War Tides

“I want you to contact the Europeans in Walvis Bay. Tell them we need them to draw the Americans away from the mine until our team is safely away from Namibia with the U-92.”

“And what of the shipment currently en route?”

“What of it?” al-Din asked with a shrug. “It is being processed into weapons-grade plutonium during transport, but it will not be enough for all of the missiles. We must hit every target. Not just some of them. Otherwise our efforts here will be utterly in vain.”

“As you wish, al-Din. I shall contact them immediately.”

When he hesitated to leave al-Din looked at him with irritation. “Something else?”

“Yes, sir, but I hesitate to bring it up at this time.”

“Stop wasting my time, Hezrai,” al-Din rumbled dangerously.

“The small contingent of Americans in Washington, D.C.”

“What of them?”

“They managed to capture two of our own.”

“Can’t your informants help us with that little problem?”

“I suppose but…”

“What, fool? What?”

“Sir, they will expect additional payment.”

“They can expect whatever they wish. Were I in your predicament, I might remind them that they have been compensated more than enough and we expect their services to continue until we’ve achieved our mission objectives. Now get out of here, I have work to do.”

“I shall pass on your, em, sentiments, sir.”

When Hezrai had left him alone—finally, blessedly alone—al-Din reached into the drawer of his desk and withdrew a bottle of French cognac. His countrymen didn’t drink alcohol as a matter of religious principle. Some even considered it a mortal sin, but al-Din had never been a religious man—something that proved to be a disappointment to his superiors back in Algiers. It was their intolerance of his lifestyle and confounded interference in his plans for revenge that had finally driven al-Din from his home country. One day he hoped to go back but for now he was content to proceed with his plans.

His father had left him well enough off that he didn’t need money. His connections had provided all the necessary resources for this particular operation. Finding members sympathetic to his cause with the expertise in ship-building he required had proved the most difficult task. But al-Din didn’t know the meaning of the word cannot, never mind the fact he didn’t even believe in the impossible. His father had taught him there wasn’t anything he could not do that he put his mind to do and it was a lesson al-Din had clasped close to his heart for these years. After enjoying a couple of drinks in silence, al-Din stowed the bottle and rose from his seat. He proceeded out of the office in the back of the waterfront shop they were using for cover. Proceeding down the hallway to the back of the shop, al-Din pressed a lever disguised as a light fixture and a part of the wall suddenly gave way to reveal a set of narrow winding steps. Al-Din descended the stairwell and emerged onto a grated catwalk that overlooked the construction facility.

It wasn’t terribly large at a span of only one hundred yards, but they didn’t require a lot of room. The thing that amused al-Din most had to be the fact the infrastructure had already been put in place courtesy of the U.S. government. The facility was originally designed to provide a sea-based post of operations and secondary hiding location for high-ranking members of government, but the Department of Defense had eventually abandoned the project due to budget constraints. The original contractor, suddenly finding itself without funds, pulled out quickly and the place had been abandoned.

Some money in the right hands revealed its location, and aside from some corrosion and dust from years of disuse, al-Din found the place relatively well preserved.

The restoration project began immediately and in just three short months al-Din had an infrastructure suited to the task of constructing the FACOS prototypes. Now he watched with admiration as the crews of fifty welders, riveters, shipbuilders and metalworkers were tasked by engineers educated in the finest Middle Eastern universities.

As he watched them work harmoniously, a sense of pride swelled in his chest and a smile played at his lips. Over the past months he’d watched the ominous forms take shape, six in all. They sat like sharks hovering just above the water in their dry docks of the frames, their rear-mounted sails rising ominously above the sleek, knifelike bodies. The sails were equipped with full sensor suite packages, each one costing about a third of their value on the black market. These had been secondary stock produced by a Japanese electronics firm with a DOD contract.

The submarines were marvels of engineering; al-Din had no trouble admitting that fact. Each sub was eleven meters in length and three meters from the keel to the top deck. The deck in the bow was currently open to reveal the launching systems for the missiles, each one capable of delivering a payload of one, but during submersion they were covered. They could hold up to eight men but their standard complement was only six.

They had only two weaknesses. First, because of their compact size they could not exceed a maximum depth of 110 feet, although al-Din didn’t consider this a flaw since they could easily match the speed of most U.S. submarines in service and easily outrun all but the swiftest high-performance surface vessels. Second, they were not able to fire their missiles while submerged because the pumps weren’t big enough to provide the ballast required to move the water through. Still, al-Din knew they would be able to deliver the missiles and still have time to make their escape in the end.

Yes, once the Americans realized the threat, it would be far too late. There would be no effective response to the missiles launched against the cities all along the prime real estate they called the East Coast, and although the yields of these missiles would not be that of ICBMs or aerial deployed bombs, the death toll would still be in the millions.

Soon, Latif al-Din would show America the price of his flesh and blood.

Namibia, Africa

SYLVAN FACCIO HUNG up the phone, spit into a waste-basket at his feet and swore.

“Don’t be a slob, Sylvie,” a voice behind him admonished.

Faccio turned to face his blond partner, who sat on the bed. The big and muscular German was named Weisgaden. “My sinuses are fucked up. And for chris-sake stop calling me ‘Sylvie.’”

“All right, sheisse.” Weisgaden threw up his hands. “Why be so squirrelly, freund?”

That was Weisgaden’s other habit that irritated Faccio. Not only was the guy unable to take just about anything seriously, but Weisgaden also had a tendency to speak half in English and half in German. Just certain words, really. Nothing specific that Faccio could put his finger on, but more like a random annoyance. Enough of an annoyance that there were moments Faccio felt like carving out the German’s eyes with the red-hot tip of the combat knife he took everywhere with him.

A third man emerged from the bathroom, the sound of a flushing toilet announcing his entrance. He stood there tall and lanky, attired in hiking boots, khaki pants, a military-cut shirt and OD-green vest. Just like a great hunter on an African safari, the man known as Norm Hellerman said, “I think both you mates ought to just move past all the foreplay and get married already. I mean, why be coy about how you truly feel for each other?”

Weisgaden expressed something between a grimace and a grin. “Fuck you, you kangaroo bush-hopper.”

Hellerman looked at Weisgaden a moment longer and then exchanged a grin with Faccio. “See there? He’s already talking dirty. What more could a guy ask for, mate?”

Faccio only gave the Australian mercenary the finger. He couldn’t figure how he’d been so lucky getting on a detail with these two clowns. Things had been fine doing local work back on Sicily. How he’d ever let a former client talk him into working with the likes of Hellerman and Weisgaden, Faccio would never understand. But at the moment, it didn’t really matter because they finally had some action on the horizon, and he would be able to find comfort in doing what he did best.

“You two want to stow that shit long enough to listen up?”

Hellerman looked surprised. “That’s kind of funny, ’cause I don’t remember anybody dying and leaving you in charge.”

“I ain’t saying I’m in charge. But I just got off the phone with our client. Seems they’ve run into some trouble in Lüderitz.”

Weisgaden put down the pistol he’d been rubbing with a gun cloth, and his eyes flashed with a new alertness. “Lüderitz? Why should they have any trouble in that ghost town?”

“They say there are five Americans and one local, some kind of doctor, causing trouble for their operations.”

“Five Americans? Military? Maybe Delta Force?”

Faccio shrugged. “Don’t know—they didn’t say. Could be U.S. black ops, maybe even independent contractors. Whoever they are, our contact wants us to shag our asses down there and take care of business.”

“Well, I for one am ready to get the hell out of this shithole,” Hellerman said as he gathered up his gear. “Sitting around here’s putting corns on my bum.”

“Too much information, bush-hopper,” Weisgaden replied.

Without further banter, the three men gathered their equipment and prepared to depart the hotel. They decided not to check out of their rooms since they were paid up through the week and the drive from Walvis Bay to Lüderitz wasn’t that far. With any luck, they could get down there, do the job and be back by morning. Five Americans wouldn’t be much of a problem if they weren’t expecting trouble—especially the kind of trouble at which the three mercenaries excelled.

Faccio hadn’t worked with Hellerman or Weisgaden before—and he fervently hoped he wouldn’t ever have to again—but word in his circle of influence was they each possessed considerable skills and were respected soldiers of fortune in their own right. So they weren’t a class act and personable types. So what? They knew how to do the job and that’s all Faccio really cared about. He only had to work with them, not be their bosom buddy.

They loaded their equipment in the SUV and Hellerman took the wheel. He’d operated in South Africa many times before and knew the terrain better than either Faccio or Hellerman. He maneuvered through the cold, rain-washed streets of Walvis Bay like an expert and soon they were on the B-4 bound for Lüderitz.

Movement throughout the country was surprisingly simple. Namibia didn’t have the legal resources of other countries and frankly didn’t need them. Crime wasn’t particularly high in the sparsely populated areas, and what zones might be more dangerous—such as highly concentrated areas of workers around diamond mines and the like—were highly restricted. Vehicles caught anywhere near forbidden zones were immediately stopped, occupants searched and all possessions seized. Random death and destruction occurred regularly in those parts, and unless one had a death wish they were best avoided altogether.

In some respects, Faccio had to admit he liked it that way. It made things much easier for operations like this one, and they could pretty much assume the role of dumb tourists if they did come in contact with authorities. Tourism provided most of the economic staple in this part of the world, and police hassling visitors was generally frowned upon by the majority of citizens. There was a sort of live-and-let-live policy in force and only the most serious crimes got any attention from the law.