They took off without incident, Takana getting clearance from an air traffic controller who was on the group’s payroll. The overbearing hum of the turboprop engines made it impossible to converse without headgear and microphones, so they just mouthed words and gestured to each other. The only electronic communications allowed now would be made by Takana.
Kozak leaned back in his seat and studied some maps of Sudan and the surrounding terrain, part of a map system stored on his tablet computer’s flash drive. Takana had already suggested that Port Sudan was not the weapons’ final destination, and this had Kozak scanning the map and wondering where they were headed and what means of transport would be used.
Once he’d exhausted six or seven proposed routes and his eyes had grown weary of staring at the screen, he glanced over at 30K, eyes slammed shut, mouth open, his snoring almost as loud as the turboprops. Pepper was listening to his iPod, and Ross was monitoring the instruments.
Soon they were flying over Cairo, with the undulating expanse of the Nile River scrolling into view. Pepper saw it, too, and he motioned for Kozak to have a better look. Funny how the tourist in them never died. They traveled the world over on covert missions but never stopped appreciating the sights, sounds and cultures they encountered, along with the food — especially the food. Kozak swore as he realized they’d forgotten to get some of those magrood cookies 30K had promised. Maybe some other time.
Yes, all this world travel was definitely a bonus when the locals weren’t pointing guns in your face.
Near the end of their flight, and with nothing else to do, Kozak had done the math.
The trip from Tobruk to Port Sudan New International Airport was a grand total of 1,036 nautical miles and utilized all but a few gallons of the C-212’s fuel. They were, according to his calculations, flying on fumes by the time they hit the tarmac. When questioned about how close they were cutting it, Takana was nonchalant.
They taxied off the main runway (in truth it was the only runway in yet another small, third-world airport still referred to as ‘international’), and Takana pointed to a group of single-story office buildings with a dozen or so cars parked outside. At the far end of the lot was a nondescript warehouse about twice the size of the ones back in Tobruk, and beside it, parked adjacent to the loading docks, was a tractor-trailer with the images of a plane, boat and truck superimposed over a blue globe painted across its sides. Written beneath the logo in both Arabic and English were the words ‘GSIC — Global Shipping International Company.’
From the back of the trailer emerged a group of men dressed in dark coveralls with the GSIC emblem on their breasts. They were unarmed and got to work extending the truck’s loading ramp.
Kozak was damned happy to be getting out of his seat. He felt like a Russian mafia victim, wearing the four-hour flight like a pair of concrete pants with matching boots.
‘Okay, gentlemen, welcome to the Port of Sudan,’ Ross said, sounding like a commercial flight captain. ‘We hope you enjoyed the flight.’
‘It sucked,’ said 30K. ‘No whiskey? No peanuts? What the hell?’
‘And no hot flight attendants?’ Pepper asked, feigning his outrage. ‘I’m never booking again.’
Kozak shook his head. The lame humor kept them calm against thoughts of a firefight right here, right now.
Ross turned to Takana. ‘You do all the talking.’
‘Okay,’ said the pilot. ‘They usually unload. We just stand back and watch. There is not much to say.’
‘Where does the shipment go from here?’
‘You asked me that back in Tobruk. I told you I don’t know. The port is about ten miles north. Maybe they go up there. I usually just refuel. Sometimes I fly right back to Tobruk. Sometimes I go home for a week or two. They will tell me what to do.’
‘I bet you’ve thought about quitting, but you were just too scared,’ said Ross. ‘You thought if you quit, they’d wind up killing you because you know too much.’
‘I have thought about that.’
Ross’s tone grew more serious. ‘Then just remember, buddy, we’re holding your ticket. You’ll have immunity. Your family kept safe. If you try anything here, you’ll be throwing that all away. And for nothing.’
‘I am a man of my word,’ Takana said slowly, forcefully. ‘I hope you are the same.’
Ross gazed unflinchingly at the pilot. ‘My word is my bond. And you have it.’
Takana nodded.
THIRTY-SEVEN
The plane rolled to a stop, and while Takana shut down the engines, Kozak counted eight GSIC loaders who looked a lot like FARC troops. Even here, in Sudan.
‘If anything happens,’ 30K said quietly, ‘I got your back. Stay close.’
Kozak took a deep breath. ‘Me, too, bro.’
Pepper shot them a warning glance. ‘Calm down.’
30K returned an ugly smile. Kozak just nodded.
Despite Pepper’s admonishment, Kozak’s heart still hammered against his ribs as he hopped on to the pavement, the asphalt seeming to bubble beneath his shoes, the heat haze stifling. The stench of diesel fuel and natural gas came up strong on the wind.
He kept his head down and moved off, swinging his weapon around, acting as though he were securing the area. The tension had already found its way into his hands, and he gripped the rifle a bit too tightly. He knew this feeling all too well, and if he didn’t keep it in check, he’d get off a round before he knew it, as though his hands had a mind of their own.
The others mirrored his movements while Takana strode over to the truck and spoke with one of the men, assumedly the leader, definitely an Arab.
From the rear of the truck came three more forklifts similar to the ones they’d used at the hangar. As some of the men began to unload the plane, one of them keeping watch walked over and said in Spanish: ‘I don’t see Carlos or Juan or any of them. You guys are all new, huh?’
Kozak just nodded and stared over the man’s shoulder.
‘So what happened?’
With a snort, Kozak lifted his rifle and blew the bastard’s brains out.
Or at least he did so in his mind’s eye.
In reality he took a deep breath and answered, ‘I don’t know what happened.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’
‘We got orders from Valencia,’ Kozak snapped.
The man drew back his head. ‘Oh, okay. Sorry I asked.’ He turned and marched back toward the trailer, hollering for his buddies to load faster.
Interesting. The mere mention of Valencia, the FARC leader they’d identified back at the Tobruk warehouse, had stuck fear in this guy.
And that was good because only seconds prior –
Kozak had felt his heart stop, his veins ice up, and his head begin to spin. Now he breathed a sigh of relief so powerful that his knees buckled.
‘What did he say to you?’ Ross asked quietly.
‘Just wondering where the other guys were.’
‘We cool?’
‘Hell, yeah, we going hard in the paint.’
Ross frowned, obviously unfamiliar with basketball slang terms, then he grinned awkwardly and moved away.
Within two minutes the GSIC guys had transferred the pallets to their trailer. Sans any formal good-byes, the men climbed quickly into their truck and were on their way. Takana returned to the plane and said, ‘They told me I have another week off. I’m supposed to refuel the plane now, then I can go home to my family.’
Ross extended his hand. ‘Yes, you can.’
A yellow airport taxi barreled around one of the buildings and turned toward them, trailing a chute of smoke.