African Firestorm Read online

  Craig Reed, Jr. & Rick Chesler

  OUTCAST Ops:

  African Firestorm

  PROLOGUE

  Off the Somali Coast

  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 Faisal: 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. Cap
tain Novikov, heavily drugged, was the last one to perish, shot by Narsai.

  As Narsai turned away, he heard Musa say over the radio, "Ship's here. Port side, twenty kilometers out."

  "Copy," Narsai returned. Then he took out the sat-phone and hit redial.

  The same voice as before answered.

  "It is done," Narsai said in Arabic.

  "Good. We have you on radar and will be there within the hour."

  "We will be waiting."

  "Good work, Saleh. Meet me on the deck when we arrive. I want to see the cargo for myself."

  "Yes sir."

  There was a click and the line went dead. Narsai powered off the phone and spoke into the radio. "Faisal, shut down all anti-piracy systems and clear the deck for the Colonel. Are the ladders ready?"

  "Yes sir.”

  "Good.” Narsai headed for the cabin door, the body of the man he just killed already forgotten. He spoke into his radio as he walked.

  "Musa, bring the ship to full stop, then help Faisal. Yahira, prepare tea for the Colonel. Faisal, when you are done shutting down the anti-piracy systems, get the manifest and meet me on the quarterdeck. We're meeting the colonel."

  Stopping in his cabin, Narsai took the time to clean up and change into a uniform — an olive-green shirt and trousers over which he put on a belt and a holster, into which he put the Tokarev. The last item was a black and white armband, proclaiming the Islamic Caliphate Army in Arabic, which he tied on his upper right arm. He was just finishing up when Musa radioed to tell him the Colonel's ship had arrived.

  By the time Narsai reached the quarterdeck, he could see the lights of another ship, smaller than the Northstar, off the port side. Using the dead guard's night vision glasses, he stared out into the darkness. The newcomer, an old cargo vessel named the Saad el Melik, drifted five hundred meters away, blacked out with all lights off, silent and still.

  Two small boats headed toward the Northstar. Each Zodiac inflatable raft was packed with armed men, though they were still too far away for Narsai to see much detail. He watched them for a few seconds, then lowered the glasses and turned as he saw Faisal approach, a computer tablet in his hands. The engineer had also changed into a uniform similar to Narsai’s, and wore a tool-belt.

  "Do you want me to open the container before he arrives?" He handed the tablet and a large flashlight to the first officer.

  Narsai shook his head. "No. The Colonel will want to have it opened in his presence. Do you have the bolt cutters?"

  "Yes, and I also have a ladder and additional tools, if needed."

  "Good, but let us hope it doesn't come to that."

  Soon the first wave of boarders climbed over the rail. Narsai kept his expression neutral as a thin-framed, dark-skinned Somali man stepped down onto the deck. He wore a threadbare shirt, knee-length shorts held up by a rope belt, and decrepit sneakers. The AK-47 he had slung over his back looked as worn as his clothes, but he swung it around quickly and pointed it at Narsai. As Narsai raised his hands, a second Somali topped over the rail and reacted exactly as the first.

  A half-dozen Somalis had found their way on deck before Narsai recognized a familiar face. Yasir Ilshu was the Colonel's right-hand man, feared both inside and outside the Islamic Caliphate Army as a cold-blooded killer whose list of victims numbered in the hundreds. Slightly above average height, but broad-shouldered and muscular, he wore sand-colored combat fatigues and paratrooper boots. An AK-74 was slung over his shoulder, and a pair of automatics rode on his hips, along with a broad-bladed knife that added to his menace.

  Ilshu’s eyes swept the deck before locking onto Narsai. “Lower your hands,” he said in a cold tone. He then barked something in Somali, raised his arms and pointed in two directions. The Somalis nodded and moved away from the rail, going forward and aft.

  Ilshu looked at Narsai. "Sorry,” he said in Arabic, “relations between us and these pirates are still tenuous. Any problems on your end?"

  Narsai shook his head. "It went smoothly."

  "Good. Where are the bodies?"

  "Most are still in their cabins. The guards that were on-duty are still where we left them."

  Ilshu nodded. “Wait here for the Colonel."

  Another dozen boarders, mostly Somali pirates along with a few ICA warriors, climbed over the rail. Not long after, the leader of the operation arrived and the ICA soldiers snapped to attention and saluted.

  Colonel Bakir Riyad was several inches taller than Ilshu, but thinner, with a closely-cropped beard and short dark hair. His face was narrow and angular, deeply-tanned skin and dark, alert eyes. He carried a CIS SAR-21 assault rifle slung over one shoulder, and a pistol on his right hip. "Good work, Saleh," he said, his voice low and warm.

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Dr. Masood and a couple of his team are coming up the ladder."

  Riyad turned his head to look at Ilshu. "Yasir, General Yabaal is also on his way up. Stay here and welcome him onboard. Give him a tour of the ship. Make sure he does not follow us."

  "Yes, sir," Ilshu said.

  Another man climbed onto the deck. Instead of a uniform, he wore brown overalls and brown shoes. He turned and smiled at Narsai.

  "Ah, Saleh!" he said eagerly, "Where are the prizes?"

  Narsai motioned with his head. "Just a couple of rows forward."

  "Lead me to them."

  Riyad’s tone was stern. "Just a moment, Doctor. Wait for your assistants."

  Dr. Pelabo Masood was a short, rotund man with thinning gray hair and a thick mustache. His pudgy face in the overhead light looked pale.

  "Of course, Colonel," he said with an air of resignation.

  It took several more minutes for two additional men, also in overalls, to climb aboard the ship. Narsai led the way forward, taking the second catwalk separating the container stacks and using the flashlight to find the right container. He located it, double-checked the ID number on the tablet, then pointed to a sea-green unit stacked two containers above the deck.

  "That one."

  Faisal came forward, carrying a ladder. He put it into place, made sure it was secure, then scrambled up, the bolt cutters banging against his leg as he climbed. He placed the cutters on the padlock, and with a swift motion, cut the lock. With some effort, he pulled the doors open as far as they would go.

  From below, Narsai shined his flashlight into the shipping container, revealing a wall of cardboard boxes. "Faisal!" he yelled up. "Remove those boxes."

  Faisal managed to get a grip on one box near the middle and pulled. It came out easily, sending it and half a dozen others cascading out of the container to fall to the deck below, missing everyone by a few feet.

  Riyad touched one of the cartons with a toe. Not finding much resistance, he knelt and easily lifted it.

  “Empty." He rose and tossed the box to Narsai. The sailor caught it and smiled.

  "There's a second row of boxes," Faisal called down.

  "Clear them out!" Riyad shouted up.

  In less than a minute, both rows of boxes had been thrown to the deck below. Faisal shined a light into the container's now-accessible inner reaches.

  "They're here!"

  Masood, moving quicker than Narsai had ever seen him, ran for the ladder and was a third of the way up before Narsai or Riyad moved to follow him. By the time they were halfway up the ladder, Masood was already inside the container. Narsai climbed in and stood next to Riyad, his and the colonel's flashlights illuminating the container's true contents.

  Two cones, each five feet long and a foot wide at the base, sat inside wooden frames anchored in place with cables attached to the container's sides. Each one was dark green in color, and on the base of the cone facing him, Narsai could see a line of symbols that he recognized as Korean.

  Masood ran his hands over the first object as if stroking a pet. He turned, took several steps and leaned out of the container.

  "Get that equipment up here now!"

  "First impressions, Doctor?"
Riyad asked.

  "I don't know yet. They look like the warheads but until I can examine them more fully, I will not commit myself."

  Masood's assistants climbed into the container, carrying bags.

  Masood motioned toward the ICA men. "Stand back, please. And be quiet.”

  For ten minutes, Riyad and Narsai watched Masood, his two assistants, and Faisal examine the two objects. Tools and instruments were brought out and used. Finally, Masood stepped back and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. He smiled at Riyad.

  "Our friends in North Korea are getting better in their construction. I think we can expect a thirty-kiloton yield from each one. Colonel, you are now in possession of two perfectly functional nuclear warheads."

  By the light of Narsai's flashlight, Riyad's face took on a demonic appearance. He ran a hand against the wooden frame, his expression one of pure joy as he spoke.

  "Brothers, Allah has given us these weapons to punish not only those who have strayed from the true path, but also the Great Satan himself and his allies. They will feel our wrath. Saleh, notify the Saad el Melik that DESERT WIND is a go."

  "Yes sir."

  Faisal stared at the objects. "Sir, are you sure these are nuclear warheads?"

  Riyad’s gaze never left the atomic weapons. "I am certain."

  CHAPTER ONE

  Above the Atlantic Ocean

  The Gulfstream G650 had once been the personal toy of a Mexican drug cartel leader, who had used it to jet around the world for both business and pleasure. That man was now in a Federal prison, the result of a DEA sting, and a friend inside the DEA had tipped off Tanner Wilson that the plane was being sold at auction. Wilson, with the help of a few friends, managed to buy the Gulfstream, giving his team a way to get places without having to rely on the airlines and the security problems that went along with them.

  The plane was six hundred miles southwest of Puerto Rico, thirty-seven thousand feet over the Atlantic Ocean. Wilson took one last look at the controls before turning to look at Andy DeCasta in the co-pilot seat. An old friend of Tanner's, DeCasta was a retired FBI agent, twenty years older than Wilson and an excellent pilot. He'd been the one who had helped Wilson inspect the Gulfstream when it'd come up for auction, and had been teaching him the ins and outs of flying the business jet. He was short and lean, with a windswept face and merry blue eyes. He grinned back at Wilson.