On first glance, he noted too many of the Berbera buildings were low-rise, one and two stories high. His eyes fell on the giant oil storage tanks that covered several acres by the water. The depot would be the best place to setup a surveillance nest. But the oil storage tanks had drawbacks. For one, he would have to slip by the guards unnoticed; who knew what the sentry detail would be the next day or whether the pirates would be offloading crude oil from the hijacked ship.
Second, he confirmed the pirates were stationed on the backside of the depot in the jeeps.
Third, once the sun came up the next morning, hiding on top of the storage tank would grow hot in a hurry even with the white albedo paint reflecting the rays of the sun out to space.
But what concerned him was that if they offloaded the tanker the next day, Nico would have workers crawling over the storage facility. Still, that location put him in the center of town, with an eye on all four main roads leading out from the port city — the Sheikh Pass where he came from, the other inland road to Hargeisa to the southwest, and the coastal roads that stretched east and west. Nico opted to find a way atop one of the tanks, slipping past the guards unnoticed.
Nico cut through a few yards, pulled a worn canvas off a boat, rolled it on the ground, and threw the roll over his neck and shoulders like an oxen yoke.
He moved like a wraith across the street, hiding behind a car outside the oil depot fence. He saw that the perimeter chain-link fence wasn’t crowned by razor-wire, and found only one security camera — aimed at the front gate. He figured he could get into the depot without much trouble. Seeing that the storage tanks ran a dozen deep back to the sea, he decided to follow the road to a deserted office building, staying out of sight of the guards.
Behind the main facility, he spotted three giant storage tanks inside another fenced-in compound guarded by a single security guard with no camera. The guard hung out by the gate, tugging on the fence fabric, idle and bored. The guard picked up stones and tossed them, just passing the hours until he would be relieved. At no time did he lift his head to check on the fuel tanks that towered over him. Nico looked back at the main depot. He waited for the patrolling guard to make his loop around the facility, and then followed the fence perimeter toward the sea of the smaller depot. On the backside by the beach, Nico picked the rear corner to climb the fence. He put on a pair of cut-proof gloves.
He stabbed his fingers in the chain-link mesh and scaled the corner of the twelve-foot high fence. When he reached the top, he pulled the sharp forks down, wired it to the post, then swung his body up and over the top, with a prong grabbing onto his pants, tearing into his thigh. He pulled at the snag, freeing his leg, and slid down the fence to the ground. Knowing he had his tetanus shot four years ago, the SEAL CO ignored the metal cut to his thigh. Nico checked the jeeps. No movement. He didn’t see the guard, so he selected the rear storage tank, the one closest to the pier where fuel supplies were offloaded into gas mains, and climbed the steps.
Up a flight of stairs that circled halfway around the tank, Nico scaled a ladder and reached the roof of the oil tank. Once on top, he stayed low, checking the surroundings. The only vantage point taller than the storage tanks was the supertanker bridge run aground. The listing vessel appeared abandoned, not an ideal location for pirates to take position — not when NATO commandos might swoop in at any moment.
But if a pirate or Somali official took a tour of the ship the next day, they might spot Nico hiding on the roof. So he unrolled the canvas with the plan to crawl under it just before dawn broke to hide in plain sight.
For the next hour, Nico panned the quiet port city and streets with night-vision goggles. He searched for a sign on the whereabouts of Nairobi or the Range Rovers. But after a long hour, he knew he had lost them. Nairobi and Korfa must have driven off in some other direction out of town. But where? Back east toward Nairobi’s house? Or west to Djibouti border at the mouth of the Red Sea?
Across the border in Djibouti, the US built up the naval expeditionary base, Camp Lemonnier, to patrol the Somali pirates around the Horn of Africa, support the Arab Spring uprising since 2011 that spread across northern Africa into the Middle East, and train and sponsor rebels in Yemen to suppress AQAP and Houthi militia.
Today, “Camp Lemonade,” as Nico referred to it, fed the Syrian rebels arms and weapons in the CIA’s quest to overthrow President Bashar al-Assad’s regime, while operating at the newest drone base. Camp Lemonnier provided critical infrastructure support for NATO’s anti-piracy campaigns launched, in concert with the Japanese military, on patrols that covered the Gulf of Aden from the Red Sea to the Horn of Africa since 2010.
That was the year when the unified naval command was able to turn the tide against the outbreak of Somali pirates, but only to see such attacks bloom off the West Coast of Africa.
Nico realized he couldn’t wait until dawn. He had to notify the command on board the USS New York to be on the lookout for the convoy of Range Rovers, with Nairobi, that was either in and around Berbera, or heading in one of two — no, three — directions; the third being the capital Hargeisa of Somaliland. If they drove to the capital, Nico figured it would be for a meeting at an office building or at the airport.
The CO broke radio silence and sent an encrypted text to the USS New York, requesting a drone to fly over the roads heading out of Berbera. He then laid his tired body down to grab some shut-eye.
Chapter Forty-Two
Dawn aroused the shimmering blue gulf.
Adrift in the boat, Merk stretched his limbs, rising from a power nap, feeling the rays of the sun warm his body. He rolled over on his stomach and opened the laptop, accessed the Dolphin Code software, and then heard the winding of a motorboat engine. The sound grew louder. The boat approached rapidly, its motor revving high and higher with anger. Merk slipped the scarf over his head, wrapped it around his face to hide his American features and sat up.
The motorboat closed on the craft Merk stole the night before. Two Somalis crouched in their boat: a motorman and a point man, who aimed an AK-47 assault rifle right at Merk. The point man wore the red-and-white Bedouin scarf; he motioned the motorman to cut the engine. Before Merk put his hands in the air, he pressed a yellow color-coded key — a distress signal for the dolphins to come to his aid. He listened to the point man shout obscenities, peppering him in a language he didn’t understand.
Irritated by Merk’s silence, the point man cocked the gun as the motorboat hit the stolen craft. Merk tapped his ears, acting as if he were deaf. The Somali didn’t buy it and fired a warning shot over Merk’s head. He berated him. The gunman stepped on the gunwale to board. Trapped, Merk kicked the side hard, rocking the point man to fall into his boat. As he stumbled forward, Merk kicked the assault rifle out of the pirate’s hands and into the sea. The point man landed hard on his ribs. He rolled over holding his side, then whipped out a broad-blade dagger and lunged it in a backswing. Merk deflected the dagger, as the blade sliced through the wet suit sleeve, drawing blood. He grabbed the Somali’s biceps, pulled him in close, headbutted him, and then kneed him in the chest. The blast stunned the point man, knocking the wind out of him.
When he fell back, Merk hooked the point man’s leg and rolled him overboard.
The motorman stood up yelling, waving a pistol. Flush with anger, he stepped toward the bow when, virtually out of nowhere, Inapo soared out of the water, drilling the motorman in the back, disorienting him as he plunged into the sea.
From behind, the point man reached up and grabbed Merk’s scarf and pulled it over his neck, twisting the cloth hard, strangling him. Choking, Merk lost his breath… his face turned beet-red… his nostrils flared as he snorted through his nose for air, spitting last gasps with his legs kicking and squirming.