Running Dark Part 13

VANDERLOCK WAVED EMMA TOWARD THE AIRPLANE. THE WORKERS were loading the last sack into the cargo hold. One had already jumped into his pickup and prepared to leave. She heard his car radio switch on with the motor. Towns.h.i.+p music filled the air. She paused to listen to the sound of pulsing beats and women's voices.

"What is it?" Vanderlock said.

"Towns.h.i.+p music. It's the second time I've heard it. I love it."

"I grew up with towns.h.i.+p music. I hate it," Vanderlock said. He grabbed her elbow to help her into the jet. The workers had wheeled a small set of rolling metal stairs to the entrance. Emma stepped up and into the body, with Vanderlock right behind her.

The jet's interior had been gutted. Only the first row of seats remained, the rest ripped out to allow maximum cargo s.p.a.ce. Wet burlap sacks filled every available inch. Twigs, leaves, and bits of dirt from previous flights covered whatever floor s.p.a.ce remained visible. The entire plane smelled of damp leaves, earth, moss, and a hint of mold. Skeletal metal rails, and nothing else, separated the c.o.c.kpit from the rest of the plane. Emma peered at the controls.

"Can you fly?" Vanderlock said.

Emma shook her head. "Not at all."

He lowered his frame into the pilot's seat. "Join me." He indicated the copilot's chair.

"You don't have a copilot?"

Vanderlock busied himself with the dashboard. "I often do, but he's away for a couple of weeks. If I flew with pa.s.sengers, I'd be grounded, but with khat? No one cares. The s.h.i.+pments must go on." He snapped a headset onto his ears, checked that the workers had closed the doors, and flipped some switches. The props began to circulate. Vanderlock handed her a second headset over his shoulder, all the while making adjustments and checking the dash.

Emma held the headset and hesitated.

Vanderlock looked up at her. "Are you afraid of flying?"

If you only knew, Emma thought. "I'm afraid of cras.h.i.+ng. Flying is okay." Despite the danger, uncertainty, and her exhaustion, Emma felt almost giddy with excitement. She'd never flown in the c.o.c.kpit of an airplane that size, never thought she'd ever do so. The idea of experiencing flight from the nose of the aircraft rather than the bowels of the plane seemed safer somehow-the way riding in the front seat of a car was more pleasurable than in the back. She scrambled into the seat, snapped her seat belt, and placed the headset over her ears. Vanderlock turned and taxied for a minute to an empty runway. When they reached the beginning, he throttled the aircraft forward.

The ground pa.s.sed under their wheels faster and faster as the plane chewed up the runway. The liftoff felt magical when viewed from the copilot's seat. One minute they b.u.mped along, grounded, and the next they angled into the air, floating. Emma laughed out loud with the feeling of the jet pulsing upward and the view of only the vast sky in front of her. Vanderlock seemed to enjoy her excitement, because he smiled. He kept his eyes on the controls as he maneuvered the aircraft higher. When they reached cruising alt.i.tude, the plane leveled off. After thirty minutes he pressed some more b.u.t.tons and visibly relaxed. He glanced at her, shaking his head.

"You're the first person I've known who has laughed while flying to Somalia," he said.

Emma refused to let her fear of what lay ahead eclipse the moment. "I love this," she said.

Vanderlock held her gaze. She couldn't read his thoughts.

"What do you do for Banner?"

"Ah. I can't say."

"Are you a mercenary?"

"I can't say."

"Are you his girlfriend?"

Emma snorted. "If I were, do you think he'd be sending me to Somalia?"

Vanderlock shrugged. "Word is he hires ex-military women. Wouldn't be unusual for those types to take dangerous missions."

"Tell me about the khat."

"Changing the subject?"

"Yep," Emma said.

Vanderlock settled deeper into the seat. "The khat is picked in Kenya, driven to Nairobi, flown out of Wilson Airport to Mogadishu, and from there distributed throughout Somalia. Speed is important, because khat stays fresh for only forty-eight hours. After that it's useless."

"How much is in here?"

"Five tons. And I'm not the only flight today."

"How did you get into the business of flying it?"

Vanderlock checked his dash before answering. "I always wanted to be a pilot, but opportunities were slim in South Africa where I grew up. I flew charter safari tours for a while, but dealing with rich tourists out of New York got old. Too much hand-holding for my taste. When a friend offered me the khat route, I jumped at it."

The whole explanation sounded a bit too pat for Emma. Give up a good job for making drug flights to the most dangerous place on the planet? Not likely, but she decided not to pursue it. Whatever secrets Vanderlock wanted to keep, they were no business of hers.

"Have you ever been fired on?"

He reached behind him to open a Styrofoam cooler shoved between a green duffel bag and the airplane wall. He pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to her, then opened another and took a huge gulp. He had stopped smiling.

"I had a close call just last week. Surface-to-air missile came within fifty meters. I banked pretty hard and circled to take a look. Nothing else happened, so I landed anyway. Shocked the h.e.l.l out of me. I've been flying the same route for two years now without incident. The insurgents know me and this plane. I'm still not sure if it was a mistake, some kid playing with a new toy, or deliberate, but it's not a good sign."

Emma swallowed. Her throat had gone dry. "Any idea what might be happening?"

"Things are deteriorating. The pirate activity is handled by the warlords. They're cas.h.i.+ng in to the tune of millions, but the rest of the maritime world is starting to push back. Banner's stunt sent a message that the warlords couldn't ignore. They're responding by ramping up their attacks on anything that moves."

Emma felt a flare of anger. "Why do you call it a stunt?"

Vanderlock raised an eyebrow. "Because he knew that the government in Hargeisa had no jurisdiction over those pirates. Hargeisa's in a section of Somalia called Somaliland. It's relatively peaceful by Somali standards, but it's not separate from Somalia and its government isn't recognized by the West. It's just an area some warlord decided to take over. In fact, there's no government in Somalia at all, so when the navy catches the pirates, they often just let them go again. Banner knew this but dragged them in anyhow."

Emma swallowed some water. "Sounds like he was making a point."

"That point being?"

"*Don't mess with me. I won't let you go.'"

"He's making that point against some very sick characters. They're going to attack Banner and his people with all they've got. And that means you."

The fear grew. She tamped it back down. "I'll take my chances." She sounded tougher than she felt. She only hoped that she was convincing.

"You sure are taking a chance." Vanderlock tossed the empty water bottle into a small garbage bag that hung from the wall on a bungee cord. "Listen, it may be none of my business, but something doesn't feel right here. When Banner moves personnel, he arms them to the teeth and they travel in groups for safety. His stealth guys operate alone, but they're armed as well. And you? You show up with Roducci, one of the biggest arms traders in the world, but you have no weapons, no luggage, and no escort."

Emma in no way wanted to have this conversation. It would only serve to scare the h.e.l.l out of her. She'd get to the second contact and take things from there. If Vanderlock was correct, she'd be in "relatively peaceful" Hargeisa in three hours.

"You're not armed that I can see," she countered.

Vanderlock pointed to a long metal toolbox strapped flush against the wall on Emma's side of the plane. "Open it," he said.

Emma reached to the box, flipped open the metal clasp, and lifted the lid. An AK-47 rested on top of another, tubular-type device.

"What's the tube?"

"RPG-7. Shoots rocket-propelled grenades."

Emma closed the box.

"And then there's this." Vanderlock leaned forward in his seat, raised the tail of his s.h.i.+rt, and twisted away from her. A pistol nestled in a holster at the small of his back. "And this." He put his left foot on the plane's side, pulled back his pant leg, and slid a slender knife out of his boot. He held the weapon up for Emma to see before returning it to its place. "I showed you mine, now you show me yours." Vanderlock's eyes held a challenge. Emma chose to ignore the double entendre.

"Please concentrate on flying this plane. You're making me nervous," she said.

He resettled into the flight seat. "You don't have a weapon, do you?"

She felt her face flush. Truth was, she couldn't shoot with any accuracy. If she held an automatic weapon and fired hundreds of bullets per minute, she might succeed in hitting a target, but success was not a.s.sured by any means.

"No," she admitted. "I'm not a great shot."

Vanderlock shook his head in disgust. "Roducci has a trunk full of guns in that Mercedes of his. Least he could have done is given you one. Can you fight?"

Emma was confused. "What do you mean?"

"Karate? Tae kwon do? Anything?"

Now Emma was getting angry. She didn't need his derision just then. She pointed at his metal box.

"Judging from that little collection you just showed me, fighting will get me nowhere once the bullets start flying. Listen, I'm a scientist and I just need to get to Hargeisa. I'm counting on you to fly me there. After that I'll go my own way."

Vanderlock put a hand up as if to ward her off. "Fine. I'll get you there."

They lapsed into silence. Emma gazed out the window. The fear had won. It overshadowed her joy at flying. She wrestled it back to manageable levels. She took several long, slow breaths to calm herself while she stared at the ground below them. She remembered a bit of advice a soldier had once given her: When in the field, sleep when you can. The sun on the winds.h.i.+eld bathed her face, and the plane's vibration soothed her. After a few minutes, her eyes grew heavy and she fell asleep.

She awoke with a start. Vanderlock had a hand on her arm and was shaking her. "First you laugh, then you sleep. You're a cool one."

Emma straightened up. She had no memory of falling asleep, and for a moment she was disoriented.

"We're landing." He pointed to a spot far in front of the plane's nose. "Over there is the city proper. Used to be a beautiful place back in the eighties. It's a little bit of h.e.l.l now. But we're not going there." Below them, battered buildings came into view amid the scrub and dust. Gaping holes and missing roofs revealed the extent of the destruction wrought by mortar sh.e.l.ls. The entire landscape looked bleak, hot, and forbidding.

Vanderlock focused his attention on the panel before him. Landing the plane appeared to be taking all his concentration. Emma stayed silent, letting him work. They dropped lower and lower. A single runway cut into the sand came into view. Vanderlock aimed for it.

They b.u.mped once before the plane settled into a fast taxi. Vanderlock lowered the flaps. The resulting drag pushed Emma against her seat belt. Near the end of the track sat several pickup trucks with men gathered around. Sunlight glinted off the guns slung over their shoulders. Their images flashed by as the plane shot past. When it seemed as if they would fall right off the runway, they stopped. Vanderlock worked some switches, and the propellers slowed. He turned to her.

"Welcome to Mogadishu. Also known as *Baghdad by the Sea.'"

24.

VANDERLOCK THREW OPEN THE DOOR AND SPUN BACKWARD. Men swarmed at the entrance, each one yelling at the other and jostling for position. They hoisted themselves into the plane, competing to be the first inside. They clawed at the sacks, hauling them onto their shoulders. A Toyota pickup pulled parallel to the opening, and the men flung the khat into the truck's bed. When the flatbed was full, the truck tore off, its spinning wheels flinging bits of dirt and stones into the air. Another vehicle pulled into place, and the men kept the sacks somersaulting out. The plane shook with the frenetic activity. Sunlight filled the aircraft's interior, and along with it came a wave of heat. Emma stood but remained pressed against the back of the copilot's seat to stay clear of the frenzied men.

A skinny Somali fought his way into the cabin. He wore a T-s.h.i.+rt and dirty green cargo pants, and he carried an open clamsh.e.l.l mobile phone in one hand. A necklace with a carved antelope head swung on a rawhide string tied around his neck. Emma stared at it, trying to recall where she'd seen it before. The memory danced around in her head, but she was unable to pin it down. The man's face twisted in anger as he shoved at the workers. He shrieked, "s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t!" interspersed with words in a language that Emma a.s.sumed was Somali. Behind him came a young soldier whom Emma guessed to be no more than nineteen, perhaps twenty. He wore jeans and black Nike basketball shoes. An ammunition belt encircled his waist, and two more crisscrossed his chest, covering the logo on his T-s.h.i.+rt. Emma noted that out of all the men, he was the only one in jeans. An AK-47 hung from a strap on his shoulder. Skinny Man stepped up to Vanderlock.

"s.h.i.+t-" he said, and followed up with some more words in Somali.

Vanderlock shrugged and replied in the same language.

Skinny Man turned his eyes to her, not with interest but with menace. Emma pressed back against the seat. Her foot hit the locker holding the guns. She pulled up a mental picture of them nestled in the case and wished she were holding one now.

Vanderlock began speaking again in Somali, but the young soldier interrupted him.

"You should speak in English. It is the only language you know well enough to be understood." The young soldier spoke in American English with no accent. Emma gawked at him. He caught her surprise and sneered at her.

"Yes, lady, I'm American. Like you?"

Vanderlock snapped out a sentence in Somali. The young man gave him a disgruntled look but subsided a bit.

Skinny Man jerked his head at Emma and turned back to the door. A worker carrying a large sack of khat blocked the exit. Rather than let the worker toss his burden and move out of the way, Skinny Man shoved him right between the shoulder blades. The worker yelped and fell out the door, landing face-first on the truck bed, the khat sack still on his back. The others continued heaving the sacks despite the fact that their colleague lay in the line of fire. Emma heard him grunt as two fell on him. He extricated himself and leaped out of the truck. He threw a look of pure hate at Skinny Man as he loped back to the plane's door.

Vanderlock moved next to Emma and bent to whisper in her ear. "Abdul wants us to step outside."

"Who is he?"

"That skinny one. He's a paid lackey for a warlord named Mungabe."

Emma heard Abdul scream, "s.h.i.+t!" and didn't understand anything else that came after.

"How many times is he going to say *s.h.i.+t'?" Emma asked.

"It's the only English word he knows. The khat is late this morning. These guys are a little strung out."

"Why does he want us outside?"

Vanderlock shook his head. "I don't know, but it can't be good. Normally I don't leave the plane. I let them unload, and then I fly away as fast as possible, because every minute wasted degrades the khat."

Emma flipped open the toolbox and hauled out the AK-47. "This thing loaded?"

Vanderlock looked alarmed. "Don't wave that around. These guys carry an entire a.r.s.enal with them. One aggressive move and they'll blow us apart. That's a last resort."

"They're not going to see it," she said.

"s.h.i.+t! s.h.i.+t!" Abdul was shrieking again, though at whom Emma couldn't tell.

She looked closer at the weapon, unfolded the b.u.t.t, and flipped the firing switch to automatic.

Vanderlock raised an eyebrow. "I thought you couldn't shoot."