Craig Reed, Jr. and Rick Chesler
OUTCAST Ops: African Firestorm
PROLOGUE
A 210-meter long container ship based out of South Africa with a cargo of 6,600 containers, the Northstar Venture was barely twenty years old. The ship had a clean, though slightly worn look, with a green hull and a white, five-story tall superstructure located three-quarters of the distance from the bow. The flagship of the SeaStar Ventures line, she was traveling from South Africa to Singapore, with stops in Doha and Mumbai.
It was near midnight when the Northstar's captain, Alexi Novikov, walked onto the bridge. Longer than it was wide, with doors on each end and windows affording a 360 degree view of the ship and surrounding sea, the bridge was currently cloaked in darkness. The lighting inside was subdued, most of it coming from back-lit controls and monitors.
Novikov was a short, thin man, and he dressed for comfort this far outside of port in slacks and a golf shirt. He'd gone to sea when he was sixteen and had spent most of three decades on one ship or another, working his way up to command the Northstar for the last five years.
Three other crewmen occupied the bridge. Novikov’s first officer, Saleh Narsai, smiled at him.
"You're up late, Captain," he said in lightly accented English. He was a bit taller and wider than his captain, swarthy and handsome, but he looked too young to be the ship's second-in-command.
"I can't sleep. Not this close to the Somali coast."
Narsai snorted. "We're five hundred kilometers off the coast," he said, then motioned to the darkness outside the windows. "The few pirates left are in bed, hoping the world won't drop a bomb on their huts."
"Nevertheless, are all the anti-piracy systems still in place?"
"Yes, Captain. All systems are either in place or on stand-by. The security commander is on top of that. The extra patrols are on duty as well.”
"I won't be happy until we're in Doha and we can be rid of both the extra help and the cargo." Novikov looked out into the darkness. "Where are those hired guns, anyway?"
Narsai shrugged. "Walking the decks like wind-up toy soldiers, I expect."
The ship had a crew of twenty, plus six extra guards foisted on them by a nervous corporate office in Capetown. Unlike the crew, who were mostly Filipinos with a few Arabs and Africans, the guards — all young, fit men of Middle Eastern origin with a menacing air about them— stayed in their quarters when they weren't on duty and avoided contact with the crew. Novikov had overheard two of them talking, and the veteran seafarer had been around ports long enough to recognize Farsi when he heard it.
Novikov rubbed his short beard. "I still don't like it.”
Narsai sighed. "Have you eaten yet, sir?"
The captain shook his head. "Stomach's not feeling right."
"Then go get something to eat and get some sleep, Captain. I'll call if there's a problem."
"All right," Novikov muttered.
"I'll call down to Yahira and ask him to warm up some leftover dinner and something to settle your stomach."
Novikov waved a hand. "Fine."
Narsai waited until the captain left the bridge, then glanced at the helmsman. "Two hours," he said in Arabic.
Exactly two hours later, Narsai left and went down to his cabin, located one deck below the bridge. The space was a little smaller than a hotel room, but comfortable. Not sparing the room a glance, Narsai went to his closet and took out a suitcase. Placing the locked case on his desk, he unlocked it and opened it. Four pistols — Tokarev T-33s— a dozen magazines, four sound suppressors, four handheld radios, and a Globestar GSP-1700 satellite phone were nestled in foam cutouts.
Narsai removed the satellite phone, turned it on and dialed a number from memory. On the second ring a voice answered with, "Yes?"
"We are ready," Narsai said in Arabic.
"Good. Begin. We are on our way."
Narsai hung up, turned the phone off and placed it back into the briefcase. He closed the case and carried it with him as he left the cabin. The ship was quiet, most of the crew asleep, the result of a heavy dose of tranquilizers mixed in with the evening meal. The plan had been laid out and practiced many times, so there was no doubt, no hesitation in Narsai's mind.
When he entered the bridge, the other three members of his team were waiting; Yahira, the steward, Faisal, the second engineer, and Musa the relief helmsman. All were young men in good physical shape, experienced sailors and loyal comrades. Their eyes locked on the briefcase and Narsai smiled.
"The plan is a go.” He placed the case on top of a console, then glanced at Musa. "Cut the transponder."
The helmsman tapped on one of the Northstar's recently installed touch screens, his fingers quick and sure as they interfaced with the ship's computer. Musa's knowledge of the system, as well as an unauthorized computer program he recently installed, allowed the helmsman to disable the ship's transponder. After forty-five seconds he turned to Narsai. "Done."
Narsai nodded and opened the case. "Good. When I give you the order, alter course to two-eight-zero and maintain speed until I tell you otherwise."
He handed each team member a radio, pistol, suppressor and three magazines. Musa loaded a magazine into his pistol, then stuck it inside his jumpsuit and went back to the helm. Narsai, Yahira and Faisal threaded their suppressors onto their pistols before loading a magazine and pulling the slide back to load the first round of 7.62 x 25mm ammo. They all looked at each other and without a word, went their separate ways.
Narsai's first target was the guard on the open deck on top of the bridge. There were three guards on duty — one here, at the highest accessible point of the ship — and one each at the bow and stern. Three more were asleep in one of the cabins below. The guards were armed with AK-74 assault rifles, SIG-Sauer P226 pistols, and kept at least two RPG-29 launchers in the cabin in case of a pirate attack. Narsai had watched them, and after a couple of days became convinced that the men were members of the Iranian Revolutionary Guards’ elite Quds Force — highly trained and fanatically devoted to the Islamic Revolution. He would only have one shot at this.
When he reached the top of the steel stairs leading to the upper deck, he spotted the guard at once. He faced toward the stern, ten feet from Narsai, eyes buried in a pair of night-vision glasses. He wore army surplus trousers and shirt, and had his AK-74 slung over one shoulder. When he turned to the left, away from Narsai, the executive officer stepped onto the deck silently, keeping his pistol low and close to his leg.
He had taken three steps when the guard lowered the glasses and turned toward him. Narsai raised his pistol and fired twice, the pop of the suppressed rounds lost in the warm night air. Both slugs punched into the Iranian's face, and he crumpled to the deck.
Narsai waited a few seconds, then took his radio out and hit the transmit button four times in rapid succession. That done, he stripped the body of all weapons and equipment. As he was finishing up, he heard three clicks from his radio, indicating that Faisal's target, the stern guard, was also dead.
He left the guard where he fell and headed down the stairs. As he reached the bottom of the stairway, his radio clicked five times, signifying Yahira's success. He stopped and spoke into the transmitter.
"Yahira and Faisaclass="underline" Execute phase two. Musa: Change course."
The rest of the takeover went without a problem. Most of the crew died in their sleep as Narsai's team methodically worked their way through the crew quarters, double-tapping each one in the head.
The off-duty guards were the first to die, never realizing that the very threat they guarded against was already aboard the ship. Captain Novikov, heavily drugged, was the last one to perish, shot by Narsai.