Born of War Page 8

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Just as William Parker pulled back to his farmhouse, he heard a rumble in the distance. It was pitch black outside. The farmhouse had no light left on and he was miles from the road. The day had been long with the trip back from Mobile taking several hours. He had accomplished what he wanted and needed to do. The arrest was a diversion, but Parker had to see for himself what had happened at the school.

  He turned off the lights to his truck and started to pull the tarp over the cab when he looked to the north.

  The lodge was on a hill just above the Chattahoochee River and several miles south of Fort Benning. The base had grown larger with the addition of the Armor School, tanks, armored personnel carriers, and several military schools meant to teach Army officers at every level how to fight.

  His farmhouse was also in line with the main runway at Lawson Field. Runways were numbered by the direction of the compass, and a runway’s number was perfectly in line with that particular point. Runway 26 would be aligned with 260 degrees on the compass. An airplane or helicopter, particularly in darkness or rain, had to depend upon the alignment as it approached for landing.

  The noise was not from an airplane landing.

  He stood in the total darkness as he watched movement just above the tree line to the north. The noise indicated some object was heading south.

  In combat, aircraft would not show their running lights. A rumble would be heard, without someone on the ground able to tell its direction, and then suddenly an object would appear.

  William Parker observed, however, both movement and lights. A pair of lights was on two approaching aircraft with two reds on the right and two whites on the left. They were on the tips of the wings. Two C-17 cargo jets came in low, just above his tree line, causing the ground to rumble. He felt the wave of noise as it bounced off the wall of his house.

  The aircraft were on a mission heading south. He looked back as they passed him by and headed directly towards the farm and its operation center.

  Parker suddenly realized how much he missed it all.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Bertok Genret watched as the flatbed container truck passed his Rover, then stopped just inside Yemen’s border. The truck had made it across the country of Oman arriving on a short-haul bulk freighter that had crossed over from Iran. The first third of the trailer was stuffed with prayer rugs of a thousand different colors. They had the smell of an old mill although each was made in a mud or stone hut in the mountains of Iran.

  “I will make a little profit on the side,” Genret thought as he patted the container while the driver took a break to go behind a rock. They would drop the load and then take the rugs back into Oman. Eventually they would sell in London or America or Canada.

  Genret looked at his watch.

  It would be dark soon.

  They would reach the small fishing village on the far coast of Yemen just after midnight. A fishing boat rigged to serve as the “mother” boat for several skiffs had its hull emptied for some special cargo. Genret had done this run several times. The missile was contained in several crates marked as coming from Iran. A freighter steaming directly to a port in Somalia had shipped a harmless-looking truck carriage. The carriage would transport the missile to the launch site. It would take a very close inspection to realize that the carriage was a weapons transport.

  Because Genret was a transport officer on this trip, he didn’t worry about the fee. It would be collected later.

  Switzerland had changed somewhat with the increase in terrorism; however, there were still ways fees could be paid that allowed bankers to look the other way. Not everything could be paid in gold coins, and sometimes coins needed to be exchanged for currency. A friendly banker helped that process. His biggest fear was that Faud would have someone rob him once he received his gold. But it would only recycle the money, and Faud would lose a dependable dealer. Far worse, the other dealers would get word that Faud was not to be trusted.

  The truck pulled into the village on the Yemen coast just past one in the morning. Genret parked his Rover on the other side of town and walked a mile to a road crossing. There, the truck picked him up and took him down to the rocky beach.

  “This will be a bitch,” he thought, as the truck backed up the beach as far as it could.

  “Clouds, perfect.” He looked up at the dark sky. Yemen had a constant patrol of Predators and satellites over its land. They were mostly concentrated on the capital and to the north.

  “Let’s move.”

  His workers pulled the rugs out, placing them on a large, flat rock near the shoreline. Then three men climbed in and slid the first crate out of the truck and onto the backs of several others. They carried the crate to a small fishing boat and then rowed out to the mother ship. There, they used a hoist to pull the crate onto the deck. Each would be paid more than they could make fishing in a month. Each suspected what they were carrying were boxes of RPGs going across the Gulf.

  Just before dawn, the mother ship would pull out of the harbor with the other fishing dinghies tied in line to its back. They would pass the big freighters coming in and going out of the Suez Canal, making sure not to get too close to any one ship. The captain would move in a slow and deliberate manner, and when on the other side of the sea highway, he would disperse the smaller fishing boats. They would catch a load of fish and then, as darkness neared, head into the shelter of the harbor in Somalia.

  Al Shebaab’s territory didn’t extend that far north; however, moneys were paid for a pass on this one occasion. Musa would meet the boat as it started to carry the load, crate by crate, to the shoreline of Somalia.

  It was a pitch-black night with a cloudy overcast. The new moon provided no light. The trucks moved south with little notice.

  “Attention on deck!”

  Everyone stood as the admiral entered the conference room of the U.S. Naval Central Command’s operations center.

  “Carry on.”

  He looked at the single door, and with his glance a guard shut it. Another guard was on the outside to make sure that no one casually walked into the admiral’s talk.

  “We have heard for some time of the Dong Feng.” The missile was well known to everyone in the room and those who served on Navy ships. The carriers particularly knew of the technology behind it.

  “We are not sure that they have yet gained the capability of catching up with a fast-moving target.”

  The admiral was talking of the intelligence reports that it might take another ten years to perfect the missile. The weapon was such a game changer, however, that the Navy had started to institute plans, particularly in the Pacific, to disperse the forces in case of attack.

  “We know that Iran is reverse engineering the missile with the help of the Chinese, and they have tested one. And you know of the Zumwalt.”

  There were whispers among the officers and senior enlisted as a photo of the ship appeared on the admiral’s PowerPoint. DDG-1000 was a completely different form of a ship. She was a ghost ship. She had been built from the keel up to be a stealth destroyer. The ship seemed to have been pulled from the pages of a Jules Verne novel. There were no sharp edges or visible railings. She appeared to be wrapped in a gray thin material that changed her shape entirely. Her tumblehome hull had an inverted, tapered bow that pointed aft, causing her to slice through the water like a ghost. She was made for silence. She stood out for the ability of not being seen.

  “The Zumwalt is heading our way. She will stay out of the Persian Gulf but will do her sea trials to the south, near the Gulf of Aden.”

  A ship of such size could not be kept a secret. As she passed any other vessel or merchant ship, the crews would be pulled up on deck to see the strange new sight.

  “With ISIS fighting to our north, others may wish to take advantage of our attention being distracted. We will need to keep an eye on everything, particularly as North Africa remains unstable and our friends continue to try and link up with each other.�
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  NavCent did have a full plate. And events were leading it towards deeper waters.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The old man stood outside the medical tent with a small, bony boy standing next to him. The child was leaning on the old man like a grandchild might lean on his grandfather. Karen Stewart was cleaning a deep cut on the foot of a woman when she noticed the two waiting to be seen. She was amazed at the people she had already met in the short time that she had been there.

  Karen would put a stitch or two in the foot. DuBose had told her that no numbing injection was required.

  “Save that for the more serious injuries.”

  What do you mean “more serious”? She looked at the cut. It was from a piece of metal, which was rare in this part of the world. The woman had limped and walked for miles to get to the clinic and was being seen only because her husband had come with her. He was a suspicious man and stood outside the tent as Karen treated the wound.

  The woman did not budge at all as the needle of the suture entered her leathered skin.

  Just like a pit bull dog. Karen remembered from camp as a teenager once that a dog had wandered into the row of cabins. It was also cut deeply. All of the girls screamed as it lay down under a planked step to the cabin.

  The dog’s owner showed up and apologized for the dog. He was trying to calm the counselor with promises that the dog would never come this way again. It was wounded after cutting through a barbed-wire fence that caught him in just the wrong way.

  While the counselor kept the others calm in their cabin, Karen snuck outside the cabin entrance and watched the owner. He pulled the dog out by its collar. It was a pit bull dog. He lifted it up and placed it on the top step. The man pulled out a small kit, threaded a string in a needle, and started to sew up the wound. The dog lay there without flinching. It was impervious to pain.

  DuBose was on the other end of the tent helping a woman with a difficult birth. She had been bleeding for some time. It was not likely that DuBose would save either the woman or her child. Her screams penetrated the entire medical camp. Bleeding was the one thing that a patient’s will could not stop.

  “Mataa, can you see what the old man needs?”

  She had one assistant who helped with the patient load. It had already become clear to her that they could work from dawn to dusk and never catch up.

  “Peter, do you need some help?”

  “No, it is Allah’s will.” Peter wasn’t being sarcastic. He had already taught her how the people who lived in this valley thought. Karen had cried for a day when the first child was lost. And Peter pulled her aside.

  “Ask the mother what she thinks tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “No, really, it is a part of your education.”

  Karen sat down next to the mother, who was laughing and smiling the next day as she played with a young daughter near her cot.

  “I am so sorry,” Karen said with tears in her eyes.

  The woman had a strange look on her face as she talked to two others who were sitting on the ground nearby. Her reaction to Karen’s tears mystified Karen.

  Mataa interpreted some of the woman’s words.

  “She says that ‘it is.’ ”

  “Nothing more?” Karen asked.

  “Nothing else need be said.” Mataa said.

  Acceptance was a mandate to survival. Another child would be born and another child would die.

  It was the eyes that Karen could not forget.

  She taped the wound on the foot of the woman in front of her.

  “Mataa, tell her to keep it clean.”

  “Ya, lady doc.” Mataa had started to call her that.

  It didn’t really matter. The woman would not keep it clean but her body had built up such a resistance to every possible type of infection that the tape would wear off, the wound would heal, and life would go on.

  Karen walked out to the old man and the boy.

  “Al-salamu alaykum.” She pulled the scarf around her head. It was taking some time for her to remember to do so, but every time she forgot, the looks were a quick reminder.

  “Wa alaykum s-salam.” The old man pushed the boy forward towards the doctor.

  “Oh, my. Hello.”

  He had brown eyes that followed her with the occasional blink. His head was on a slight tilt, as if he was protecting his neck. She felt his head and it was burning up with fever. She tried to move his head and the child whimpered. Other doctors may not have known what to suspect. Karen was, however, the daughter of the number-one expert in the world on this disease.

  “Mataa?” she called for the helper. “Please ask how long the child has been sick.”

  “He says two days. He doesn’t sound very sure.”

  “Why not?”

  “The child is from another village just to the east.”

  “Okay.”

  “Should I give this child a cot?”

  “Yes, but not in the tent. Take one out of the last tent and put it there, between the rocks.” It was the best that could be done for an isolation ward.

  “So, what do you think it is?”

  Karen was perched on top of the highest rock with the satellite phone. Peter was standing nearby. She wanted to cry when she heard her father’s voice.

  “Meningitis. No doubt.” Karen plugged her finger into her ear so as to hear his voice clearly. “Which strain, I don’t know.”

  “Can’t be a surprise. You’re in the middle of the meningitis belt.” Paul Stewart used his clinical voice when he talked of medical cases.

  “We have put him on the strongest antibiotic we have, but we don’t have vancomycin.”

  “I understand. Just make him comfortable.”

  It was clear that the child might not survive. He could be in admissions at an emergency room in a major medical facility and still not make it to sundown.

  “Yes.” She didn’t like what was being said, but she knew the truth well before she’d made the call.

  “Can you get me a sample of his blood?”

  She knew he was right. It may help others to know what strain was involved.

  “We have a satellite link. I think we can send a picture to you.”

  They had a remote location link and a generator that could be powered up when needed. She would have a picture of the slide to him before the end of work the next day in Atlanta.

  “Thanks.”

  “Is everything going well?” It was the father’s voice that was now kicking in.

  “Yes, I am learning so much.”

  “Well, you will be finished before you know it.”

  “I know. Dr. DuBose has been a great help.”

  “Love you. Bye.”

  The link cut off.

  “Mataa, ask the old man how we get to the boy’s village.”

  The nurse hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  “We need to see if we can stop the spread of this disease before it goes farther.”

  Stewart had been fully inoculated to include the meningitis vaccination. It may have not been the right one, but her risk of getting sick was fairly low. However, the disease could spread quickly. Neisseria meningitidis could infect an entire village within hours. Others would get sick, and death could soon follow. And it was a horrible death.

  Mataa spoke to the old man. He shook his head as they talked. Finally, he seemed to agree. He, himself, would take the doctor to the village.

  Paul Stewart stayed late and then came in early, still waiting for the slide to come across the Internet. The director had called him several times and left messages that Stewart ignored. He still wasn’t ready to give them a response on the other job.

  Finally, he opened his email and found the one from his daughter. The slide was attached to the email but was of poor quality. He tried to enlarge it as best as he could.

  “Damn!” One enlargement said what he needed to know. It was the same strain as the one from Yemen. The cells were linked together in the pur
ple tint like chains, angry chains, with spikes on the sides. It was also identical to the strain in Afghanistan. He called his assistant.

  “Where is Hernandez?”

  “The one with security?”

  “I need to see his friend.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Omar took the flight the next day from Cairo to Dubai. Every ticket had to be bought as a round-trip. A one-way would cause suspicion that could keep him in place for days or, even worse, cause him to be turned back to Cairo. In Dubai, he took a bus to the market and nearby he found the Daallo Airlines office.

  There he bought a round-trip ticket to Mogadishu, never intending to use the return leg.

  The airplane was Russian, old and hot. With his broken Arabic, Omar realized that the flight wasn’t going to Mogadishu. Rather, it was flying to Djibouti.

  The airplane landed at the Djibouti airfield and taxied past lines of gray military aircraft. Most had the markings of the U.S. Air Force. He had stepped into the beehive.

  What have I done?

  He was already feeling ill from the heat and smell of the aircraft and its passengers. Every look from an airline clerk caused his heart to jump.

  What now? He still had the Toronto Blue Jays hat on and he pulled it down around his eyes. The baseball hat actually helped him fit in with the crowd of passengers, as many of the younger ones wore a mishmash of American clothes and hats. He looked like a cross between an L.A. rapper and a young Muslim. As he moved farther into the Arab world the Canadian passport did cause more scrutiny.

  “I need to just keep moving,” he thought as he walked down the steps from the aircraft. Another plane was parked next to his and as he entered the room that served as a terminal, Omar realized that the signage for the other aircraft was to Mogadishu.

  He watched the mix of civilian aircraft still carrying people from one war-torn country to another. At the same time, the other side of the runway was an encampment of aircraft heavy with bombs. New container buildings stretched from one corner of the runway to another. He stopped for a minute on the tarmac looking at a hangar on the opposite end of the military complex. He pulled his baseball hat down so as to block out the glare.