The other man nodded. “The trouble is that they’re about as well equipped as we are, and preoccupied with their own civil war as well as the Iranian situation.”
“I’ll speak to my friend in command of Combined Task Force 150,” Jack said. “But my guess is that they’ll only be able to react if there is an imminent threat or an incident, and what we’re able to tell them now with certainty won’t be enough to justify sending a warship when they’re under such pressure elsewhere. Our own research ship, Seaquest, is getting here as fast as she can from her current project off Sri Lanka, but that will be several days, and I’d only be willing to commit her to those waters with a CTF 150 escort, especially given the increasing threat of air attack from the Iranians.”
Ibrahim sat upright. “Then we have no choice. This is a situation that calls for direct action. I’m going to authorize the deployment of our own assets.”
“How soon can you get us out to that island?”
Ibrahim glanced at the officer on his other side. “Commander Fazahid and I will work up the operational details. My plan would be to send one of the two missile boats based in the northeast of the country, the closest we have to the island. We’ll fly you up with a section of marines by helicopter to join the boat and be ready to embark within twelve hours. I will take command of the vessel myself. Even if we overtake the trawler, we have to work on the assumption that the pirates might already be on the island, and that there could be a showdown. The Badass Boys sound like a joke, but I assure you they are not. They’re hardened fighters from Mogadishu who were involved in numerous atrocities before they were recruited into the gang. They show no mercy, and we will show them none either. With these people, you shoot to kill.”
Jack got up, took out his phone and glanced at his texts. “Zaheed’s outside waiting for us now. I need to update him and get in touch with IMU, and then visit the British Embassy.”
Ahmed got up as well, picking up his cap. “If we’re looking at a submarine pen dug into the rock, it’s going to be at least partly submerged. I’m guessing that we might be needing some diving equipment.”
“Always a good idea,” Jack said. “You can liaise with Costas about that. And he had a point about the possibility of radioactivity. We’ll want NBC suits just in case, enough for all of the marines and crew as well.”
Ahmed nodded, and Ibrahim got up too. “We plan to meet back here at 1800 hours ready to go. We’ll gear you up and feed you in the mess. And one thing before you go. Are you armed?”
“Zaheed is, but we’re not.”
“You need to watch your back in Mogadishu. This place is crawling with kidnappers, and with informants. By now someone will have noticed you and passed on the word, and your friends on Deep Explorer will probably know. If that old fisherman could be snatched in broad daylight, then so could you. The last thing we want is Jack Howard being held for ransom, or, more likely, found floating face-down off the coast with a bullet in the back of his head. On your way out, the corporal here will escort you to the armory and have you issued with side arms and body armor. Only do what’s absolutely necessary in Mogadishu and get back here as soon as possible. Two of my marines will accompany you in Zaheed’s vehicle.”
“Understood,” Jack said. “Thank you.”
Ibrahim gave Jack a steely look and offered his hand. “It will be a pleasure working with you.”
Jack gripped it. “Likewise.”
Costas finished penciling a list of equipment requirements, and slid the note over to Ahmed. “No expense spared. We’ll cover it all and then give you and your club the dive trip of your lives when Seaquest arrives and this is all over.”
Ahmed beamed at him. “That would be excellent. I can’t wait to tell them.”
Costas scratched his stubble and peered up at Jack. “Looks like we’re in it again. Game on?”
Jack pocketed his phone and took a deep breath. “Game on.”
20
Two hours after leaving the Somali naval headquarters, Jack stood inside the heavily fortified compound of the British Embassy in Mogadishu, itself within the security perimeter of the international airport. He was wearing the body armor that they had been issued at the naval armory along with side arms, but he had removed his helmet and handed in the Beretta to the Royal Marines sentry when he had entered the compound an hour before. He looked up at the Union flag flapping over the entrance, feeling the heat of the sun on his face. Like the Somali navy, the embassy had been shut down when the city had descended into anarchy in 1991, and had only been re-established at its new site a few years ago.
Gone were the days when Mogadishu was the most dangerous place on earth, a lawless battleground for rival clans, but the war against the Al-Shabaab extremists was a constant backdrop, and gang violence bubbled just beneath the surface, kept at bay only by the African Union military presence, which meant that large parts of the city were in virtual lockdown. Three times on the way in they had heard eruptions of gunfire, the distinctive clacking sound of Kalashnikovs, and Zaheed had driven at breakneck speed between the checkpoints. Like so many who were now trying to save Somalia, he had fled Mogadishu in 1991 as a teenager to live in the West, but he had been back long enough to know the dangers of travel through a city that was always at risk of another meltdown.
Jack returned to the entrance and retrieved his helmet and Beretta from the sentry, checking the magazine before replacing the gun in the holster on his waist. He had needed to visit the embassy to explain their presence in Somalia to the ambassador, and to outline a possible aid program for the fishing communities with a visiting UK international development official. Meanwhile, Zaheed and Costas had gone to the National Museum to deliver a restored Arabic manuscript that Costas had brought with him from the IMU conservation department; they had dropped Jack at the embassy and sped off in the Toyota, Zaheed still at the wheel and the two Somali marines in the rear seat. That had been over an hour ago, and they were due back soon.
Jack checked his phone, seeing only the text that Costas had sent him ten minutes before, saying that they had left the museum. He wanted to get back to the naval base so that Costas could liaise with Ahmed and check through the diving equipment they had requested. He was feeling jittery, anxious to get on the move, his thoughts already dominated by the long trip on the patrol boat toward the island they had planned for that night, excited and apprehensive about what might lie ahead.
There was another burst of gunfire, this time much closer than previously, somewhere near the airport perimeter. Two long bursts of Kalashnikov fire were followed by a succession of single shots from a handgun, and then there was silence. The marine sergeant in charge at the sentry post spoke into his shoulder mike. “Shooting incident on the outer perimeter. Red alert. I repeat, red alert.”
Four of the marines immediately assumed prone positions behind sandbags on either side of the entrance, their rifles aimed, and another hurried from the sentry post with a scoped sniper rifle, taking position behind a berm some ten meters along the wire. The marine sergeant glanced at Jack. “There’s usually some kind of shootout on the airport perimeter a couple of times a month. A suicide car bomber is our main concern, the possibility of a vehicle getting through the perimeter security and heading our way.”
Another four shots rang out, handgun again rather than rifle, followed by another burst from a Kalashnikov. Jack had been counting the pistol shots. That was fifteen, a full Beretta magazine. He suddenly felt a cold jab of apprehension, and then his phone rang. It was Costas, barely audible. “Jack, I’m all right. Zaheed’s been hit. We got as many as we could. I think they’re going to take me. I’m…” There was a loud crackling sound, and the phone went dead.