End Game. Dale Brown
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screen blanked before Storm could respond.
Off the coast of Somalia 2345
Captain Sattari felt his gloved hand slipping from the rope. Swinging his left arm forward, he managed to grab hold of the cross-hatched metal fencing at the side of the support pillar. For a moment he hung in midair five meters over the water and rocks, his fate suspended.
If I slip, he thought, the man behind me will fall as well. He will be killed, and even if I survive, I will never be able to draw a breath as a man again.
He’d practiced this climb for months. He could do it. He had to do it.
With a ferocious heave, Sattari pulled himself to the pillar. Hanging by three fingers, he hunted for a better handhold. His left arm seemed to pull out of its socket before his right hand found a grip.
Up, he told himself, forcing open the fingers on his left hand. Sattari jerked his arm upward, throwing it against the fencing. His right arm had always been stronger than his left; he found a good hold and rested for a moment, then attacked the fence again, trying but failing to get a toehold so he could climb rather than pull. Again and again he forced his fingers to unclench; again and again he felt his shoulders wrenching. Even his right began to give way before he reached the top.
The first man up stood by the rail, waiting. Sattari took the rope he had carried up, tied it to the rail, then tossed it down. The captain helped the man who had started up behind over the rail, then went ahead.
Their target was a pipe assembly and tank housing fuel for the boats that docked here. Besides the large tanks containing ship fuel, there were two tanks that held the lighter – and more flammable – marine fuel used by small vessels. The tanks and some of the associated machinery sat behind a Cyclone fence topped with barbed wire. The point man began cutting a hole through the fence with a set of large wire cutters; Sattari went around the decking to the corner to act as a lookout while the others prepared to set explosives on the tanks.
A pair of metal staircases led down to the lower docking area just beyond the turn where he took his position. A small boat was tied to the fiberglass planks, and he could hear it slapping against the side with the current.
Sattari could also hear his heart, pounding in his chest. Never had he been this nervous, not even on his first solo flight.
The Indians had roughly two dozen men permanently on the island; another three or four dozen workers came out during the day when ships were docked or to finish up the many small items that still had to be perfected before the official opening in a few weeks. At night, a force of no more than eight men were on duty, manning lookouts on the northern and eastern sides of the large complex.
A local spy had reported that the watchmen varied their patrols admirably, making it impossible to time their rounds. However, this area was consistently neglected; like many security forces, the guards concentrated their efforts on what they thought the biggest prize was.
Sattari heard a noise behind him. He turned; the man who had cut the hole in the fence raised his hand in the air. The charges had been set.
They retreated to the ropes. Remembering the trouble he’d had climbing with the gloves, Sattari pulled them off. Better to burn his hands, he thought, than to lose his grip. He slung his gun over his shoulder and took hold of the rope, waiting for the point man before starting.
Sattari was about a third of the way down when his companion said something. The words were garbled in the wind; as Sattari glanced toward him to ask what he’d said, a gun barked from above.
Without consciously thinking about what he was doing, Sattari hooked his foot taut against the rope and swung up his gun. A muzzle flashed above him; he pushed the AK-47 toward the burst of light and fired. His bullets rattled sharply against the steel superstructure. Thrown off-kilter by the kick of the gun, the captain swung to his right and bounced against the fence. Before he could grab on and stabilize himself, he saw two shadows moving above and fired again. This time one went down, though whether because he was ducking or had been hit was impossible to say. The other shadow returned fire. Sattari squeezed the trigger of the AK-47 once, twice, several times, until its magazine was empty.
He let the rifle drop against its strap and skidded down the rope. The captain hit the water and bounced backward, rolling against a rock, half in, half out of the sea. Pushing forward, he willed himself in the direction of a boat floating nearby. Gunfire erupted from above. As he was about to dive into the water, he saw a shadow behind him on the rocks; it had to be one of his men. He twisted back, half hopping, half crawling, aiming to grab the man and drag him into the sea and safety. Bullets danced around him, but Sattari focused only on the black shadow that lay in front of him. He grabbed the man and pulled, growling as he did, a threatened bear cornered in an ambush. Pulling the soldier over his shoulder, he went back to the water, growling the whole time.
The steamy hiss of a rocket-launched grenade creased the air; a long, deep rattle followed. The water surged around him, pushing him down, but Sattari kept moving until hands reached out and grabbed him. The commando was lifted from his back, and Sattari was pulled into the raft. He pushed himself upright, looking around. They were the last boat to get away.
‘Detonate the charges,’ he told the coxswain when he saw his face.
‘Now, Captain?’
‘Now.’
Aboard the Abner Read, off the coast of Somalia 2345
Starship steadied the Werewolf a mile in front of the small boat’s bow. The Abner Read was now less than two miles away, but the warship sat so low in the water that even if the smugglers had infrared glasses they probably didn’t know it was there.
‘Werewolf, we’re about to radio them to stop,’ said Eyes. ‘Go ahead and turn on the searchlight.’
‘Roger that,’ said Starship.
The halogen beam under the Werewolf’s nose caught the bow of the little boat dead on. Starship looked at the image from the Werewolf’s video feed; he saw shadows in the cabin but couldn’t make out much else.
A warning was broadcast in English, Arabic, and French on all of the maritime radio channels. Starship came over the craft and fired a ‘log’ – an LUU-2 illumination flare – which lit up the boat and the sea around it. At the same time, a boarding party pushed off the Abner Read in a rigid-hulled inflatable boat.
Called a SITT, or shipboard integrated tactical team, the specially trained team of sailors was heavily armed and well-versed in dealing with smugglers. Starship’s job was to get a good look at the boat so the boarding party would know what to expect. He would train his weapons on the smuggler’s craft. The boat was so small it was likely the Hellfire missiles or even his 30mm cannon could sink it within seconds if he fired.
So could the Abner Read – its forward deck gun was already zeroed in.
‘I have nobody on the forward deck,’ Starship reported. ‘Uh-oh, here we go – two guys coming out to the stern. Going to the boxes.’
‘Are those weapons?’
‘Negative – looks like they’re trying to cut the crates loose. Want me to strafe them?’
‘Unidentified ship has failed to acknowledge,’ said Eyes, whose remarks were being recorded as evidence of the encounter. ‘Abner Read SITT team is en route. Werewolf, see if you can stop the smugglers from throwing the contraband overboard.’
‘Roger that,’ said Starship. He selected the aircraft’s 7.62 machine gun and sent a string of bullets into the rail of the small boat. He saw the people on the boat ducking as he flew past; wheeling the helicopter around, he steadied the nose to spray the stern again, using his weapon to keep them away from the back of the vessel.
A man emerged from the