PRIMAL Renegade (A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 8) (The PRIMAL Series) (13 page)

Bishop was left in the dark with nothing but the throb of the ship’s engines for company. He let his head slump forward. Tears filled his eyes and ran down the open cheek wound but he barely registered the stinging pain. His thoughts were preoccupied with Saneh and their child; he had failed them both.

CHAPTER 11

MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

Kruger clenched the sides of the metal copilot’s seat with white knuckles as they circled Mogadishu airport. Toppie was at the controls, perched beside him on a padded box, peering out the filthy windshield. The arms dealer’s feet barely reached the foot pedals as he threw the Soviet-era An-2 biplane around in a tight bank and lined it up with the runway.

“Don't you need to radio in?”

Toppie shrugged. “I don't have a radio.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “We flew all the way from Mombasa at night without a radio?”

“Yep, what the hell do I need a radio for? Next thing you'll be telling me I need lights.” He chuckled as he eased off the throttle and hauled back on the yoke.

Kruger squinted through the windshield at the rapidly approaching runway. The sun had just risen over the ocean and his sunglasses were in the cargo hold. He wasn't game to undo his frayed harness and grab them. “Toppie, what the fuck is that?” He pointed at the four-engine aircraft at the far end of the runway, facing them.

“Don't worry, he'll wait.”

He stared wide-eyed as the aircraft grew larger. He swore there was black smoke billowing out behind its engines. “Toppie, he's coming right at us.”

The pilot adjusted his glasses. “
Ja,
you might be right.”

Kruger clutched his seat as the aircraft raced toward them. He whispered a prayer as they dove toward the asphalt and the airliner lifted off. The roar of the four turboprop engines washed over them as the aircraft’s underside filled half the windshield and the runway filled the other.

“You crazy son of a bitch!” he bellowed as the biplane shuddered in the downwash.

They hit the tarmac with a thud and within a few hundred feet came to an almost complete halt.

“That was exciting wasn't it?” Toppie said as he steered onto a dirt taxiway on the opposite side to the terminal. He parked in front of a wire-fenced compound and killed the engine.

Kruger glanced out the side window and spotted a row of white helicopters embossed with UN in black lettering. “Please don't tell me we're going to be begging for a chopper from the blue hats.”

“All is not as it seems,” responded Toppie as he folded his glasses away and scrambled through to the cargo hold. He opened the side door and jumped down onto the dust. Kruger followed, squeezing his shoulders through the narrow hatch.

A tall man dressed in grubby blue coveralls met them. His hair was pulled back in a topknot and he wore a week’s growth on his face. “Toppie, my old comrade. So good to see you. Did you bring me anything?” he said with a Russian accent.

Toppie smiled broadly. “
Ja,
Vanko, of course.” He gestured to Kruger.

Kruger grabbed two cases of beer from under the Antonov's seats along with his gear bag. Sliding them across the floor to the door he climbed out again, slung the bag, and carried a case under each arm.

Vanko smiled broadly when he spotted the alcohol. “Good beer is so hard to get here in Mogashitu.”

“There's another four cases in there if you help us out,” said Kruger.

“Of course I can. I understand that you need a long-range helicopter.”

“That's right.”

“I have exactly what you need, follow me.” He led them past a security checkpoint manned by armed contractors, and inside the fenced compound. They crossed a large square of cracked concrete and walked between two white UN helicopters into a maintenance hangar. Under the rusted tin roof sat another of the aircraft.

The Russian-built
Mi-8
was a medium-lift helicopter designed for moving cargo and personnel. Powered by two turbines it was renowned for its reliability and strength. This particular airframe had been fitted with long-range tanks mounted on extensions attached to the side of the body. They reminded Kruger of the stubby wings usually affixed to attack helicopters.

“I didn't know the Mi-8 came with long-range tanks,” he said as he placed the cartons of beer on a workbench covered in greasy tools and parts.

“The older ones don't. We salvaged the hard points from an
Mi-17
that crash-landed here a few years ago. The fuel tanks are from a Hind gunship. The UN wanted to fly food further north and offered to pay lots more to get it there. So we adapt and we make more cash.”

He nodded; the helicopter was exactly what the PRIMAL team needed. “How much to hire her?”

“Fifty thousand dollars. If you want crew, another fifty thousand. That doesn't include fuel.”

He walked up to the aircraft and ran his hand over the Perspex nose and peered in at the cockpit. Unlike many of the Russian aircraft he had flown in over the years, including Toppie's An-2, the helicopter looked to be in good working order. “OK, you've got a deal. But, only if you let Toppie and I borrow a car for a few hours.”

The Russian shrugged. “Of course. When do you need the chopper ready?”

Kruger glanced at his watch. According to the text message he had received from Frank, the PRIMAL team was due in two hours. “Twelve o’clock, we'll be back by then.”

The Russian reached into his pocket and tossed Kruger a set of keys. “It will be ready. Try not to get yourself killed out there, it’s a rough town.”

“Maybe for commie pussies,” scoffed Toppie.

“Have you got a phone number, Vanko?” asked Kruger.

“
Da,
of course.”

“Good, give me the number. When my people arrive they will call you. Have someone meet them.” He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a roll of US dollars secured with a rubber band. “There's five grand here.” He handed it over. “That's for you for helping us out. The rest of the cash will arrive with my people.”

Vanko smiled as he took the money. “
Spasibo
.” It disappeared into his pocket, replaced in his fingers with a grease-stained business card.

Kruger texted the details to Frank who would in turn pass them to the team in the aircraft. “OK, Toppie, we need to get rolling if we're going to make it on time.”

They jumped in the mechanic’s pickup that was parked behind the hangar. Kruger drove them past another security checkpoint and out through the perimeter of the airport. A sandbagged machine gun post and concrete T-walls barricaded the security contractors from the outside world. “So where are we heading?” Kruger asked as he drove between rows of shipping containers and out onto a main road.

“We head north. The Pirate King lives on the outskirts of the city.”

“That’s what we're going to call him, the Pirate King?”

“You can call him by his other name if you want.”

“And that is?”

“Al-Mumit, the bringer of death.”

“Pirate King it is.”

***

THE SANDPIT,
ABU DHABI

Flash was so engrossed in his work that he didn't hear the door of the intelligence cell open. The first he knew of Frank’s presence was when the former British paratrooper placed a cold can of caffeine-enhanced energy drink on the desk next to him.

“You know if Chua catches you drinking those he's going to wig out,” he said as he grabbed the can and cracked it.

“Pfft, you think he's going to point the finger at me? Everyone knows you're the one who raids his stash.”

“Dude, you know that's bullshit.”

Frank laughed. “It’s all good, I've got my own supply.” He dropped into a spare seat. “What are you working on?”

Flash took a gulp and placed the can on the desk. “I've hacked the TRAFFIC servers. Trying to find out if there’s any dirt on the
Zenhai
,” he said, referring to the wildlife trade monitoring organization.

“You’re going after the whole network? Even though they don’t pose a direct threat to us?”

“Correct, poachers and smugglers are scumbags. We should unleash everything we have on those pieces of shit.”

“Because they hurt Saneh?”

“Yeah, but they're also stripping the planet of wildlife for a profit. Makes me so damn angry when I think that in the near future rhinos could be extinct because of greed, pure, filthy greed.”

“Not going to get any disagreement from me. So what have you got?”

“There are a dozen reports linking Chinese shipping to the illicit wildlife trade. Not just in Somalia and Kenya but all the way down the east coast to South Africa.”

“Any of them the
Zenhai
?”

“That's just it. The
Zenhai
isn’t directly associated with any illicit activity but the description of four of the ships match her perfectly. The
Leikun
,
Guangheng
,
Leixun
, and
Guangjia
fit the exact same profile, and are all involved in Chinese smuggling. So I ran them through an international ship register search and guess what?”

“None of them are registered?”

“Not a single one. However, a little Wikipedia research revealed all the ship’s names are from the Guangdong Fleet, the smallest of China's late 19th century fleets.”

“The Chinese aren't known for their creativity.”

“So I ran a search for every other name I could find and got a hit. The
Haichangqing
was a flat iron gunboat that served in the Guangdong fleet following construction in 1877. She's also a fifteen thousand ton cargo ship registered to a corporation in Shanghai. The same company has the
Zenhai
on their books
.
”

“Two ships or just a single vessel with two names?”

“Sneakier than that. They've got a single ship with two legitimate identities and another four illegitimate ones.”

“Crafty little bastards, so what's the next step?”

“Finding out exactly who the corporation is and then exposing their filthy underbelly.” Flash downed the rest of his can, crushed it, and tossed it in a trash basket. “How long till the team hits the ground in Mogadishu?”

“Within the hour. How’s the
Zenhai
tracking?”

“Still on course. I'm pushing her location over the
iPRIMAL
network. The ship’s transponder is pinging her location every ten seconds.”

“Good stuff.” Frank rose from the chair and turned for the door. “Hey, Flash.”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure you keep the hacking stuff low-key, yeah. Chua would be pretty pissed if we brought the CIA down on us again.”

Flash nodded. “Keeping it real tight, buddy.”

***

MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

Mogadishu wasn't quite what Kruger expected. He had never visited the capital of Somalia but he'd seen documentaries and images of the war-torn city splashed across television and the internet. Yes, many of the buildings were pockmarked with the scars of civil war and armed men stood on some street corners but he also sensed an air of hope. The people of the city were rebuilding and evidence of the rebirth surrounded them. Cranes towered over partially repaired office buildings. Donkey carts transported construction materials and children played among the rubble.

“Welcome to the Mog,” said Toppie from the passenger seat of the pickup.

“Doesn’t look too bad.”

“Things have changed. The African Union pushed Al-Shabaab out of the city and fighting has stopped.”

“Can't be good for your business.”

Toppie shrugged. “I don't supply arms to terrorists.”

“Regular fucking altruist, aren’t you.”

“No, I just don't like bastards who don't pay their bills.” Toppie flashed him a yellow-toothed grin.

Kruger laughed.

They drove for another twenty minutes through the hustle and bustle of the city to the outskirts. Here the scars of the civil war were more evident. They past abandoned homes and shops whose owners had fled or been massacred. The rusted hulks of destroyed armored vehicles and burnt-out cars lined the road. Kruger noted some damage looked recent. They passed through an African Union checkpoint where heavily armed and alert Kenyan soldiers eyed them suspiciously.

“It's a different story out here. The bloody Islamists still raid the outlying settlements. The only things keeping them at bay are the warlords. This is the Bad Lands, my boy. Out here, unfortunately, business is booming.”

“So what's the low-down on this Al-Mumit guy?”

“Used to be a fisherman but now he’s the biggest of the pirate bosses.”

“I thought the Task Force put an end to piracy off Somalia.”

“Almost, the smaller gangs are gone now but Al-Mumit remains. His people manage to avoid the navy and still hijack the odd ship.”

“Bit of a nutter then?”