‘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.’
TWENTY-FOUR
Pepper pulled up behind the old church, switched off the motorcycle, then headed down the back staircase to the basement entrance. He knocked twice, then said, ‘Delta Dragon.’ The door opened and one of the NLA troops allowed him inside. He passed through a narrow, dimly lit hallway toward an office on the right, where Ross glanced up from his desk.
‘I thought you signed on to see the world, not sit behind a computer.’
Ross chuckled under his breath. ‘Can’t say I mind a little recon, though. More boring but less dangerous.’
‘No doubt. What do we got?’
‘30K and Kozak spotted a small cargo plane at the airport. Pulled in a hangar. Pilot seems to have taken a truck. Might be headed here.’
‘Good deal. Cargo traffic to and from the airport is fairly high, so that’s nothing unusual. We need to see what’s inside that truck.’
Ross nodded. ‘How’s the bike?’
‘Pretty sweet for an old girl. You link up with the guy from the ISA?’
‘Yeah, Abdul Maziq.’
Pepper grinned in recognition. ‘Hell, I know Maziq. We go way back.’
‘Yeah, he told me he was a Ghost.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s tracking down a problem.’
‘What now?’