His annoyance was quickly drowned in the flood of concerns roaring through his head.
What happens now? What do I say to the men?
The room he returned to smelled of burnt coffee and mildew. Klausen stood by the bed, speaking Norwegian on the hotel phone. Confusion, anger, frustration.
“He’s working on something,” Davis whispered from one of the chairs by the window. He and Mancini were watching a soccer match on TV with the sound turned off.
Crocker couldn’t hear clearly over the guttural sounds coming from Klausen’s mouth.
“What did you say?”
“Klausen is trying to get us to Oman.”
He wanted to change into shorts and go for a long run, but instead waited on the Norwegian, who slammed down the phone.
“Corruption,” Klausen snorted. “With all the other things we have to deal with, they add this! Always! Human complications.”
“Who?”
Klausen crossed the pale green carpet to Crocker and took him by the arm. “What do you say we go back to the mountains? It’s so good there. It’s healthy. We climb as far as we feel like. The air is pure. There’s nobody in our way. Here…we have to deal with one son of a bitch after another. You deal with one greedy person, you pay a second. A third one pops up behind him with his goddamn hand out!”
Crocker watched Klausen’s cheeks turn a rich crimson color.
“Davis said you were working on something,” the American said, hoping to turn the conversation in a positive direction.
“Yes.” The special advisor to the king of Norway inhaled deeply and shifted gears.
Mancini punched off the TV. He and Davis turned in their chairs and listened.
“I’ve arranged for a Gulfstream to fly you to Salalah.”
“When?”
“As soon as possible. You’ll land at the military airport. A man from the Norwegian embassy will meet you there. Since you don’t have visas, you’ll avoid immigration. It’s all arranged.”
“Wait a minute,” Crocker interjected. “Donaldson has agreed to this?”
“That’s correct. You have three hours to board the ship and search it,” Klausen continued. “Then you have to get back on the Gulfstream and return to Karachi.”
It wasn’t a lot of time, but it was something.
“What do you think?” Klausen asked, running a hand through his hair.
“That’s great news.”
“At least it gets you there, yes? If you find anything, this man from my embassy, his name is Halvor Reiersen. He’s an ex-soldier who is in charge of security.”
“Halvor?”
“Hal for short. He’ll meet you at the airport. If, God willing, you find Malie, Halvor will contact the proper Omani authorities. He’s a close friend of an influential Omani general. They will make any arrests, or seize the ship, if necessary.”
Crocker and his team had loads of experience with Visit, Board, Search, and Seizure (VBSS) operations. In fact, Crocker had taught the course to various platoons of SEAL Teams One, Two, and Six, and to combat troops stationed in Central America at Special Boat Unit 26.
During Operation Just Cause in Panama, he and his team had boarded and searched hundreds of vessels on the Panama Canal, capturing hundreds of General Noriega’s PDF combatants, weapons, demolition supplies, and valuable intelligence. Everything from large oil transports to carved canoes. He’d also run VBSSs on the open seas, in which he and his men would parachute in and, using cigarette boats, overtake ships. As the assault team’s lead climber, Crocker was responsible for being the first SEAL to ascend a telescoping pole with a ladder attached to get onto the deck of the target ship.
Klausen said, “Of course, you’re to communicate immediately with Mr. Donaldson if you uncover any information that might be of value to him.”
“Of course. What about weapons?” Crocker asked, thinking ahead.
“What kind of weapons do you need?”
“Submachine guns preferably, but automatic handguns at least. Chances are we’ll encounter resistance if we board the ship.”
Mikael Klausen, who hadn’t thought of that, considered the problem now. “This could be difficult.”
“Weapons are necessary. We entered the country without them. I can’t risk sending my men onto the ship unarmed.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Five, including me.”
“I’ll talk to Reiersen and see what we can arrange.”
“All right.”
“Anything else?”
Crocker said, “Get us to Salalah, and we’ll take care of the rest.”
The Gulfstream V loaded with five SEALs landed shortly past one in the morning on a straight asphalt strip along the alluvial plain before the rough Jebel Akhdar mountains. A big half-moon hung slightly off-center in the blue-black sky.
“That’s where Job is buried,” Mancini said, pointing to the rough outline of peaks in the distance.
“Who the hell is Job?”
“You don’t know Job? The prophet from the Bible. The blessed, righteous man who was tempted by Satan.”
“Oh, him.”
“Remember the story of how God tested Job’s faith by taking away his children, wealth, and health?”
“I didn’t pay attention in Sunday school,” Crocker said. In fact, he’d hardly given any school a thought until he joined the navy at age eighteen. Before then he’d been a bat-out-of-hell shitkicker more interested in riding motorcycles and raising hell with his friends than in any form of study. The navy and SEALs had given him a purpose and goals.
“Where do you find this stuff?” Ritchie asked Mancini.
“I’m curious about things. I read and retain.”
“Read and retain-I like that,” Akil remarked.
They taxied past jets from Air India Express and Jazeera Airways, and stopped before the military terminal. A thick-shouldered man in camouflage pants and a white T-shirt waited outside.
“I’m Hal Reiersen,” he said in a thick Norwegian accent, extending a hand with stars tattooed on the knuckles.
Several French-made helicopters, two British SEPECAT Jaguar jet fighters, and a C-130 Hercules transport all painted with Royal Air Force of Oman insignia stood behind him.
“My name is Tom Crocker. This is the rest of my team.”
The night air was warm and fragrant with the lemony smell of frankincense, which grew in the nearby mountains.
“Let’s proceed to the port.”
“Good idea.”
They piled into a black van. Crocker sat up front next to Reiersen, who was built like a weightlifter and had an undistinguished round face and short, very light blond hair.
“The port is a few minutes from here. There are only two major hotels.”
“We’re not planning to spend the night.”
“Oh.”
There was no one on the highway that hugged the rocky coast stretching west, past a small fishing harbor. Then came a long strip of moonlit beach on their right.
“The Bedouins used to control this area,” Mancini explained from the back row of seats. “It was the beginning of the legendary frankincense trail.”
“Thanks, professor.”
A few miles past the city of Salalah, they entered the port area, which was bigger and more modern than Crocker had expected, with a half-dozen modern cranes and wharves stacked high with containers.
The gate was locked, so Reiersen had to get out to find the person in charge. He returned ten minutes later accompanied by a short man in tan overalls and a round Bedouin-style hat.
“This is Samir, the night manager of the port.”
“As-Salamu Alaykum.” Bowing like a character out of a movie.
“As-Salamu Alaykum. Peace be with you, too.”
“The night…it is beautiful.”
“Yes, it is.”
Moonlight glistened off the whites of Samir’s eyes.
Reiersen cleared his throat. “He told me the Syrena never docked here.”
“What!” Crocker did a double take. Did we land in the right fucking place?