Pirate Alley

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

EYL AIRPORT

There is a school of thought that postulates the best time for a breaking and entering is in the wee hours of the morning, “when life is at its lowest ebb,” which is a fancy way of saying most folks are asleep or wish they were. Another school of thought, equally valid in my opinion, is that the best time to do a breaking and entering is when they least expect it, regardless of the position of the sun or the hands of the clock.

I figured these airport guards—I’m being charitable here—would be most relaxed right after sunset, at dinnertime. So that’s when I planned to do my scout and see what’s what. I didn’t know how many there were, where they were, or how diligently they performed their guard duties. I needed to find out so I could tell Grafton.

If we didn’t use the cruise ship, airplanes were going to be necessary to get a large number of troops in and passengers out—and this was the only airport.

As the last of the light faded from the sky, I used pliers to pull the bullets from six of the machine-gun cartridges arranged in links in cans in the back of the pickup I was driving. I poured the powder on the ground, tossed the empty cartridge cases in the back of the truck with the others and pocketed the bullets. I was dressed in black trousers and pullover, so to complete my ensemble I smeared black grease paint on my face, neck, ears and hands. Finally, I checked and stowed my gear in a backpack.

The guys and I sat around finishing the coffee until the darkness was total, enlivened only by stars. It was night as dark as you could find in Africa, and it was only seven o’clock, according to the hands of my luminous watch. Wind was out of the west, off the desert, as usual, at about ten knots, gusting to fifteen.

“Don’t wait up for me,” I said, adjusting my night-vision goggles and radio com headset. Wearing all that stuff, I felt like a Martian. Probably looked like one, too, but I hoped no one would get the chance to see me.

“Look me up the next time you’re in town, baby,” E.D. said. He was wearing a headset, too, so his voice sounded in my ear.

I hoisted my backpack and began hiking.

Night-vision goggles are tricky. The more you wear them, the better the experience. If, like me, you don’t use them often, the transition from looking at something far away to something just in front of you, like a path through and around the scrub brush, can be jarring. The neophyte stumbles and bumps into things a lot. Then there is the lack of peripheral vision. That is the corner-of-the-eye stuff you don’t think you use much until you strap something to your face that restricts it.

So I hiked along, staying in the waist-high brush. This place reminded me of Arizona after a wet summer. Normally the Somali state of Puntland was extremely dry; sometimes years would pass without rain due to the prevailing wind off North Africa. I realized I had been lucky the other night to witness a rare thunderstorm.

As I walked I looked. Yep, fires on both ends of the airstrip.

Approaching the airfield, which was unlit, I had a decision to make. Should I go left around the north end, or right around the south end? Eeny meeny miney moe …

I went left. The fire was up ahead, offset just a little from the bitter end of the crumbling asphalt. There would be people there guarding the airstrip, against what I didn’t know. Nor did I know why they needed a machine-gun nest in the tower structure by the terminal.

I took my time approaching the fire. Stopped under a swaying bush fifty feet away and surveyed the scene. Wind whipping at the fire. Three guys visible, one old pickup. The machine gun was mounted on a tripod that sat on the ground behind a bush of some type to make it a bit more difficult to visually acquire quickly. It allowed the gun to be fired by a man standing erect behind it, and he could swivel it in any direction and elevate it as required, all by merely circling the tripod. An ammo box was attached to one side of the thing, and I could see the belt going into the gun.

No one was around the gun. They were over by a fire, cooking something. God knows what. I could hear their voices, and an occasional laugh. The joys of the military life. They were doing the male-bonding thing, farting and telling lies and not working or fighting. While getting paid for it. Welfare in the fourth world.

I sat in the dirt watching. Finally, when I was sure there were only three men, I moved on, between their camp and the vast darkness that was the runway.

Walked and looked and paused to listen. The whispers the wind made in the brush masked sounds, a mixed blessing. I couldn’t hear the bad guys and they couldn’t hear me.

The terminal and hangars were about a half mile south on the east side of the runway. I took my time. When I got there I could see that there was no one in the tower. All the guys were gathered around an open fire between the pickups, which apparently contained food, fuel, ammo and whatnot.

I raised the goggles to my forehead and waited for my eyes to adjust.

Taking my time, I moved over to the tower. There was a ladder, so I went up it carefully, watching everything. Got to the platform and found the machine gun I knew was there. It was mounted on a tripod identical to the one at the north end of the field. Since there was a roof above it to keep off the tropical sun, it couldn’t shoot at airplanes overhead. A couple of boxes to sit on. Discarded food cans underfoot. These guys weren’t neatniks.

I got a bullet from my pocket and inserted it into the barrel of the weapon. Tried to push it in with my thumb and got the nose started in. I used the butt of my pistol to tap the base of the bullet flush with the muzzle. Tiny little sounds, which sounded to me like someone using a sledgehammer on a garbage can. The locals didn’t hear it, though. I got out the stick I had whittled that afternoon and put it against the bullet. Used the butt on my pistol to tap the bullet about five inches up the barrel.

I could hear the voices around the fire, hear the clanking of a metal spoon on a pan.

After one last look around, I climbed down the ladder and faded around the corner of the hangar. Got my goggles down, checked around in starlight and infrared. I was alone.

There was an open door in the side of the hangar, inviting. No light inside. I slipped inside and waited for the goggles to adjust. The only light came through the open door and a few cracks in the siding. Just enough.

The only thing in the hangar was another pickup with a machine gun mounted in the bed. What the heck. I climbed up and forced a bullet down the barrel. Anyone who fired that weapon was also in for a surprise.

The other hangar was empty. Just a few tools scattered around and a couple of cases of oil. For the DC-3, I guessed. Just in case.

Another long walk to the south end of the field. No surprise, I found another camp. The fire was only coals. Time was marching on, and the people here were settling in for the night. No one on guard. Using the goggles on infrared, I located four men.

Moved on toward the west side of the field and started back to our camp. I knew my guys would be alert and ready, so I used the mike to call them.

“Have a nice walk?” Travis asked.

“You bet. Outposts on the north and south end, guys in the watchtower, at least five pickups with guns. I managed to spike the gun in the tower and one in a pickup in the hangar. No airplanes.”

“What about the others?”

“We’ll take them out if and when.”

“Did you leave tracks?”

“Yep. Nothing I can do about that. Dirt is pretty hard, though. I’m betting they don’t notice them. Just in case, we’ll keep one guy on guard duty around the clock. Four hours on, eight off.”

“Want a beer?”

“Sure.”

I had about finished it when Jake Grafton called on the satellite phone. I made sure the others weren’t listening. When I had reported, he gave me a tentative “this is what we’re planning” heads-up. I listened, didn’t say anything. He told me about Mike Rosen’s e-mail, relaying a threat from Ragnar to kill everyone if the ransom wasn’t paid within a week.

“How the hell is he gonna do that?” I asked. “Machine-gun them?”

“If anyone runs, yes, he’ll probably do that. Now, tomorrow, next week. But we think he’s off-loaded tons of fertilizer from a ship he hijacked in September. The insurance company wrote off the ship, which is lying in the mud below the fort. It’s possible he stuck some of that stuff under the fort, or in the old magazines and sealed them off. We’ve got some aerial recon from the navy, and we could use anything you guys can get with the drones.”

“Been windy here today, too windy for the drones. Still blowing pretty hard.”

“Then go eyeball it up. Tonight.”

“Roger, eyeball.”

“Even if we pay the ransom,” Grafton said, “the Shabab may try to kill the hostages. Probably by setting off that crude bomb.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“I don’t know anything for a fact. I have rumors and possibilities. Threats. I want you to check out what is physically there, to the extent you can.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay.”

He told me what he knew about the fort. I had already studied the satellite images, but he told me things the images didn’t reveal. I didn’t ask where he got his information, although of course I was curious. I didn’t have a need to know. That’s sorta the way it goes in the CIA, the mushroom agency.

When he ran down, I told him, “When this is over, I want out.”

“Out of what?”

“The CIA.”

“Any particular reason?”

“A dozen or two. First and foremost, I am tired of killing people.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s at the top of the list.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Tommy, there are eight hundred fifty civilian prisoners in that fortress, give or take.”

I didn’t say anything.

“These pirates are not nice people,” Grafton remarked. “The Shabab dudes are even worse.”

He had a bad habit of stating the obvious when I wanted some insight, profound or stupid. I thought I was used to it, but it irritated me occasionally, like now.

“The only nice person I know is my mom,” I shot back, “and I’m not really sure about her.” That was a lie, but I was in no mood for a pep talk from Grafton … or anyone else.

Grafton apparently got the message. “Let me know how it goes,” he said, quite superfluously. “Good night.” He hung up.

I sat there a while with the phone in my hand, then put it back in its cradle.

Yeah, the world is full of assholes. We can’t kill them all. Even if we could, what would that make us?

THE FORTRESS

The people in captivity settled down to another long evening. Somehow the ship’s cooks managed to prepare enough food to feed all eight hundred fifty people, which was quite a feat over open fires. They even made enough tea to give everyone two cups. Coffee was more precious, and was all gone by the time Suzanne and Irene got to the pots. They took tea and loaded it with sugar, a treat women their age didn’t often put in their mouths.

The sisters found a spot to sit while they nursed the cups of hot, thick, sweet tea. “What is that smell?” Irene asked. “This place reeks of it.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a bath,” Suzanne mused. “Hot water, shampoo…”

All around them tired, hungry, dirty people were gobbling the food as fast as they could shovel it in. Not everyone was eating, though. Some of the elderly people didn’t bother. Merely drank tea or coffee and sat staring at nothing at all, or holding hands, or whispering with someone beside them.

The ship’s crew, men and women, didn’t mix with the passengers. They hung out in little groups, apparently self-selected because of nationality. The Brits in one group, the Indians in another, the Indonesians in a third and so on.

“Have you seen Rosen?” Suzanne asked Irene.

“No.”

“I hope he’s okay.”

“Yeah.”

Suzanne got up to get a refill on her tea. Her route took her past a knot of ship’s officers, who apparently didn’t realize she was in earshot.

“… took her this evening,” one of them said.

“Did they say why? When they’d bring her back?”

“I only know they took her. Didn’t say a word. Just grabbed her by both arms and hauled her off. Her daughter had hysterics. That al-Said rotter was leading them.”

Suzanne butted right in. “Who did they take?’”

“Nora Neidlinger. From Denver.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Unfortunately, I’m not.”

“What are you people doing to get her back?”

The captain came over. Arch Penney. “Suzanne … sorry, Ms.…?”

“Ranta.”

“Ms. Ranta, we’re doing everything we can.”

“Which is nothing.”

“Ms. Ranta—”

“They’re going to rape her.”

The statement hung in the fetid air like a wet fart. “I don’t know, Ms. Ranta. They told us nothing. Merely took her.”

“Jesus, you can’t—”

“Ms. Ranta,” the captain said in his best no-nonsense tone. He could have stopped a riot with that steely voice. “Get a grip. We are doing what we can, whenever we can. The object of this exercise is to feed and house everyone … keep you alive, get you home safely.”

“Remember Nine Eleven?” Suzanne demanded.

“Nine Eleven?”

“They wanted to murder everybody. This Shabab thing is part of al Qaeda.”

Arch Penney seized her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “We are doing everything we can,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “It won’t help for you to panic these people. Look around you. Don’t you see? They’re right on the edge now.”

EYL AIRPORT

I talked to my drone guys, Wilbur and Orville, just to make sure. Those weren’t their real names, of course, but they answered to them. Orv whipped out a pocket device he held up in the wind. It had an analog wind speed gauge attached.

“Gusting over twenty,” he said. “Might crash it or lose it, and we can’t get more of them out here.”

Travis, E.D. and I put on our night-vision goggles, picked up our gear and set out. The best way to get to the fort was to walk since it and the airport were on the same side of the river. I just needed help spotting the people so I could avoid them.

When we got to a little rise where we could see the fort, we used the infrared scopes on the silenced sniper rifles—not the big Sakos—and night-vision binoculars, to check it out. We could see the black presence of the old fort, the roads, the paths, the guards—I assumed they were guards—around that big pile of masonry, and we could see a hot spot that had to be the remnants of the evening cooking fire.

I tried to memorize where everyone was. It was going to be iffy.

“You gotta watch me,” I told Travis and E.D., “and let me know if anyone is close or begins to approach me.”

“Sure.”

We decided E.D. would move around to the north, find a spot where he could observe the north and eastern sides of the building. Before he set off, we went over every contingency we could think of. I put new batteries in my headset and night-vision goggles, we checked everything one more time, then E.D. headed out. It took him twenty minutes to get into position, then I moved. Took my time, checked in with the guys every few minutes.

Walking along in the darkness and wind, under the African stars, I was nervous. Grafton wanted me to check out the fort and leave undetected. Which meant he didn’t want me leaving any bodies lying around. That was the rub.

Of course, Grafton was half a world away, and I was the guy who would do the bleeding if they caught me. I had my Marine Corps Ka-Bar knife, my silenced Ruger .22, and my Kimber .45. If they caught me, some of them would already be dead. If the thing went down that way, Grafton could fret about it and apologize to the politicians.

If it got rough, Travis and E.D. would help out with the silenced rifles.

“You guys see me?”

“Oh yeah. You’re the tall cool dude waving your middle finger.”

“If you lose me, for even a second, sing out.”

“Yeah.”

The town to my right was very dark. The only electric lights seemed to come from Ragnar’s lair. Everyone else was using lamps or candles.

Using the goggles, I could see the harbor between the buildings, and every now and then get a look at the Sultan. She had a few lights on, but only a few. The other boats in the harbor were all dark.

The old fort loomed above me on the ridge, black and massive. I worked my way through the brush. As I did, I realized a sliver of moon was peeping through the clouds over the sea. Still stars above me, so the clouds were only over the water.

“Two sentries ahead,” E.D. said softly in my ear, which startled me somewhat because his voice was unexpected. “If you go to your right about twenty feet, then go straight for the fort, you should avoid them.”

I clicked the mike twice in reply and dropped into a crawl. Kept looking for the two dudes E.D. said were there. I finally saw one on the ground, lying down … maybe asleep. I crawled a few feet, stopped and listened, then crawled some more. Saw the other guy lying down too. Both asleep, apparently.

Of course, if E.D. or Travis missed a sentry, the evening was going to get exciting very quickly. I crawled slowly, like cold molasses, then paused every five or six feet to look and listen.

I came up to the fortress on the western side, the only entrance to the place right in front of me. The road came up from my right. Several pickups with unattended machine guns were parked haphazardly in front of the place. There was no door to the fort.

I counted carefully. Seven men in sight. The trucks were empty. I lay in the dirt between low bushes and watched, relying on Travis and E.D. to let me know if anyone approached me from the back or sides. No one did.

Fairly quiet, except for the constant whisper of that desert wind, blowing out to sea. Then I became aware that I could hear someone crying hysterically from inside the fort. The pirates outside shifted their weapons from hand to hand and looked bored.

I moved around to the north so I wouldn’t have to cross the road. Took my time, spotted the sentries, which were in pickups or lounging near foxholes. Here and there a machine gun pointed skyward.

Slowly circling the building, I could see nothing out of the ordinary. The gun ports were windows allowing entry or exit, without bars or chains, but once the prisoners were outside, there were the guards.

On the southwest corner of the building I hit paydirt. Literally. Found soft disturbed earth. I knew what it was the instant I stepped on it and sank in a half inch or so. I squatted for a closer look. Got a handful and smelled it. Some kind of petroleum smell. Then I recognized it. Diesel fuel. Just a hint.

Crawled to the wall. Found that the earth had been trenched along the wall, and now filled in. There certainly could be explosives buried there. But were there?

I watched for my chance, then stood up beside a gun port and listened carefully. Looked in and saw the heat from living bodies. Asleep, I figured.

Well, if I went in there, sooner or later, I was going to run into someone who wasn’t sleeping … or wake someone up. A scream or two and I would have more trouble than I could handle.

I turned and surveyed the darkness. Three long strides took me into the brush, and I sank down to watch and listen. Finally I returned to the wall, still looking for sentries.

More disturbed earth. Someone had done a lot of digging here. I could hear voices. Sentries.

Then I found it. A wire coming out of the earth and going up the side of the building. I flipped the goggles to ambient light and tried to examine it. Felt it. Insulation for about four feet, then bare wire. It was taped to the stone. It ran up, up, out of sight.

An antenna. To pick up a radio signal. Oh boy. I wondered what freq it was listening for. Thought of all the VHF and UHF frequencies the military used, the freqs the headsets were on …

I got the itch just squatting there. This trench bomb could explode at any moment. I could feel the hairs on my arms coming erect.

It took an act of will to keep going. In the next half hour I found four more antennas coming out of the dirt. By then I had crawled completely around the fortress and could see the entrance. On the left side of the entranceway was a roll of wire. It seemed that one end went into the earth. The other end went off the ridge into the brush.

Eight people here now, all men. All armed. Another pickup. Lights. Television lights. A portable satellite dish. A gasoline-driven generator. And some idiot standing in front of a camera with a microphone in his hands.

I knew the signs. The press was here. I didn’t recognize the media dude, but the mustache looked familiar. He was dressed in the latest safari fashions from Cabela’s. The man he was interviewing apparently spoke some English, because there was no translator.

As I watched, another pickup rolled up and more press people piled out. One of them was a woman. Lights were set up quickly, and her cameraman took his position. Then she joined Mr. Mustache.

The pirate was obviously uncomfortable. Talking to a foreign reporter while the lights shone in his eyes and the camera rolled was one thing, but to a Western woman? In a designer dress, it looked like, with hair just so, a scarf around her neck, dark hair and high heels. The pirate tried to ignore her, but that proved impossible.

I crawled down the hill, hoping to intersect that wire and find out where it went.

In Washington Jake Grafton and Sal Molina sat watching the live interview of Mustafa al-Said. “Two hundred million American dollars, or we blow up the fort and everyone in it.” Al-Said showed the television crew the rolled-up wire, with one end leading into the dirt near the fort. “We have mined the fort with explosives. If the Americans try to rescue the hostages, we kill them all. Boom. Or if we are not paid.”

“Well,” Molina said, “that’s certainly clear enough.”

Grafton grunted.

The camera jiggled and they got a glimpse of the woman reporter, about a second’s worth. It was enough. She was a knockout. Al-Said studiously ignored her, even when she tried to ask a question.

“We are going to have to say something to the press,” Molina said to Jake. “Schulz wanted to make a grand announcement, but the president vetoed it. Still, the reporters at the White House Briefing Room will be in a feeding frenzy in a few hours.”

Grafton sighed. “Get the head of the shipping line to make an announcement in London. They said they would pay. Now they can tell the press.”

“What about the U.S. government?”

“Make no commitment. I’m going to Somali to see Ragnar, and I’ll need some wiggle room.”

They watched the segment until the end, then turned off the television. Grafton was on the phone making preparations for his journey when Molina left for the White House.

Rear Admiral Toad Tarkington got the feed live via satellite on his flagship, Chosin Reservoir. His staff was there, Marine Colonel Zakhem, Lieutenant Angel Cordova, the captain of the ship. All watched without comment.

The technician pushed some buttons, and in a few seconds they were watching the satellite feed of the Italian cameraman. He got the interview, all right, but he left his camera running when he lowered it from his shoulder. It was about waist height, apparently, when it panned the pirates, one by one, then the entrance to the fort, then made a complete circle. It took a few seconds for the camera to adjust to the low light level, but adjust it did. The picture was still there. The camera lingered on the wire coming out of the dirt, then seemed to follow it off down the hill.

Now someone jostled the camera, and it came back to the Italian lady, Sophia Donatelli, who summed up her report in Italian.

“They should have let us take them down,” someone commented.

Tarkington didn’t have much to say. He had a stack of classified messages in his hand, and he waited until the broadcast was over to start reading them. Everyone else wandered out. Lieutenant Cordova was using a cane. The admiral concentrated on his reading.

I saw a man come out of the fort, slip behind the cameramen and talk to one of the guards. The guy was wearing a backpack, it looked like. The sentry led him to a man standing by a truck near where I lay. I crawled three feet closer and listened carefully.

Yes. English.

“… to trade for my freedom.” The guy was like a magnet. In seconds he had three pirates around him. One on either side and the guy in front.

“You have money?”

“Something more valuable. Smaller. Easier to carry.” The guy had an accent, but I was too far away to place it. He was medium-sized, perhaps a hundred and fifty pounds. I tried to guess his age by the way he carried himself. He was no youngster. Nor was he a geriatric.

Two more men drifted over to join the group.

I crawled on.w

Found the wire. Felt it, then saw it with the goggles on the ambient light setting.

Decided I had crawled far enough. Got up, stayed crouched, followed the wire. I am not sure what was going through my mind. I was fed up, and maybe I was looking for someone to take it out on. I was in the mood to break someone’s neck.

Fortunately the moment passed, just as I saw a little building up ahead. I automatically went down on my stomach. A shack. Made of scrap wood and a few tin sheets. I had my fighting Ka-Bar knife in my hand, the one with the seven-inch blade with a razor edge. A surgeon could take out an appendix with that thing.

It took me at least twenty minutes to crawl up to the shack and satisfy myself that it was empty.

I stuck my head it. The goggles let me see just enough. There was a box with a handle sticking out of it. Wired up. I backed out and quickly crawled about fifty feet up the hill. Got out my knife and sawed through the wire. Then heaped some dirt on the ends.

I decided this might be an excellent time to make tracks. Got up and began walking. When I was up on the ridge, walking away from the fort, I keyed the mike on my headset.

Nothing. Not even a click. I played with the controls.

Damn thing was dead as bin Laden. I wondered how long it had been that way.

Found I still had the knife in my hand. Put it back into its sheath, felt the gun butts, drew as much air in as possible and let it out slowly.

About a hundred yards later I started to shake. The shaking subsided after several seconds. Thought I might vomit, but I didn’t. Spit in the dirt a time or two and walked slowly on into the night.