep-deprived, dog-tired body. Romanov had thrown his weight around and had convinced one of his Chinese business partners to lend him his private jet.

“He’s a good friend of mine,” Romanov had said.

Justin wished he had such friends. He was the only passenger aboard the luxurious airplane with two gorgeous Malaysian female flight attendants completely at his disposal.

Justin cleaned himself up in the spacious washroom. He shaved and changed into a fresh set of lounge pants and t-shirt, courtesy of the flight attendants. He was served a fresh-made hot breakfast — eggs and bacon — complete with orange juice and hot coffee. The Chinese businessman had tailored the airplane’s interior to suit his needs, with extra-large seats and a divan that became a double bed. As soon as he lay down on the cozy bed, he drifted into a deep, heavy sleep, before the flight attendant could even draw the curtains cocooning his bed.

He woke up disoriented by the low hum of the airplane. It took him a few seconds to gather his bearings. A blue fluffy blanket was wrapped around him. Justin raised himself on his elbows and looked out of the large window. An endless field of white cotton-ball clouds and the occasional speck of clear blue. He squinted and realized it was the ocean, the sea to be more precise, and not the sky. The Red Sea. We’re getting close.

He sat on his bed, once again amazed at its softness. Those were probably my best two hours of sleep in a long time, he thought, glancing at his wristwatch he had placed on the nightstand. He smoothed his hair with his hands, stood up, and pulled one of the curtains to the side.

“Hello, Mr. Hall,” he heard a soft, sexy voice. “Did you have a good rest?”

One of the flight attendants, whose exotic-sounding name he could not remember. She was on her feet, a few steps away and smiling at him.

“I… yes, I did,” he replied and stepped out of the bedroom.

“Coffee?” asked the other flight attendant. She was standing next to the galley with a pot of coffee in her right hand.

“Hmmm, sure, thank you.”

“Sugar? Honey? Cream?”

“No, just black coffee.”

“Of course.”

He wrapped his fingers around the white porcelain cup she handed him and stumbled into the closest seat.

“Have you seen my—”

A brown briefcase materialized from thin air before he could finish his sentence. The flight attendant who had first greeted him placed it on the table in front of him.

“Thank you.”

She nodded, smiled. “You’re welcome. If you need anything else, let us know.”

“Will do.”

She retreated to a seat just off the galley. Justin opened the briefcase and retrieved a thick file that was delivered to him prior to boarding the Gulfstream. Romanov had put together basic information about the team — eleven men and one woman — waiting for Justin in Sana’a. Eight of the men were former members of Spetsnaz, the Russian elite special forces. They had worked for the GRU, the Main Intelligence Directorate — the most feared of all Soviet Union secret services — until it was disbanded, its command transferred to the Russian Army. Justin flipped through the photographs, scanning through the files. He did not recognize any of the faces or the names. Most of them had served all over the world. Afghanistan. Chechnya. Georgia.

The other three men and the woman were identified as current members of Alpha Group, one of the Spetsnaz forces of the Federal Security Service or FSB, the main successor of the notorious KGB. The mission of Alpha Group was counter-terrorism. Justin realized Romanov must have greased some serious government wheels to secure such topnotch people. It was an indication of this mission’s importance to Romanov, as well as the level of hostilities he was expecting on the ground. Or perhaps he just wanted to teach a good lesson to the crew who had betrayed him, as well as to anyone else stupid enough to get in the way.

Interesting enough, Romanov had not provided any briefings, pictures, or anything at all about the people who has stolen his cargo. It was not an oversight. Romanov would have had access to information about the people working for him. Justin frowned. Why is this page blank? Who are these people? What is Romanov not telling me?

The Russian government’s implicit seal of approval for this black operation meant certain advantages, at least when the team entered Yemen and in case of any contacts with local police. But when the time came to deal with the cargo thieves and Houthis insurgents, the battlefield was leveled. Everyone would have to prove themselves.

Justin took a few sips of his coffee, then placed his cup back on the table, next to the woman’s picture. Her name was Yuliya Markov. She had short light brown hair that reached her slender neck and hazel eyes that showed a barely noticeable hint of sadness. Her long narrow nose and thick luscious lips would have guaranteed her a career in skin care products modeling, if she had chosen that path. She was dressed in desert camouflage fatigues, but Justin could still tell she had a trimmed body, in perfect shape.

“More coffee?” asked one of the flight attendants.

Justin looked up at the smiling face, then down at Yuliya’s stoic position, her hands gripping an AK. Two beautiful women with two lives that couldn’t be any more different from each other.

“Sure, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He closed the file and enjoyed the hot drink, while lying back in his oversized seat. Who knows if I’ll get the chance to sit back and relax in Yemen?

Justin finished his coffee and gladly accepted a refill from the ever-smiling and always attentive flight attendants. As he was finishing it, the pilot informed him they were going to land soon. Justin asked one of the flight attendants for a change of clothes, and she led him to the galley.

She opened the folding doors of a walk-in closet. Justin glanced in surprise at the vast wardrobe that appeared in front of his eyes. There were perhaps twenty suits of various shades of black, blue, and gray, along with matching shirts and ties. A large number of dress shoes and even a few pair of boots sat on the bottom shelves.

“The casual wear closet is at the other end of the plane,” explained the flight attendant. “But these are much nicer clothes. You’ll look fantastic in a black suit.” She reached for one that seemed quite expensive. “It’s a Brioni. Hand made in Italy.”

Justin ran his hand over the front of the suit. The surface was smooth and the texture felt rich. He tried it on. “A bit snug around the shoulders, but it will do.”

The flight attendant smiled. “You look like Bond, you know the British—”

“Yes, I know about James Bond.” He returned her smile.

She picked him a light blue shirt and a matching tie, a shade darker than the shirt. “Whites are so boring,” she said.

Justin took the clothes, then reached for a pair of ankle-high boots. “I plan to do some running,” he told the flight attendant, as she began her objections.

She nodded and smiled. “Whatever you want. And here’s a belt.” She gave him one she had taken from a hanger at the end of the closet.

“Thank you. For everything.”

Five minutes later, he barely recognized the man staring back at him from the washroom’s mirror. She was right, I kind of resemble Bond. Well, maybe just a little.

The troubles in Yemen began even before the Gulfstream landed at El Rahaba Airport, Sana’a International Airport. The air traffic control tower insisted the airplane did not have the full authorization in order to land. The Yemeni Air Force used the same airport, operating out of al-Daylami military base adjacent to the airport. The control tower claimed the Gulfstream needed permission from the military base as well. Justin was not sure about the truthfulness of that claim, but he wanted in no way to infuriate the air force, whose fighter jets were stationed at the far end of the airport. Some heated arguments followed, but Justin heard only bits and pieces through explanations of one of the pilots. Then someone higher up in the airport administration concluded no further permits were necessary, and the airplane landed safely after a thirty-minute delay.

Justin reluctantly said goodbye to the luxury of the Gulfstream. He was met by a gust of dry heat as soon as he stepped outside. The tarmac surface mirrored most of the sunrays, and the stench of jet fuel hung low in the air. He hurried toward a man waiting for him next to a white unmarked van at the side of the runway. The man was dressed in black pants, white shirt, and a black tie and was flanked by two security officers in camouflage uniforms, AKs hanging around their shoulders.

The man identified himself as a customs officer. Justin glanced at the badge around the man’s neck, convinced he was just doing his job. Justin showed them his Egyptian passport, one of many he possessed that were not registered with his Service. As an Egyptian national, he needed no visa to enter the country. The custom official nodded his satisfaction. They all hopped in the white van, and one of the security guards drove them to the small terminal.

Justin went through another security check inside the terminal: custom officials, plus local police, as well as four men in green Yemeni army uniforms. A metal detector and full pat-down. They ran his briefcase through the scanner, and the security officers made him remove his boots. Finding everything in order, they gave him no further hassles and waved him through after welcoming him to Yemen.

Justin walked through the terminal toward the exits. Crowds of people moved in all directions, with soldiers in camouflage uniforms and AKs providing a visible security presence. Sana’a International Airport had been a battleground as recently as three months ago, when tribesmen and sacked army officers had mounted a siege of the airport, attacking it with heavy machine guns and RPGs. The regime change in Yemen had not gone very smooth. The new embattled government was fighting loyalists of the deposed President, especially those still holding great power within the military. The government was also locked in fierce clashes with al-Qaida in the south and al-Shabaab in the north of the country.

A couple of the flights display screens were out of order, but the place was quite clean. Some of the common amenities found in larger airports were missing, but not the hustles from eager salesmen. Since Justin had no luggage, they bombarded him with offers to find him a taxi or a hotel. Justin declined them in English with polite words.

Outside the terminal, he pushed his way through a crowd of cab drivers, all vying for his business. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun and looked around for his ride. He spotted two white Land Rovers parked just beyond the area reserved for taxis and began to walk in that direction. Most of the taxis were small cars, neat and clean European and Asian models, with the occasional van and SUV, all painted in white and yellow. When he was a dozen or so steps away from the first Land Rover, the front passenger door opened. A large muscular man with close-cropped blonde hair stepped out.

“Are you Justin?” he asked in English with a thick Russian accent.

Justin stopped. “Who are you?” He flexed his arms, balling his hands into fists.

“Don’t be afraid. My name is Grigory. Mr. Romanov sent us to meet you.”

Grigory’s nose was crooked. Broken one too many times, Justin thought. He looked at the Land Rover behind the man. UN was written in large black letters on the hood and on the side. The driver looked like a copycat of Grigory, only he had a dark complexion. His threatening eyes were fixed on Justin. A woman — Justin recognized her as Yuliya Markov — was seating in the back. She gave him a slight nod.

“Are you coming or not?” Grigory’s spread out his big arms and gestured with his head toward the Land Rover.

“Sure,” Justin replied.

“No luggage?”

“I travel light.”

“Back seat.”

Yuliya reached over and slid open the door for Justin. “Welcome,” she said.

“My name is Justin Hall.”

“Yuliya Markov. Nice to meet you.”

They shook hands.

“This is Anton,” Grigory said.

Anton said nothing, but gave a low grunt. He made quick eye contact with Justin through his rearview mirror before starting the engine.

“And this is the lady Mr. Romanov sent us to pick up for him,” Grigory said to Anton in rapid Russian. “She’s to be our leader. Her name is Justina, and she’s dressed like she’s going to a party, not a mission.”

Anton grinned, then looked up at Justin, who held his blank, emotionless face, like he had no idea what they were saying in their language and they were making fun of him. Grigory turned around to see Justin’s reaction. “Anton doesn’t speak English, so I told him your name and that you’ll be working with our team.”

Justin nodded, his face warming up to the explanation. “That’s OK. I don’t speak Russian either.”

He threw a quick glance at Yuliya. Her eyebrows had formed a deep frown, and her eyes had narrowed. “That’s enough,” she said in Russian in a firm, but soft voice, trying to give no hint of her anger to Justin. “Leave him alone and mind your own business.”

Anton drove in silence. Grigory said to Yuliya, “You don’t like jokes?”

“Not when they make fun of women and our friends.”

Justin immediately liked her.

Grigory shifted back to the forward-facing position in his seat. Yuliya looked at Justin and offered him a warm smile. “We’re going to the safe house, which is not too far.”

Justin looked at the white and gray structure of the airport terminal while Anton put the car in reverse. He honked to indicate his intention to get out of the parking area and pushed his way in front of a small Volkswagen that screeched to a halt to avoid crashing into the large SUV. They pulled onto Airport Road, then traffic crawled to a stop because of a heavy military checkpoint.

A couple of tanks — old but still menacing — along with a host of armored vehicles had formed a semi-circle around the checkpoint, bottlenecking the two-lane road. Six soldiers seemed to be doing most of the work, checking documents and throwing casual glances at trunks and back seats. The other soldiers were chatting amongst themselves, seeking shelter from the broiling sun next to their vehicles.

“They’ve increased security since the attacks on the airport,” Yuliya said.

“Yes, but this security has no point,” Grigory said in English. “They searched our car thoroughly when we arrived but did not find our guns in the secret compartment.”

Yuliya shrugged. “Yemeni security, what can I say?”

Ten minutes later, they had left behind the checkpoint. Anton kept his foot on the gas pedal. Even the Land Rover behind them was struggling to keep up. The two- and three-story whitewashed buildings became a dusty blur as they travelled north. Airport Road turned into A8. A few green fields stretched on the left side of the road. They were at the northern edge of the city.

Anton took a couple of right turns, and they entered into a residential area. One-story houses built very close to one another, separated by debris-littered, narrow alleys, with dirt roads in the front. A group of children in tattered clothes ran behind a young man riding a shabby bicycle. Four or five men talked next to a couple of old, battered Toyota taxis parked by a fruit stand in front of small store.

“Our safe house is in there, to the right,” Grigory said.

Anton slowed down almost to a halt to make the tight corner. As the Land Rover turned, the screech of an RPG cut through the air. It slammed into the house to their left, blowing a huge hole in the wall and missing the SUV by just a couple of feet.

“A trap,” said Anton.

Those were his last words. A long barrage from a heavy machine gun sprayed the windshield of the Land Rover. Bullets bounced around the cabin. Justin lowered his head, avoiding Yuliya’s knees and feet. She was sliding down to the floor and digging under the seat.

Grigory mumbled something in Russian, but Justin could not make out his words. “What’s he saying? Where are the guns?” Justin asked Yuliya in Russian.

“You speak Russian?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Yes, but I can’t explain now. The guns. Where are they?”

More bullets slammed into the car. More groans came from Grigory.

“Here.” Yuliya slid a gun toward him.

Justin did not see where it came from but assumed it was from the secret compartment. It was a PP-19 Bizon, a 9mm submachine gun, one of the perks of being a Spetsnaz member. He grabbed it and pushed the door open with his shoulder. He rolled on the ground and flattened himself against the wall of the nearest house. Gunshots rang all around him. The ear-splitting drum of a PK machine gun, followed by the distinctive clatter of dueling AKs. Justin glanced toward the Land Rover, but did not see Yuliya. The windshield and the hood were full of bullet holes.

He sidestepped along the wall. Voices chanted in Arabic, praising Allah and shouting battle cries. Justin snapped open the folding metal stock of the gun. The PP-19 became an extension of his right arm. He scoped the end of the road through its sight. A parked Mercedes-Benz. Two open windows in the houses behind it. A balcony with the door leading to it open as well. Then he found his targets.

A man was reloading his AK on the roof, right above the balcony. Justin aimed his gun, squeezed the trigger, and put a bullet through the man’s head. He dropped the gun half an inch and fired a quick burst, hitting the two men who came out on the balcony. They had no chance to use their AKs.

A barrage came from the left. Bullets whizzed over his shoulders, digging holes in the whitewashed wall. Mini-explosions of dirt blew up inches away from his face. Justin turned his gun to the left and let off a few wild rounds. It was suppressive fire to force the enemy down.

It worked. The barrage stopped for a moment. Justin raced to the other side of the road, seeking cover against a door.

“Right behind you,” he heard Yuliya’s voice. “I got your back.”

Justin nodded, then asked, “Grigory? Anton?”

“Both dead.”

Gunfire exploded behind them. A heavy machine gun rattle, then silence for a couple of seconds. A weak burst of a pistol followed, then an AK silenced it.

“The other Rover,” said Justin.

Yuliya nodded. “Yes, but we can’t help them.”

Bullets ricocheted off the potholed road, flying in a crisscross pattern. Uncontrolled and off-target shots, but sufficient to keep them pinned down.

“I saw two shooters behind the Merc,” Yuliya said.

She reloaded her AK-9, a new model in the Kalashnikov family. Justin had read about it, but had not seen it in action. Its barrel was fitted with a silencer, not that one was needed in this situation.

“You like my toy?” she asked, noticing Justin’s glance.

“Looks great.”

“I’ll let you play with it when this is over.” She grinned.

Justin glanced at his gun. “How many bullets does this hold?” He pointed at the drum sitting between the receiver and the fore-end.

“Sixty-four.”

“I’ve gone through at least half. Got extra mags?”

“No, but you can have their guns. Cover me.”

Justin pulled the trigger, while Yuliya ran in a crouching position. A few bullets kicked up dirt by her feet, but she reached the alley separating the two houses. She checked upwards and behind her. Then she concentrated her firepower on the Mercedes-Benz shooters now exposed to her line of fire. She emptied her entire magazine into their bodies.

A moment later, she shouted, “Clear.”

Justin hurried to her position, while Yuliya covered his advancement.

“The safe house has been breached.” She pointed at the two-story house to the left of the Mercedes-Benz.

The blue gate of the house and one of the front windows were open.

“Maybe someone left it—”

“No. Mikhail’s strict orders.”

There were no more gunshots. Car tires squealed, followed by car engines noises fading away. An angry dog howled and barked a few times and people began to pop on the street. First men, then children and women.

“I’ll check on the second Rover,” Yuliya said, but her voice betrayed her feelings. She was not expecting any survivors.

“I’ll get to the safe house. Meet me there.”

Yuliya nodded.

Justin kept his eyes open, his gun following the movements of the people. Small crowds were forming at each house’s doorsteps. There were plenty of guns still on the road next to the dead men, not counting the ones there could be inside these houses. The dead may have relatives in this neighborhood, and their shed blood was calling for revenge. Other shooters could be hiding behind the curious, innocent onlookers, waiting for the right moment to strike when he turned his back.

Some of the men began to yell at him. A few of the elderly women joined them. He understood most of their curses and their hand gestures, but ignored them all. One or two of the children picked up rocks, ready to cast them without a warning.

A small boy — perhaps seven or eight — pointed his toy pistol at Justin. “Pow. Pow, pow.”

Justin shook his head. A few more years and the boy would probably hold a real pistol, aim it at a foreigner, who knows, maybe him if he came back to Sana’a, and pull the real trigger. It could happen even earlier than that, especially if one of the dead men was his father or an older brother.

Justin gestured for the crowds to stay back. He swung his gun left and right, double-checking the windows and the doors, and crossed the hundred yards separating him from the safe house. Even before stepping inside, he knew Yuliya was right.

The gate showed no signs of forced entry. Somebody let them in. A short, heavy-set man was lying face down two steps away from the entrance. A large bullet wound in his back and the pool of blood around his body told Justin he could do nothing for this man. He was already dead. But the dead man could tell him the story of what had happened at the safe house. He was someone known to the team. One they trusted. They opened the door when they saw him and others forced their way in.

The sight inside the house testified to a fierce battle. The intruders may have taken the team by surprise, at least at first. Two men of light skin color were sprawled at the entrance to the kitchen, bullet wounds all over their bodies. Not a clean kill. A long, indiscriminate, hateful barrage.

They were obvious signs the team had recovered fast. A dark-skinned man dressed in local clothes had a bullet hole where his mouth used to be. The exit wound at the back of his head had blown out a part of his brain and his skull. Another two men had a deadly wound each in the left side of their chests. An expert hand had planted singles bullet to their hearts, stopping them as they had barged into the kitchen. It was probably that expert hand, Justin thought, looking at a blonde man who resembled Anton so much he could have easily been his brother. The blonde man was at the doorway to the hall, in a sitting position. Four or five bullets had brought him down.

Justin followed a pair of bloodied footprints to the next room, finding another dead man, which he assumed was a member of Romanov’s team judging by his camouflage uniform now soaked in blood. Another intruder was dead at the entrance to the second room. His chest and legs were bullet-ridden, blood still trickling out of the wounds. Panic had set in, Justin realized. As Spetsnaz members were being decimated, they understood they could not stop the flow of militants rushing through their safe house.

He stepped inside the last room and immediately regretted it. Someone had thrown in a grenade, which had exploded, shredding everything and everyone inside. Two unrecognizable bodies were on the floor amidst the debris.

Justin heard footsteps behind him, then Yuliya’s voice. “It’s me. Justin, you’re there?”

“Yeah, back room.”

He met her in the hall. “Anyone alive?”

“Yeah, Daniel. He’s got a leg wound, but not life threatening. He’s watching the street. I brought your briefcase.” She sat in on the ground, against the wall.

“Thanks. Everyone’s dead here.”

Yuliya’s eyes almost doubled in size. “No, no, Mikhail,” she shouted, rushing toward the last room.

“No, don’t go in there.” Justin stopped her with his body. She tried to push him away, so he wrapped his arms around her. “Listen, they… he’s gone. There’s nothing you can do.”

Yuliya wrestled one more time to break free of his grip. A moment later, she relented and held Justin tight. He felt a single tear stroll down her cheek.

She sniffled, coughed, then said, “There is something I can do. I’m going to get those sons of bitches who did this to my partners and to my Mikhail.”

Yuliya took a step back. Justin did not try to stop her. She turned around and headed to the kitchen.

Justin followed her. “How did this happen?”

She picked up a chair that had been flipped over and sat on it. “The fat one at the entrance is Romanov’s contact. I’m not sure if he was forced into this raid or did it for the money, and then the people he trusted shot him in the back.”

“Romanov’s money?”

“Yes. For the missiles. Ten million dollars. We kept it here in the kitchen, in two duffle bags. Someone was always guarding it. Now it’s gone.”

She pointed to the empty table.

“How did you get the money?”

“Romanov had it transferred to a local bank. We picked it up this morning.”

“This safe house. Who found it?”

“Romanov’s contact. We got here last night, well, early this morning. The contact was supposed to bring us new information about the missiles and insurgents’ moves. Perhaps Hamidi’s men got to him.”

“Hamidi?”

Yuliya frowned. “Rashed bin Hussein Hamidi. The Qatari arms dealer who diverted Romanov’s plane.”

Justin’s face must have clearly shown his lack ignorance because Yuliya asked, “You really don’t know about Hamidi?”

“It’s new to me.”

“He’s the one who has the weapons now, the missiles, and who’s striking the deal with Houthis insurgents and Al-Khaiwani. Romanov wants Hamidi’s head.”

“Because he stole his plane?”

“And it damaged Romanov’s relationship with the Saudis.”

“I need to talk to Romanov. But we have to get out of this place. The police will get here sooner or later, or the friends of those dead men may decide to come back.”

Yuliya stood up. “Our plane’s waiting for us at an airfield an hour drive north.”

“You’re sure it hasn’t been compromised?”

“Romanov’s contact didn’t know about the plane. And none of my team members would say a word.”

She pulled out her cellphone and began taking pictures of the dead intruders. “The FSB will find out what terrorist group they belong to, but I’m sure they’re Houthis.”

A tall, thin man in a camouflage uniform knocked on the door. “Yuliya, the police are closing in,” he said in Russian.

“That’s Daniel,” Yuliya said.

“I’ll check their pockets for IDs or anything useful, so we’ll know who they worked for,” Justin said.

He found two cellphones, some money, and a few scraps of paper. Some had notes scribbled in bad handwriting.

“We’ve got to go,” Yuliya said.

“This way.” Daniel led them to the first room. He was limping, and his left pant leg was tattered and blood spattered. Daniel used his AK’s butt stock to clear the broken glass fragments from one of the windows, then stumbled outside into the narrow alley.

They marched in a single file for the next couple of blocks, avoiding the main road. They came to large cinder block structure that looked like a warehouse. A crane, a cement truck, and other heavy machineries were parked to the side, along with an old silver Mercedes-Benz and two worn-out Toyotas.

“Our ride.” Justin pointed at the Mercedes-Benz.

“I’ll cover the back entrance,” Daniel said. “You take the front.”

Justin shook his head. “No need for another gunfight and have the police on our back. We’ll buy it.”

He took a bundle of dollar bills from an envelope in his briefcase. “Ten grand. He won’t say no. The Merc’s not worth half of it.”

“I take it you speak Arabic besides Russian,” Yuliya said. She blinked in surprise, her head tilted to the side.

Justin grinned. “I do.”

He gave Yuliya his submachine gun.

“We’re ready to jump in if things don’t go well,” she said.

“Great. I’ll meet you at the back, a block away. North,” Justin said.

He walked toward the warehouse, shouting in a loud voice. Two people came out. One was the owner of the Mercedes-Benz. Justin offered him five thousand dollars to buy the car on the spot, no inspection required, no questions asked. The owner had a sharp eye for a good deal, realizing Justin’s urgency in buying his car. So he upped the price, asking for double the amount. With no time to waste and police sirens echoing in his ears, Justin accepted the offer. Money and keys changed hands, and Justin drove to the back of the warehouse and to the meeting point.

Yuliya and Daniel were there in two minutes.

“Where’s the airstrip?” Justin asked.

“Hidden in the hills north of Amran,” replied Yuliya. “About forty miles north.”

“We’ll take back roads wherever we can. Yuliya, why don’t you drive?” Justin asked in Russian. “I need to think and clear my head.”