It wasn't a moonless night. Indeed, it would be a nearly full moon when that body arose. This, however, was not going to happen until just before one in the morning, local. Thus, barring the minimal lights permitted on deck and the red lights of the bridge, it was darker than the proverbial three feet up a well digger's ass at midnight.
'Yep; darker than three feet up a well digger's ass at midnight,' pronounced Stauer with satisfaction. 'A UAV we sent out about an hour ago says your landing area is clear. You and your boys ready, Konstantin?'
The Russian breathed deeply then released a sigh. 'As ready as we're going to be,' he answered. 'Assuming we can cut off the target from communication and take it down before any of Yemen's roughly two-hundred and eighty modern jet fighters and bombers come to take us out.'
'I wouldn't worry about it too much,' Boxer said. 'If one in ten of the things are working I'd be surprised. And if the Yemenis knew which ones in ten, I'd be amazed. And if there are pilots on standby for that thirty or so . . . and if they're fueled and armed . . . and if they don't need permission from echelons above God to launch.'
'No,' Boxer summed up. 'As long as you go in low, make it a ground rather than an aerial attack, and evac quickly you should be fine. Even if you have to call the choppers in for some close support to cover your egress, it should be fine. These people just suck.'
'It's that word ‘should' that bothers me,' Konstantin said.
'You don't have to do it,' Stauer said.
Again Konstantin sighed, this time with a fatalism that could only be Russian. 'No. The old chief wants that man out of the picture. And I owe favors and have obligations from way back. We'll do the mission.'
Somehow, I was sure you would, Boxer thought. After all, he'd met the old man, Victor's father-in-law, and had sensed the kind of abilities that engendered long-term loyalty, to say nothing of everlasting fear.
'It is confirmed by your people that the target is at home,' Boxer said. 'How they know this I wouldn't speculate.'
'If the old man says the Arab's home; he's home,' Konstantin said. 'Though I, too, wouldn't care to speculate on how.' Because I know the old man has someone in the house . . . .errr . . . palace. Code Name: Lada. Or maybe his . . . or more likely her . . . real name. And that's all I know . . . .well, and that I'm supposed to get that person out when we go. Wonder why he didn't give us a picture with the target folder.
And I shudder, because some of what the old man wants me to do . . . I just don't think I can.
With the ship's gantry whining to the sides and overhead, Konstantin left the superstructure by the hatch most level with the container-supported flight deck. He passed between eight inward-facing, small short take off and landing-STOL-aircraft. These were idle with their pilots standing by or sitting inside or on the deck as the mood took them. Two LCMs were exposed, as were the empty space for another and the cradle that had once held the patrol boat, The Drunken Bastard. Those craft were already moving to the south, toward a rendezvous on the coast.
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.
