Konstantin passed beside three very small off road motorcycles-dirt bikes-strapped under the helicopter's pylons. These were attached to the wing, rather than to one of the two hardpoints on this side. On the other side, he knew, was a weapons container with the arms and equipment his half of the team would need for the mission. There were extra fuel pods on each side to extend the range. The other helicopter, holding Praporschik Baluyev, plus Kravchenko and Litvinov, carried the same load. Strapped to their bellies, each helicopter carried a brace each of desert camouflage screens and poles. There were also two weapons pods between the pair, one for unguided rockets and one for guided missiles. They didn't expect to actually need the weapons, not with the chin guns armed and ready. But one never knew.
Looking toward the ship's bow, before entering his helicopter, the Russian noted that the forward mast had been dropped. The helicopters wouldn't need the clearance, he knew, but the light airplanes would.
Inside, Timer Musin sat next to the presumed homosexual, Galkin, in two of the seats in the cramped compartment behind the engines of the MI-28. He reached a hand out to help Konstantin through the tiny door that opened just under the jet engine's exhaust. Though the engine was idling, hot jet-fuel-stinky fumes entered the compartment. Had it not been for Konstantin's bulk filling the door space, they'd have been a lot worse. Musin handed Konstantin a pair of headphones as he settled himself into the altogether too narrow seat, closing and locking the little door behind him. He put the headphones on, adjusted the boom mike and announced, "Ready."
The pilot didn't acknowledge. Instead, the engines began to whine with almost painful force. Then the first MI-28 leapt upward, surged forward, and twisted in air. Once it was clear of the ship, it dove for the surface of the sea, and then began the relatively short flight to the general area of the objective.
D-2, Beach Green One, west of Bandar Qassim, Ophir
The night was still darker than a slave dealer's soul. There were no automobiles on the coastal highway that ran parallel to the beach to illuminate things. Rather, there were no running automobiles. There was one, a Hummer stolen from a nongovernmental organization and purchased from the thieves, just off the highway, parked, idle, and dark.
There was also an artificial light, hanging on a ten foot pole, but that light was infrared and most unlikely to be seen by anyone not looking for it and equipped to find it. Under that light, Buckwheat Fulton's world phone sat on his lap, as dark for the moment as the coast itself. He, in turn, sat on his ass, on a lonely beach not far from a lonely city, facing across the Gulf of Aden toward the Arabian Peninsula. Somewhere, not too far to the north, a landing craft bearing three men and two Land Rovers, along with enough arms, ammunition, and other more-than-suspicious equipment to earn several life sentences nearly anywhere, churned its way to the coast.
Beside Fulton, likewise in the sand, sat Wahab. The two had sat in silence for a long time, ever since arrival, really.
"I sometimes miss the communists, don't you know, Robert," said the African, breaking the silence. "Life was simpler then."
"You mean the graft was better," Fulton half-joked in answer. He lifted a set of night vision goggles to his eyes and scanned the sea for a sign of the LCM or the patrol boat he suspected would escort it.
"That, too, of course," Wahab agreed. "Being paid by the Russians to sabotage you, by the United States to sabotage them, and by the French to ensure that the sun never set on the French Empire . . . " Wahab sighed. "Those were good days. Even the Italians occasionally kicked in."
"That's not even counting the stipend your chief got from the Catholic Church for watching out for its interests," Fulton replied.
"Well, of course not," Wahab said, shaking his head. "Nor even what the Saudis funneled us. He always gave those stipends back anyway, in one form or another. Taking from God and actually keeping the money . . . that would have been wrong. For that matter, I can't even say with a straight face that we ever really screwed the Russians for you, or your side for the Russians."
Fulton shook his head, unseen by his companion. He'd spent quite a bit of time by now with Wahab, and liked the African a great deal. Even so, Thank God my multi-great granddaddy got dragged onto that boat.
Wahab went silent again. He, too, searched the sea for a sign of the landing craft. Without Fulton's goggles, he had scant chance of seeing it. On the other hand, without the goggles much more of his attention could be focused on his hearing, better than the American's, in any case, for not having grown up in the industrialized west.
"There," Wahab announced, pointing in a particular direction out to sea. "Not sure how far off, but there's a powerful engine-no . . . two of them . . . straining and they're much closer than a merchant ship is likely to come to the shore."
Fulton redirected his attention, returning the NVGs to his face. At first he saw nothing but the green-tinged surf. He kept looking until first one, then a pair of lights bobbed up above the waters. He picked up his world phone and pressed a button. There was a brief delay as the call was processed.
"Buckwheat, Rattus. I see a light."
Fulton wrapped one hand around the pole and began rocking it to and fro.
"Correction, I see a rocking light."
"That's me," Fulton said. "The beach is clear."
"Coming in."
The LCM's engines still strained, holding it and its lowered ramp snug against the shore and against the pull of the receding tide. Over the ramp came a Land Rover to thump and splash into the surf, before churning its way up to the beach. A second Land Rover followed.
Yeah, okay, thought Fulton. Maybe they are just about the most reliable vehicles in the world and maybe three quarters of all of those ever built are still running. But the military calculation remains: If you need X at the objective you must start with at least X plus one. Since we really only need one besides the Hummer, we must start with two or Murphy's finger shall lance out and touch us with bad juju. That, or the Buddha will ensure bad karma . . . or God will just fuck us over. Same things, really. And I still remember that limey Marine's ass on fire when his Land Rover decided to spontaneously combust in Kurdistan, back in 1991.
The vehicles pulled up and out of the water, their wheels bouncing as their frames spouted salt water downward. From the second one Rattus emerged. "Everything's packed and ready, Buckwheat. Including sterile uniforms. Not that those will help us in the slightest."
"Who's the team?" Fulton asked.
"Besides you, Wahab, and myself," Rattus answered, "we've got Fletcher to snipe and a Brit engineer named Babcock-Moore; ‘Vic' he goes by, to help spot. Or blow shit up if required.; we've got a demo kit for that, too. He's driving the other Land Rover. Seems pretty competent, if a little formal."
Buckwheat Fulton shrugged. "We can deal with formality . . . even if it is a little uncomfortable." He turned to Wahab and said, "Take the Hummer to the safe house in Elayo. We'll follow and hole up."
D-2, MV Merciful, Gulf of Aden
"Reduce speed to four knots," Kosciusko ordered.
"Aye, sir," the helmsman replied, reaching out to pull back the throttles on the panel before him. The vibrations felt through the deck immediately lessened and every man aboard was leaned forward.
It was a dangerous move, really, given that the area had been known for piracy for quite some time, and given that the Merciful's escort, The Drunken Bastard, Chin, commanding, was still far behind, escorting the LCM that had landed Rattus and party on the beach to join Buckwheat and Wahab. Dangerous though it may have been, slowing was necessary to recover the LCM, to regain protection from the Bastard, and-for the moment, most importantly-to launch the minisub.