‘I’ll take all the help I can get,’ Ross told the major.
‘Good. I’ll have transport waiting for you in Bogotá.’
‘We won’t be late.’
‘If there’s any change, I’ll update you ASAP. Try to get some sleep.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And Captain, one more thing. I almost forgot to ask. How’re you getting along with your new team?’
Ross smiled thinly and stole a look at 30K, who was concentrating on the road. ‘These guys are top-notch. Proud to be here, sir.’
Mitchell cocked a brow and scrutinized Ross, who finally crumbled under the major’s gaze:
‘All right, sir. They don’t hate me that much. But honestly, like I told you, this is exactly what I need.’
‘Very well then. Good hunting, Captain.’
Ross ended the video call and glanced over at 30K. ‘Hal tatakallam al-lughah al-’arabīyah?’
‘Of course I speak Arabic,’ 30K answered in English. He then rambled on in what he called ‘the ancient tongue,’ talking about the weather, the long drive, and even demonstrated that he knew a long list of curse words and vulgar expressions, laughing through them. The GST’s language school and his twisted sense of humor had not failed him, he said.
‘Good man,’ Ross told him. He let his head fall back on the seat. ‘I’ll be glad to get out of this rain.’
TWENTY-TWO
The flight from Bogotá to Tobruk, Libya, was approximately 5,600 nautical miles, with a seven-hour time change. The Group for Specialized Tactics had been issued their own dedicated aircraft and pilots, mostly for Close Air Support, but there were always two or three Ospreys or C-130s at their disposal.
Waiting for them in Bogotá was, indeed, a CV-22B Osprey — the US Air Force variant for the US Special Operations command. The tilt-rotor vertical takeoff and landing (VTOL) military transport was primarily used for long-range missions and was equipped with extra fuel tanks and terrain-following radar, along with other special operations equipment such as the AN/ALQ-211, a system that provided detection against radar-guided threats and the cueing of countermeasures like chaff dispensers via integration with the CV-22’s entire self-protection suite.
During the interminable flight that involved several midair refueling operations, Pepper scanned through all the intel they’d received on the new target. He reviewed the locations of the airport, the warehouses, the connecting roads (both paved and unpaved), along with a more detailed map of the city. After that, he familiarized himself with the broader area of operations. He’d once had a high school instructor who’d taught American history through scandals and conspiracies, and ever since then, he’d been fascinated with the past.
As it turned out, Tobruk was steeped in military history, most notably at the beginning of World War II, when it had been an Italian colony. The city was strategically important to both the Axis and the Allied powers because of its deep water port. You could bomb the hell out of the place, and yet makeshift piers could be quickly erected to maintain those vital supply lines for the desert warfare campaign. Additionally, the escarpments and cliffs to the south provided a natural bulwark against invaders, allowing the peninsula to be defended by a minimal number of troops who, even if overrun, could more easily cut off an attacking army’s supply lines. Finally, just twenty-four kilometers away from the port was the largest airfield in eastern Libya. It was plain to see why so many countries wanted control of the city, its port and the surrounding territory.
Tobruk was indeed captured by British, Australian and Indian forces, then wrenched away by famed Lieutenant-General Erwin Rommel, whose forces held the city for more than a year before they were driven out during the Second Battle of El Alamein. There were a number of World War II cemeteries in Tobruk, including the Commonwealth Cemetery, the English Cemetery, and the French and German Cemeteries.
It was quite a different world now. For some, the port’s strategic importance rested squarely on drug smuggling and terrorism instead of military conquest.
Now weary of his studies, Pepper closed his eyes and turned up the volume on his iPod. Johnny Cash’s ‘God’s Gonna Cut You Down’ began with its heavy downbeat, quivering guitar, and gruff admonishments from the man in black himself.
Less than forty-eight hours later, that same song was playing in Pepper’s head as he raced west toward Tobruk along Libya’s main coastal highway toward a heat haze rising like the devil’s breath in the distance.
The motorcycle between his legs was a Kawasaki KLR650 with single-cylinder carbureted engine that whined like a lawn mower, but its simplistic design allowed most third-world mechanics with limited means and skills to repair it. The bike had been around since the late eighties, and parts were abundant.
Was Pepper a motorcycle aficionado, well versed in the history of bikes from around the world? Hell, no. He wouldn’t have known those obscure details were it not for the garage owner who’d rented him the machine. For some reason, the short, yellow-toothed grease monkey felt the need to ‘sell him’ on the bike, but Pepper had reassured him that it was perfect and they’d pay double to rent it for a few days. He’d been dropped off at the garage, which was just a kilometer from the airport, and was now headed back toward the port, following the exact same route of the motorcycle courier the team had observed arriving at the warehouse office in the morning, about six hours prior.
Although he still wore the ache of jet lag behind his eyes, the old Ray Bans felt sweet, and the dry desert air was a welcome change from that Colombian rainforest, which had been like walking through loaves of warm bread. He eased on the throttle, checked his rearview mirror, and watched as a truck shimmered up from the black plains behind him.
Ross sat at a small desk, studying satellite images of the warehouses.
Their contact, Darhoub, had provided the basement of an old Italian church within which they’d set up a small command post. The church had peeling plaster walls, a single spire, and was only a five-minute drive from the pier and the Fadakno complex. Once their satellite dish was safely concealed behind the spire, Ross had established communications with Mitchell and had received another set of intel files.
A knock came at the door.
‘Come on in.’
‘Here he is, sir,’ said one of the NLA troops, a lieutenant who escorted the lean, broad-shouldered man into the basement. He was about Ross’s age, had wavy, coal-black hair, a week’s worth of beard, and wore a T-shirt beneath a dress shirt stained near the buttons. Dust rose up his black pants to the knees, and a cheap Casio watch hung loosely around his wrist. He looked like one of Darhoub’s NLA soldiers out of uniform, but when he opened his mouth, his English was perfect, that of a native speaker, with a slight Southern accent. ‘Captain Ross, nice to meet you, sir. I’m Captain Abdul Maziq, ISA.’
Ross turned away from the desk, rose and shook hands. ‘Good to see you, Captain.’
‘I’ve just put three observers on the warehouses in addition to Darhoub’s men. My local contacts here in Tobruk tell me the warehouses have been here for about five or six years. Trucks come back and forth from the airport; some parts are shipped in and offloaded at the dock, but there are always a number of motorcycle couriers making the airport run. Could be delivering company mail or small parts orders to other customers … or at least that’s what they want us to believe.’