"None of that helps with our current problem," Liam said. "We can't get out to Northstar Venture by boat, and unless we can fly we—" He stopped as a grin materialized on his features.
"Wait a minute…Maybe we can fly…"
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Darkness had settled over the Somali coast. Onboard the Northstar Venture, Narsai was on the bridge, going through the checklist before the ship started on it mission.
Riyad entered through the port-side bridge door. In the dim red light, he looked like a devil. "How long before you weigh anchor?" he asked.
"An hour," Narsai replied.
"What is the weather forecast?"
"Rough seas tonight, but after that, it should be fair sailing."
"The missiles ready?"
"Yes, sir. Doctor Masood says it'll take two hours to fuel and make final preparation, but otherwise, they are ready."
"Good," Riyad grunted.
"Is something wrong, sir?" Narsai asked. "You seem, well, distracted."
Riyad made a dismissive gesture. "Just someone I met on the beach this morning. Do you anything about a khat dealer being in town?"
"No sir, but I don't chew khat."
"I think I may be jumping at shadows."
Narsai frowned. "Why?"
"I ran into a Yemeni who claimed he was working for an Axiam Osman, but something was off about him, and I can't put my finger on it."
"What happened to him?"
"One of the Somalis, a relative of this Osman, showed up, started berating him and slapping him. He ordered the Yemeni back into a jeep and they drove off."
"It doesn't sound like a problem to me," Narsai said. "We already have too many things to worry about."
"Maybe you're right," Riyad said. He glanced at his watch. "We will be leaving in two hours. I have one last meeting with Yabaal, and Ilshu should be arriving in that time frame. After that, we will be right behind you." Riyad stepped forward and hugged the younger man. "Good luck, my friend. May Allah give you good weather and good hunting."
"You too, sir."
Wardi Yabaal's headquarters was the home of a former pirate chieftain who had run afoul of the international community and was now spending thirty years in a Tanzanian prison. When Yabaal had seized the town, he had kicked the man's family out of the home and taken it for his own. It was guarded by two dozen men of Yabaal's "Praetorian Guard," men who looked and acted no differently from any of the other men in Yabaal's "People's Islamic Army."
It was dusk when Riyad walked through the open gates into the dimly-lit courtyard. His eyes shifted constantly, picking up the weak points in Yabaal's security arrangements. On his right shoulder, Ilshu, his AK-74 casually slung over his shoulder, was doing much of the same. His helicopter had landed twenty minutes earlier, long enough for Riyad to alter his plan to include his subordinate. Ilshu's expression had remained impassive when his superior had laid out the plan, remaining so as they walked into the compound. Three of Ilshu's men, also armed with assault rifles, accompanied them. Another half dozen of Riyad's men stayed behind with the cars. Riyad was unarmed and carried a briefcase.
The two Somalis guarding the front door stared at the approaching group with puzzlement. One of them stepped forward and put his hand up in the universal signal to stop. "The general's busy. He can't see anyone tonight."
Riyad and his men stopped. "He'll see me. I found some more hardware and I think the general could use it. Anti-tank weapons for example."
Riyad saw the guard's eyes widen ever so slightly. It was rumored that Abada's force had a couple of tanks and at least a half-dozen APCs. "I will tell the general. Wait here, Colonel."
After the guard went inside, Riyad addressed his men. "Wait here for five minutes after Yasir and I go inside."
The three nodded and stepped away from the door, spreading out so each man stood a dozen feet from the others. They began looking around, quietly noticing where the guards were. An alert and knowledgeable soldier would have been suspicious of the soldier's actions, but Yabaal's guards were neither.
The guard came out. "You can have five minutes. Follow me."
Riyad and Ilshu trailed the guard into the house. The place looked picked over, what had been good quality furnishings looked dirty, cracked and battered. A few lights were on, but most of the house was dark.
The guard led Riyad to a door flanked by two of his associates. "The general says he will speak only to you, Colonel.”
"Stay here," Riyad said to Ilshu. "Give me a couple of minutes."
Ilshu nodded, leaned up against the wall and folded his arms. The gesture hid his right hand, which now rested on the pummel of the knife on his belt.
Riyad stepped inside what was an office or study. A large desk dominated the left side of the room, with a few chairs, a couch, a couple of end tables, Arabian rugs, and garish paintings. Behind the desk, Riyad could see the interior courtyard that the house was built around.
Yabaal sat at his desk, which was covered with a map, a couple of half-eaten meals on dishes, and a few glasses. He looked up as Riyad entered the room.
"You say you have more weapons? Interesting weapons?" he said, not bothering to hide his eagerness.
Riyad's eyes swept the room. Three other men guarded the space, Yabaal's subordinates. Riyad never learned their names, and in a few minutes, it wouldn't matter.
"Indeed," Riyad said, walking to the desk.
Yabaal looked at the guards, still standing by the door. They were mercenaries, and although they worked for him today, there was no telling who they might work for next week or next month, and so he’d rather not have them know what new armaments he was considering.
"Go," he said, and the guards disappeared, closing the door behind him. The Somali warlord eyed Riyad again.
"Interesting weapons, you say?"
"Anti-armor. RPG-27s. A whole crate of them. We're unloading it right now."
Yabaal smiled. "Excellent. What else?"
Riyad placed the briefcase on the desk and opened it. "We also found a few of these. APB silenced machine pistols."
Yabaal frowned. "A machine pistol?"
"It's like a machine gun, only it's a pistol!" Riyad held one up. "Used by the Russian special forces. It fires a 9 x 18mm round." He held up a magazine. "Twenty rounds in each magazine. With a little training, you can fire two or three shots at a time.”
Riyad slid the magazine into the automatic and pulled the slide back. "Like so."
He reached into the case and pulled out a thick tube twice as long as the pistol itself and began screwing it on the end of the muzzle.
The tension in the room suddenly escalated, the air seeming to thicken.
Yabaal's expression changed from something quizzical to a sort of dark seriousness. "All right, I don't think you need to proceed any further," he said, pushing his chair back.
Riyad reached into the case and removed a wire stock. "They say you need the stock to help control the pistol, but in the hands of an expert, you can shoot it almost as well one-handed."
Beads of sweat formed on Yabaal's forehead as Riyad attached the stock to the gun. While Yabaal’s men had firearms, they were now outside the door. No doubt not very far, but still. The general's hand drifted toward his AK leaning against the desk.
The ICA officer held up the now fully assembled machine pistol in his right hand, muzzle pointed at the ceiling.
"And there you are.”
Yabaal's hand froze, the Somali uncertain of Riyad's next move.
Riyad lowered the weapon until it was pointed at the floor and took a couple of steps back from the desk. "My ship is leaving inside the hour. This is good-bye."