Chapter 16 Chapter Fourteen
What the drones over Marka can see, so can the screens in the embassy offices in London. "Lieutenant Colonel, they are moving." The voice came from the intercom connected to the control center of the bunker outside Tampa.It was Master Sergeant Ord back on duty.The tracker was dozing off in front of the screen when he woke up suddenly and looked at his watch.It was three o'clock in the morning London time, and it was dark all around, and dawn was approaching.It was six o'clock in the morning in Malka.
Before the previous Global Hawk ran out of fuel, it was replaced by another Global Hawk with full fuel and sufficient endurance.The Indian Ocean was still pitch black.Night shrouded the streets and alleys of Marka.Along the coast of Somalia, on the eastern sea level, there is a very faint red, like a lighted cigarette butt.
But the lights in the missionary's house were already on.Little red dots move around—that's the heat source picked up by the drone's presence sensors.Its camera is also in infrared mode, so it can see what's happening on the ground up to six miles away in the dark.
As the tracker watched, the sky gradually brightened as the sun rose.The red dot in the distance below slowly turned into a black figure, walking back and forth in the yard.Thirty minutes later, the garage door opened and a car drove out.
Not that dusty and dented pickup, but a beautiful Toyota Land Cruiser with blacked-out windows.This is the most common all-around vehicle for people and cargo in Somalia.It has been al Qaeda's vehicle of choice since bin Laden's first public appearance.The tracker knew that the car could seat ten people.
Four thousand miles away, spectators in London and Florida saw eight black figures board the SUV.But they weren't close enough to see the two Pakistani bodyguards sitting in the front row.One is the driver, and the other sits in the co-pilot's position, fully armed.
Behind them sat the missionary, his Somali secretary Jama, and Opal.The missionaries wore Somali-style robes and covered their heads, so they couldn't see their figures at all.Behind them, are two other Pakistani guards.These four guards are people the missionaries really trust.All of them were brought by the missionaries when they were in the Khorasan killer group.Yusuf sat in the back, too, and the Sassaid from the north.
At seven o'clock in Malka time, other servants opened the gate, and the SUV drove out.Trackers face a dilemma.Is it really cheating?Surely the target now knows the drone is over his head, and he's still in the house, ready to sneak away while the drone is staring elsewhere?
"Sir?"
The guy with the joystick in the Tampa bunker needs to know what to do.
"Follow the car," said the pursuer.
The car drove out of town through a maze of streets and alleys.The car left the street, pulled into a warehouse with a huge asbestos tile roof, and then was out of sight.
Fighting to control his panic, the tracker ordered the drone back to stare at the missionary's compound.The house and yard are silent in the shadows.Nothing is moving.The drones are back to stare at the warehouse.Twenty minutes later, the huge black off-road vehicle appeared.It slowly drove back to the missionary's residence.
When the car must have reached somewhere, the horn was honked, and a servant came out of the house and opened the door.The Toyota drove in and stopped.No one got out of the car.Why?thought the Tracker.Then he understood: no one got out of the car because there was no one else in the car except the driver.
"Go back to the warehouse, hurry up!" He ordered Sergeant Major Ord.The operator in Florida reacted immediately and widened the field of view of the camera from a close-up to a wide-angle.Although the details of the scene are somewhat weakened, the entire town is in view.They changed it just in time.
Pickup trucks drove out of the warehouse one after another.Not one, but four.They're all half-cut, so-called convertibles.Seeing this change, the tracker almost fell over.
"Follow the convoy," he told Tampa, "and see where they go. I have to go. I'll be on my phone."
Ali Abdi was woken by the roar of an engine outside his window in Galaad Bay.He checked his watch. It was seven o'clock in the morning, four hours before his meeting with London.He looked through the shutters and spotted two convertibles leaving the fort's yard. It's nothing.He is very easy to please.Last night he had scheduled a final meeting with Afrett today.The old pirate would negotiate a ransom of five million dollars with Chauncey Reynolds and the insurance companies for the Malmo, its cargo, and its crew. Although there is still a fly in the ointment, Abdi is sure that if Mr. Garris knows that the old pirate will let the Malmö set sail two hours after the old pirate confirms the arrival of the US dollars in the bank in Dubai, he will also be very happy.At that time, the destroyers of Western countries on this coast can escort the Malmö to safety.Some rival clans had sent skiffs round the Swedish merchant vessel, hoping to rob her again if she was neglected. Abdi thought about money.He was about to get his second million.Gareth Evans would not lie to him as long as they wanted to do business.But only he knows that he is going to retire and move to Tunisia, in a beautiful villa, to live a safe and peaceful life, away from the chaos and killings in his hometown.He checked his watch again, turned over, and continued to doze off.
The tracker was still in his office, and he was considering several possibilities.He already has a lot of information, but he can't know everything. Six miles below the Global Hawk, four convertibles were criss-crossing the desert.He knew he had an agent in the enemy camp, probably in one of the four vehicles, just a few feet from the missionary.But he can't contact this person, and this person can't contact him.Opal's transceiver is still buried under a small house on the beach outside Kismayo.It would be suicide if he tried to take anything to Marka except the apparently innocuous things given to him in the casuarina grove. The trackers figured they'd meet somewhere, pay and deliver.He had no qualms about what he was doing.Because he knew that the Stockholm trainee was far more dangerous with the old pirate than with the preacher.Even the old pirate's own clan nicknamed him "the devil"; and the preacher would keep the intern alive for a ransom. After the handover, the missionaries are expected to return to Marca.That place is beyond the reach of the stalkers.The only chance to eliminate him is to lure him into the desert of Somalia, which is very empty and will not harm civilians. But missile attacks are also not allowed.Gray Fox made it clear again last night.The scorching sun raging over Somalia brought the first glimmer of dawn to London at this moment.The tracker mulled over his options.Despite his repeated pleas, those bigwigs were not at all considerate. SEAL Team Six is based on Virginia's Little Peninsula.But there's no time to send them halfway across the world.The Air Force Special Aviation Regiment and their long-range helicopters at Fort Campbell, Kentucky.Don't even think about it.He was concerned that the helicopter was too noisy.He has been in the jungle and desert himself, so he knows that the jungle at night is hell, with countless frogs and insects screaming non-stop; while the desert is terribly quiet, and the creatures living there have the same sense of hearing as a big-eared fox .The noise of the helicopter propellers carried by the evening wind could be heard for miles. He had also heard of a unit, but had never seen them in action, or even seen them.But he knew of their fame and special abilities.They are not American.Only two U.S. military units can rival them in prestige, the Navy SEALs and Delta Force, though both are on the other side of the Atlantic. Master Chief Ord roused him from his thoughts. "Lieutenant Colonel, they seem to be splitting up." The tracker returned to the screen, and the panic hit him like a punch, just like at first.Down in the desert, four convertibles lined up, four hundred yards apart from each other, far apart. It was a missionary precaution to make sure the Americans didn't use missiles that would miss the car he was in.Unbeknownst to the missionary, however, he was safe.Because the Ethiopian young man was right behind him.But now, the four cars are no longer lined up far apart.They each headed in different directions. The convoy was headed northwest toward the Shabelle Gorge, north of the heavily fortified enclave of Mogadishu.Between Ethiopia and the sea, there are six bridges spanning the Shabelle River.The four convertibles are now separated from each other, as if heading towards different bridges.The tracker only has one drone, and it is impossible to follow all the cars. Even with the screen widened to the maximum, only two cars can be seen, and each car is too small to be seen.The operator's voice from Tampa was urgent: "Which one, sir?"
Gareth Evans didn't come to the office until after eight.Lawyers rarely get up so early, and he is often the first person to show up at the office.Unless sleeping upstairs in the office, the night shift is now in the habit of coming out of the station behind the front desk, unlocking the glass door and letting the negotiator in. Chauncey Reynolds had arranged for him a room at a nearby hotel, where he could rest during negotiations.He brought a thermos of coffee from the hotel today.Later Mrs Bulstrode would show up and go to the deli to buy him a breakfast.When she came back, breakfast was still hot.Little did he know that every stage of his negotiations had been truthfully reported to MI6. At eight-thirty, a flashing red light told him Mr Abdi was calling.Gareth Evans never liked being swayed by optimism.He had been disappointed before.Still, he thought, he and the Somali intermediary were close to agreeing on a five-million-dollar ransom.This amount he was fully empowered.Sending money is not his business, someone else will handle it.He knew that there was a British frigate not far from the coast in that area, which could escort the Malmö to a safe area at that time. "Hi Mr. Abdi, I'm Gareth Evans. Any news for me? You're earlier than usual today." "New news indeed, Mr. Garris. Very good news. Best. My client agrees to settle the matter for five million dollars." "That's great, my friend." He tried to keep his voice from looking too pleased.This is the fastest case he has ever done. "I figured, I could have them wire the money today. How is all the crew?" "Yes, it's all good. It's just a little... how do you say in English... there are wasps in the ointment, but it's not serious." "The English word for 'fly' or 'question', I think. But never mind, 'wasp.' How big is the wasp, Mr. Abdi?" "That Swedish boy, that intern..." Evans stiffened.Mrs Bulstrode was walking this way, breakfast in hand.Evans held out his hand and stopped her. "You mean Off Carlson. What's wrong, Mr. Abdi?" "He can't come back, Mr. Garris. My client...I'm afraid...it's none of my business...he's got an offer..." "What happened to Carlson?" Evans' voice was completely out of the good mood of the past. "I'm afraid he's been sold to the Shabab in the south. But don't worry, Mr. Garris. He's just a trainee." Gareth Evans took off his headphones, leaned forward, and buried his face in his hands.Mrs Bulstrode put down his breakfast and went away.
Agent Opal sat between the car door and Jama.The missionary is on the other side.Without the shock-absorbing suspension on the "Cruiser", the convertible will suddenly bounce over every pothole or rock, swaying from side to side, and the body of the car vibrates violently.They've been driving for five hours and it's almost noon.The weather was muggy.The fact that there was an air conditioner in the car has long been a "historical file". Both Missionary and Jama dozed off.If it weren't for the jolt, Opal would have fallen asleep too.Now he misses it. The missionary woke up, leaned forward, patted the driver on the shoulder, and said something.He spoke Urdu, but the meaning quickly became clear.After leaving Marka, they kept advancing in column.Their car was the second of four.After the driver's shoulder was patted, the car deviated from the track of the car in front and drove in another direction. Opal looked out and back.The third and fourth cars did the same.The seating arrangement is different than on the "Cruiser".The driver was in the front, and the missionary, Jama and Opal sat together on the bench seat behind the driver.The three bodyguards and Yusuf of Sassed sat in the open compartment at the back. From the sky, all four of these cars look the same.It is also 80% similar to other pickups in Somalia.The other three convertibles in the convoy were all rented locally from Marka.Opal knew about drones, having received extensive training in them while at the Mossad spy school.He started to retch a little. Jama watched him warily. "Are you OK?" "Too crazy," Opal replied.The missionary also looked this way. "If you get motion sickness, sit outside," he said. Opal opened the car door next to him and leaned out his upper body.The desert wind blows his hair all over his face.He reached out to the back of the truck, and a burly Pakistani man grabbed it.He was suspended over the spinning wheels and was dragged into the back of the car moments later.Jama leaned forward and slammed the door shut from the inside. Opal paled and smiled at the three Pakistani bodyguards and the one-eyed Yusuf.They ignored him.He pulled out from under his long shirt what he had picked up in the casuarina grove.He had already used it once, and now he put it on again.
"Which one are we following, sir?" The question had become urgent.Global Hawk widened the lens, and the desert seemed farther away.All four trucks are at the edge of the frame.Suddenly, the tracker felt that one of the convertibles was an eyesore. "What is that man doing?" he asked. "The second car." "Looks like he climbed out of the car to get some air," said Master Chief Ord. "He's got something on. A baseball cap, sir. Bright red." "Come closer to the camera on the number two car," the pursuer yelled suddenly, "don't worry about the other cars. They are all cover. Follow the number two car." The camera pans to the second pickup truck.It was placed in the middle of the frame.The camera slowly zooms in, and the five people behind the car get bigger and bigger.One of them is wearing a red hat.Observers could make out the word "New York" very vaguely. "God bless you, Opal." The tracker took a deep breath.
The military attache lives in Ikenham.Every morning he runs five miles on the country roads here.Today he just came back from running when he was "caught" by the tracker.The time is eight o'clock in the morning.The military attache was previously a colonel in the 82nd Airborne Division of the "Screaming Eagle". "I'm sure I know him. He's a nice guy." "Do you have his personal number?" The military attache flipped through his BlackBerry and read a number to him.Moments later, the tracker found what he was looking for - a British major general.The tracker hopes to meet and talk with him. "Come to my office. Nine o'clock." "Must be there," said the tracker. The office of the British Special Forces Commander is based at Albany Barracks.Albany Barracks is located on Albany Street, just off the elegant Regent's Park estate.A ten-foot-high courtyard wall separated the buildings in the camp from the road.Guards stand guard at the opposite gate, which is rarely open to strangers. The tracker didn't think much of it, he wasn't wearing military uniform, and he went by taxi.The guard looked carefully at the rank on his embassy pass and made a phone call before letting him in.Another soldier led him into the main building, up the second floor, and to the commander's office at the back. The two are about the same age, and there are many similarities in other aspects.They all seem to be strong personalities with good physicality.The Englishman was two ranks above the lieutenant-colonel, and he wore a long-sleeved tunic with the General Staff collar pinned to the corner of the collar.Both of them have a seasoned temperament that is difficult to describe in words. Will Chamney started out as a security guard before being transferred to the Royal Special Air Service.He passed the extremely rigorous course screening, and then served as the commander of the Sixteenth Squadron of D Squadron for three years. Simply put, in the army, an officer or "Rupert" cannot choose to return to the original army unless he is invited.But Chamney came back, promoted to squadron leader, just in time for the liberation of Kismayo and then Sierra Leone Special Operations. Together with a special squad from the Royal Special Air Service, he rescued a group of Irish soldiers captured by rebels by parachuting.The rebels were alone, but their camp was deep in the jungle.The drugged-up rebels, who called themselves the "West Boys," lost more than a hundred casualties in less than an hour before retreating into the jungle.On his third visit to the Royal Special Air Service base at Hereford, he was already a regimental commander and had risen to the rank of colonel. When he interviewed the tracker, there were four special forces under his control: the Royal Special Air Service, the Royal Special Boat Regiment, the Special Support Brigade, and the Joint Special Reconnaissance Regiment. He commanded air assault units in the Helmand region of Afghanistan and the British mainland as a result of his adaptability during his three missions at Hereford as an officer in the Special Forces. He had heard of the Stalker, knew he was in town, and knew why he was there.While TOS was one step ahead, eradicating missionaries has long been a joint effort.Missionaries have instigated four murders on British soil. "What can I do for you?" he asked after the usual courtesy and handshake. The stalker's answer was equally brief.He needs help, and security clearance isn't an issue.The special forces commander listened quietly.As soon as he opened his mouth, he hit the nail on the head. "How much time do you have?" "Before dawn, I guess. There are three time zones between here and Somalia, and it's just after noon in Somalia. We'll kill him tonight, or we'll lose him again, and probably never find him." "You're tracking him with a drone?" "As we speak, a Global Hawk is over his head. I believe it was night when he stopped. There are twelve hours in the night, six hours in the first half of the night and six in the second half of the night. Hour." "Can't use missiles?" "That's right. He was traveling with an Israeli agent. His life must be guaranteed. To put it mildly, the Mossad would not be happy if he lost him." "That's not surprising. You sure don't want to get into that kind of trouble. So what do you want from us?" "pioneer." Charmney raised an eyebrow slowly. "HALO?" "I think that's the only way it's going to work. Do you have any pioneers in that area now?" Possibly the least known unit of the British Army, the Trail Blazers were the smallest, with just thirty-six men.Members are mostly selected from the Airborne Forces and then retrained.The training was extremely harsh and very few survived. They were divided into six groups of six people each.Even with their supporting troops, the total does not exceed sixty.No one has ever seen them.They can move miles ahead of conventional forces, and during the 2003 invasion of Iraq, they were 60 miles deeper than the lead American troops. On the ground, they used a stripped-down version of the Land Rover, camouflaged in "desert red," which they called "Littlefinger."A combat team has two Littlefinger vehicles, three people in each vehicle. Or they can also enter the war zone through HAHO.After leaving the plane, open the parachute, and then manipulate the parachute to "fly" a long distance, silently entering the enemy-occupied area, falling from the sky like a sparrow, without being noticed. General Chamney turned the computer screen toward him, tapped on the keyboard for a moment, then stared at the screen. "We happened to have a group in Semerit, an introductory desert training course." The trackers knew of Semerit, where an American air base was located, in the desert of Oman. During Iraq's Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait in 1990-1991, it was a staging post for U.S. forces.He calculated in his mind that the Special Forces would use the C-130 Hercules transport plane to reach Djibouti in four hours.There is a huge US Air Force base there. "What kind of permission do you need to lend them to Uncle Sam?" "At the highest level," said the Special Forces commander. "To be sent there, I suppose, requires approval from our Prime Minister. If he says yes, then yes. Everyone else will just pass the information up." "Then who can best convince the Prime Minister?" "Your president," the general replied. "And what if he can convince the Prime Minister?" "Then the Cabinet will give orders to the Secretary of State for Defense, then the Chief of the Defense Staff, the Chief of the General Staff, the Chief of Operations, and then me. Then I do what I have to do." "That would take a whole day. I don't have a whole day." The special forces commander thought for a moment. "Look, those lads are on their way back, via Bahrain and Cyprus. I can get them to change their route and go to Cyprus via Djibouti." He looked at his watch. Depart in an hour and land in Djibouti by sunset. Can you get someone to meet them and cheer them up?" "Absolutely no problem." "You pay the bill?" "We pay." "Can you go there and brief them? Including photos and targets?" "I'll go in person. I have a Grumman jet at Northolt Airport." General Chamney smiled. "If I want to fly there, I can only do that." The seats in the rear cabin of the transport plane are as hard as rocks, and these two men have experienced too much. "I have to go. I have to make a lot of calls." "I'll turn Hercules," said the Special Forces commander. "I'm not leaving the office. Good luck." Thirty minutes later, the trackers returned to the embassy.He rushed into his office and looked at the pictures of Tampa on the screen.The missionary's convertible was still bouncing through the ocher-brown desert.The five men were still sitting in the back of the car, one of whom was wearing a red baseball cap.He looked at his watch.Eleven o'clock in the morning London time, two o'clock in the afternoon Somalia time, and just six o'clock in the morning Washington time.Gray Fox was sound asleep.fuck it.He called Fox.The voice of answering the phone was obviously still awake.This is already the seventh call today. "What do you want?!" he yelled into the phone.The tracker explained to him what had happened in London this morning. "Please... Let the President go and tell the British Prime Minister, please do me a favor. And authorize our base in Djibouti to fully cooperate with this matter." "Then I must wake the Admiral first!" said Gray Fox.He was talking about the commander of the Joint Special Operations Command. "It's only seven o'clock in the morning to you, but he's a sailor and wakes up early. The Commander-in-Chief gets up early every day to keep fit. He'll answer the phone. Just let him talk to his fellows in London. Tell me a friend, do me a favor. That's what friends are for." The tracker had other calls to make.He told the pilot of the Grumman plane at Northolt Airport to draw up a flight plan to Djibouti; then booked a car at the embassy base car park under Grosvenor Square in London, thirty minutes Depart for Nokholt Airport. He ended up calling Tampa, Florida.He wasn't an electronics expert, but he knew what he wanted and knew it could be done.He was going to pack something in the Grumman cabin and control the Global Hawk over the Somali desert from his bunker in Tampa.He can't receive video, but he needs to keep up with the latest information on the pickup's crossing of the desert and its final stop. He told the communications center at the base in Djibouti that he wanted a direct line to the Tampa bunker, with audio and video signals.He also asked Djibouti to cooperate with himself and the incoming British paratroopers.Based on the influence of JSOC in the U.S. Armed Forces, he did all of this.
The President of the United States took a shower after his morning exercise and took a call from Joint Special Operations Command. "Why do we need them?" he asked after hearing the general's plea. "The target was one of those you selected in the spring, sir. When selected, he was known only as a 'missionary.' He instigated eight assassinations on US soil, including the bus massacre, There were a lot of CIA personnel in the car. We now know who he is and where he is. But he may disappear again at dawn." "I think he's coming, Admiral. But it's almost twenty-four hours until next dawn. Is it too late for us to send someone there ourselves?" "It's not dawn in Somalia, my President, it's almost sunset there. This British force happens to be in that area and they have a training mission nearby." "Can't we use missiles?" "A friendly intelligence agency agent is traveling with the target." "That is to say, it is very close to the target, and it is close?" "That's the only way, sir. That's what our people on the ground said." The president hesitated.As a politician, he knows that such a favor is a debt owed, and he will always have to pay it back in the future. "Okay," he said, "I'll call." The British Prime Minister in his office in Downing Street.It was one in the afternoon and he had a habit of having a light salad for lunch before crossing Parliament Square to the House of Commons.Can't get in touch after that.The Prime Minister's private secretary took the call from the Downing Street switchboard, put his hands on the receiver, and said: "It's the President of the United States." The two have maintained a personal relationship and are very familiar with each other.This contact is not necessary, but very useful.Both had stylish wives and young children.Greeted each other and asked about the current situation.Both London and Washington had unseen operatives who recorded every word of the conversation. "David, I want to ask you a favor." "Say it." The president of the United States should say no more than five sentences.The request was so strange that the Prime Minister was a little surprised.The calls were made over microphones, and cabinet ministers, senior civilian officials all looked suspiciously at their superiors.Bureaucrats hate surprises.The possible outcomes need to be carefully considered.Letting the Trailblazers parachute in another country could be considered an act of war.But who is ruling the wild lands of Somalia?No one deserves it.He shook his finger to warn everyone. "I'll have to check with my people. Call you back in twenty minutes, I'm sure." "It would be very dangerous, Prime Minister," said the Cabinet Secretary.He wasn't talking about the soldiers involved, but the international influence. "Let the chief of the defense staff and the chief of MI6 come to my office in turn." First came the professional soldier. "Yes, I know what the problem is and what their request is," he said. "Will Chamney told me about it an hour ago." The Prime Minister, he thought, should know who the commander of the Special Forces was. "So, can we do it?" "Of course. As long as they provide an accurate briefing before the Blazers enter the target area. That's up to our allies. If they have a drone over each other's heads, they can see the target clearly Chu." "Where is the Blazers now?" "On the Yemen side, it's less than two hours' flight from the U.S. military base in Djibouti. They'll land there to refuel, and they can get a detailed briefing there. If the young officer in charge is happy with the situation, he'll tell Will at Camp Albany. , and ask for permission. But this permission can only be given by you, Prime Minister." "In an hour I'll give you the final decision. I mean, I'll give you the political decision. The technical decision is up to you professionals. I'm going to make two calls and then I'll get back to you." There was someone from the British Secret Intelligence Service ("MI6", or just "Six"), not the director, but Adrian Herbert. "The Director is out of the country, Prime Minister. But my friends and I have been dealing with this matter for several months now. How can I help you?" "You know what the Americans want? To borrow one of our troops, Trailblazers." "Yes," replied Herbert, "I know." "How did you know?" "We did a lot of surveillance, Prime Minister." "Then you also know that Americans can't use missiles because there is a Western agent in the gangster's entourage?" "yes." "Is he one of us?" "no." "Is there anything else I should know?" "At sunset, there may be a Swedish merchant ship's clerk near there. He's a hostage." "How do you know that?" "That's what we do, Prime Minister," replied Herbert.Bulstrode would be rewarded afterward, he thought. "Can this be done? Rescue two people and eliminate the target?" "It's a military issue. We leave things like this to the military." The Prime Minister is not the kind of politician who does not have a sharp eye and sees the bad.The Swedes would be very grateful if the British pioneers could rescue the Swedish staff from there.The kindness may go directly to King Carl Gustaf, who may mention the matter to Queen Elizabeth.No harm will be done, no harm at all. "I will approve the matter and let the army consider the feasibility." Ten minutes later, he told the chief of the defense staff.He then called the Oval Office back. "Okay," he told the president, "if the Army says it can be done, the Trail Blazers are yours." "Thanks, I won't forget," said the man in the White House.
By the time the phone call between London and Washington hung up, the Grumman twin had entered Egyptian airspace.After flying over Egypt and Sudan, the plane lowered its altitude and headed for Djibouti. Above 33,000 feet, the sky outside the plane was still blue.The sun was still on the western horizon, a red fire-breathing ball.In Somalia, though, the sun was already dipping below the horizon.Tampa's voice came through the tracker's headset. "They stopped, Lieutenant Colonel. The convertible drove into a small village. It was between the Ethiopian border and the coastline. There was nothing for miles around. There were only a dozen households in the village, maybe twenty A mud house, some bushes, and a sheepfold. We don't even know the name of it." "Are you sure they didn't keep going?" "That's what it looks like, no more walking. They're all out of the car, stretching their arms and legs. I zoom in and I can see one of the targets talking to some villagers. The guy in the red baseball cap is taking it off." .Wait, two other convertibles are approaching from the north. The sun is going down." "Use GPS to lock on to the village. Before you enter the infrared surveillance, take advantage of the last sunlight, from as many angles as possible, take a series of pictures for me in various scales, and transmit it to the communication room of the base in Djibouti. " "Yes, sir. Carry out orders." The co-pilot came over from the plane deck. "Lieutenant Colonel, we have just received a call from Djibouti Control. A C-130 Hercules transport aircraft with RAF markings has just landed in Oman." "Tell Djibouti to take good care of them and fill up the Hercules. Tell the British I'll be there soon. By the way, how long is the estimated time until arrival?" "Just flew over Cairo, sir. We'll be at the airport in about ninety minutes." Outside the window, the sun has set and there is no moon.Within minutes, South Sudan, eastern Ethiopia and all of Somalia will be shrouded in darkness.
Notes:
Ali Abdi was woken by the roar of an engine outside his window in Galaad Bay.He checked his watch. It was seven o'clock in the morning, four hours before his meeting with London.He looked through the shutters and spotted two convertibles leaving the fort's yard. It's nothing.He is very easy to please.Last night he had scheduled a final meeting with Afrett today.The old pirate would negotiate a ransom of five million dollars with Chauncey Reynolds and the insurance companies for the Malmo, its cargo, and its crew. Although there is still a fly in the ointment, Abdi is sure that if Mr. Garris knows that the old pirate will let the Malmö set sail two hours after the old pirate confirms the arrival of the US dollars in the bank in Dubai, he will also be very happy.At that time, the destroyers of Western countries on this coast can escort the Malmö to safety.Some rival clans had sent skiffs round the Swedish merchant vessel, hoping to rob her again if she was neglected. Abdi thought about money.He was about to get his second million.Gareth Evans would not lie to him as long as they wanted to do business.But only he knows that he is going to retire and move to Tunisia, in a beautiful villa, to live a safe and peaceful life, away from the chaos and killings in his hometown.He checked his watch again, turned over, and continued to doze off.
The tracker was still in his office, and he was considering several possibilities.He already has a lot of information, but he can't know everything. Six miles below the Global Hawk, four convertibles were criss-crossing the desert.He knew he had an agent in the enemy camp, probably in one of the four vehicles, just a few feet from the missionary.But he can't contact this person, and this person can't contact him.Opal's transceiver is still buried under a small house on the beach outside Kismayo.It would be suicide if he tried to take anything to Marka except the apparently innocuous things given to him in the casuarina grove. The trackers figured they'd meet somewhere, pay and deliver.He had no qualms about what he was doing.Because he knew that the Stockholm trainee was far more dangerous with the old pirate than with the preacher.Even the old pirate's own clan nicknamed him "the devil"; and the preacher would keep the intern alive for a ransom. After the handover, the missionaries are expected to return to Marca.That place is beyond the reach of the stalkers.The only chance to eliminate him is to lure him into the desert of Somalia, which is very empty and will not harm civilians. But missile attacks are also not allowed.Gray Fox made it clear again last night.The scorching sun raging over Somalia brought the first glimmer of dawn to London at this moment.The tracker mulled over his options.Despite his repeated pleas, those bigwigs were not at all considerate. SEAL Team Six is based on Virginia's Little Peninsula.But there's no time to send them halfway across the world.The Air Force Special Aviation Regiment and their long-range helicopters at Fort Campbell, Kentucky.Don't even think about it.He was concerned that the helicopter was too noisy.He has been in the jungle and desert himself, so he knows that the jungle at night is hell, with countless frogs and insects screaming non-stop; while the desert is terribly quiet, and the creatures living there have the same sense of hearing as a big-eared fox .The noise of the helicopter propellers carried by the evening wind could be heard for miles. He had also heard of a unit, but had never seen them in action, or even seen them.But he knew of their fame and special abilities.They are not American.Only two U.S. military units can rival them in prestige, the Navy SEALs and Delta Force, though both are on the other side of the Atlantic. Master Chief Ord roused him from his thoughts. "Lieutenant Colonel, they seem to be splitting up." The tracker returned to the screen, and the panic hit him like a punch, just like at first.Down in the desert, four convertibles lined up, four hundred yards apart from each other, far apart. It was a missionary precaution to make sure the Americans didn't use missiles that would miss the car he was in.Unbeknownst to the missionary, however, he was safe.Because the Ethiopian young man was right behind him.But now, the four cars are no longer lined up far apart.They each headed in different directions. The convoy was headed northwest toward the Shabelle Gorge, north of the heavily fortified enclave of Mogadishu.Between Ethiopia and the sea, there are six bridges spanning the Shabelle River.The four convertibles are now separated from each other, as if heading towards different bridges.The tracker only has one drone, and it is impossible to follow all the cars. Even with the screen widened to the maximum, only two cars can be seen, and each car is too small to be seen.The operator's voice from Tampa was urgent: "Which one, sir?"
Gareth Evans didn't come to the office until after eight.Lawyers rarely get up so early, and he is often the first person to show up at the office.Unless sleeping upstairs in the office, the night shift is now in the habit of coming out of the station behind the front desk, unlocking the glass door and letting the negotiator in. Chauncey Reynolds had arranged for him a room at a nearby hotel, where he could rest during negotiations.He brought a thermos of coffee from the hotel today.Later Mrs Bulstrode would show up and go to the deli to buy him a breakfast.When she came back, breakfast was still hot.Little did he know that every stage of his negotiations had been truthfully reported to MI6. At eight-thirty, a flashing red light told him Mr Abdi was calling.Gareth Evans never liked being swayed by optimism.He had been disappointed before.Still, he thought, he and the Somali intermediary were close to agreeing on a five-million-dollar ransom.This amount he was fully empowered.Sending money is not his business, someone else will handle it.He knew that there was a British frigate not far from the coast in that area, which could escort the Malmö to a safe area at that time. "Hi Mr. Abdi, I'm Gareth Evans. Any news for me? You're earlier than usual today." "New news indeed, Mr. Garris. Very good news. Best. My client agrees to settle the matter for five million dollars." "That's great, my friend." He tried to keep his voice from looking too pleased.This is the fastest case he has ever done. "I figured, I could have them wire the money today. How is all the crew?" "Yes, it's all good. It's just a little... how do you say in English... there are wasps in the ointment, but it's not serious." "The English word for 'fly' or 'question', I think. But never mind, 'wasp.' How big is the wasp, Mr. Abdi?" "That Swedish boy, that intern..." Evans stiffened.Mrs Bulstrode was walking this way, breakfast in hand.Evans held out his hand and stopped her. "You mean Off Carlson. What's wrong, Mr. Abdi?" "He can't come back, Mr. Garris. My client...I'm afraid...it's none of my business...he's got an offer..." "What happened to Carlson?" Evans' voice was completely out of the good mood of the past. "I'm afraid he's been sold to the Shabab in the south. But don't worry, Mr. Garris. He's just a trainee." Gareth Evans took off his headphones, leaned forward, and buried his face in his hands.Mrs Bulstrode put down his breakfast and went away.
Agent Opal sat between the car door and Jama.The missionary is on the other side.Without the shock-absorbing suspension on the "Cruiser", the convertible will suddenly bounce over every pothole or rock, swaying from side to side, and the body of the car vibrates violently.They've been driving for five hours and it's almost noon.The weather was muggy.The fact that there was an air conditioner in the car has long been a "historical file". Both Missionary and Jama dozed off.If it weren't for the jolt, Opal would have fallen asleep too.Now he misses it. The missionary woke up, leaned forward, patted the driver on the shoulder, and said something.He spoke Urdu, but the meaning quickly became clear.After leaving Marka, they kept advancing in column.Their car was the second of four.After the driver's shoulder was patted, the car deviated from the track of the car in front and drove in another direction. Opal looked out and back.The third and fourth cars did the same.The seating arrangement is different than on the "Cruiser".The driver was in the front, and the missionary, Jama and Opal sat together on the bench seat behind the driver.The three bodyguards and Yusuf of Sassed sat in the open compartment at the back. From the sky, all four of these cars look the same.It is also 80% similar to other pickups in Somalia.The other three convertibles in the convoy were all rented locally from Marka.Opal knew about drones, having received extensive training in them while at the Mossad spy school.He started to retch a little. Jama watched him warily. "Are you OK?" "Too crazy," Opal replied.The missionary also looked this way. "If you get motion sickness, sit outside," he said. Opal opened the car door next to him and leaned out his upper body.The desert wind blows his hair all over his face.He reached out to the back of the truck, and a burly Pakistani man grabbed it.He was suspended over the spinning wheels and was dragged into the back of the car moments later.Jama leaned forward and slammed the door shut from the inside. Opal paled and smiled at the three Pakistani bodyguards and the one-eyed Yusuf.They ignored him.He pulled out from under his long shirt what he had picked up in the casuarina grove.He had already used it once, and now he put it on again.
"Which one are we following, sir?" The question had become urgent.Global Hawk widened the lens, and the desert seemed farther away.All four trucks are at the edge of the frame.Suddenly, the tracker felt that one of the convertibles was an eyesore. "What is that man doing?" he asked. "The second car." "Looks like he climbed out of the car to get some air," said Master Chief Ord. "He's got something on. A baseball cap, sir. Bright red." "Come closer to the camera on the number two car," the pursuer yelled suddenly, "don't worry about the other cars. They are all cover. Follow the number two car." The camera pans to the second pickup truck.It was placed in the middle of the frame.The camera slowly zooms in, and the five people behind the car get bigger and bigger.One of them is wearing a red hat.Observers could make out the word "New York" very vaguely. "God bless you, Opal." The tracker took a deep breath.
The military attache lives in Ikenham.Every morning he runs five miles on the country roads here.Today he just came back from running when he was "caught" by the tracker.The time is eight o'clock in the morning.The military attache was previously a colonel in the 82nd Airborne Division of the "Screaming Eagle". "I'm sure I know him. He's a nice guy." "Do you have his personal number?" The military attache flipped through his BlackBerry and read a number to him.Moments later, the tracker found what he was looking for - a British major general.The tracker hopes to meet and talk with him. "Come to my office. Nine o'clock." "Must be there," said the tracker. The office of the British Special Forces Commander is based at Albany Barracks.Albany Barracks is located on Albany Street, just off the elegant Regent's Park estate.A ten-foot-high courtyard wall separated the buildings in the camp from the road.Guards stand guard at the opposite gate, which is rarely open to strangers. The tracker didn't think much of it, he wasn't wearing military uniform, and he went by taxi.The guard looked carefully at the rank on his embassy pass and made a phone call before letting him in.Another soldier led him into the main building, up the second floor, and to the commander's office at the back. The two are about the same age, and there are many similarities in other aspects.They all seem to be strong personalities with good physicality.The Englishman was two ranks above the lieutenant-colonel, and he wore a long-sleeved tunic with the General Staff collar pinned to the corner of the collar.Both of them have a seasoned temperament that is difficult to describe in words. Will Chamney started out as a security guard before being transferred to the Royal Special Air Service.He passed the extremely rigorous course screening, and then served as the commander of the Sixteenth Squadron of D Squadron for three years. Simply put, in the army, an officer or "Rupert" cannot choose to return to the original army unless he is invited.But Chamney came back, promoted to squadron leader, just in time for the liberation of Kismayo and then Sierra Leone Special Operations. Together with a special squad from the Royal Special Air Service, he rescued a group of Irish soldiers captured by rebels by parachuting.The rebels were alone, but their camp was deep in the jungle.The drugged-up rebels, who called themselves the "West Boys," lost more than a hundred casualties in less than an hour before retreating into the jungle.On his third visit to the Royal Special Air Service base at Hereford, he was already a regimental commander and had risen to the rank of colonel. When he interviewed the tracker, there were four special forces under his control: the Royal Special Air Service, the Royal Special Boat Regiment, the Special Support Brigade, and the Joint Special Reconnaissance Regiment. He commanded air assault units in the Helmand region of Afghanistan and the British mainland as a result of his adaptability during his three missions at Hereford as an officer in the Special Forces. He had heard of the Stalker, knew he was in town, and knew why he was there.While TOS was one step ahead, eradicating missionaries has long been a joint effort.Missionaries have instigated four murders on British soil. "What can I do for you?" he asked after the usual courtesy and handshake. The stalker's answer was equally brief.He needs help, and security clearance isn't an issue.The special forces commander listened quietly.As soon as he opened his mouth, he hit the nail on the head. "How much time do you have?" "Before dawn, I guess. There are three time zones between here and Somalia, and it's just after noon in Somalia. We'll kill him tonight, or we'll lose him again, and probably never find him." "You're tracking him with a drone?" "As we speak, a Global Hawk is over his head. I believe it was night when he stopped. There are twelve hours in the night, six hours in the first half of the night and six in the second half of the night. Hour." "Can't use missiles?" "That's right. He was traveling with an Israeli agent. His life must be guaranteed. To put it mildly, the Mossad would not be happy if he lost him." "That's not surprising. You sure don't want to get into that kind of trouble. So what do you want from us?" "pioneer." Charmney raised an eyebrow slowly. "HALO?" "I think that's the only way it's going to work. Do you have any pioneers in that area now?" Possibly the least known unit of the British Army, the Trail Blazers were the smallest, with just thirty-six men.Members are mostly selected from the Airborne Forces and then retrained.The training was extremely harsh and very few survived. They were divided into six groups of six people each.Even with their supporting troops, the total does not exceed sixty.No one has ever seen them.They can move miles ahead of conventional forces, and during the 2003 invasion of Iraq, they were 60 miles deeper than the lead American troops. On the ground, they used a stripped-down version of the Land Rover, camouflaged in "desert red," which they called "Littlefinger."A combat team has two Littlefinger vehicles, three people in each vehicle. Or they can also enter the war zone through HAHO.After leaving the plane, open the parachute, and then manipulate the parachute to "fly" a long distance, silently entering the enemy-occupied area, falling from the sky like a sparrow, without being noticed. General Chamney turned the computer screen toward him, tapped on the keyboard for a moment, then stared at the screen. "We happened to have a group in Semerit, an introductory desert training course." The trackers knew of Semerit, where an American air base was located, in the desert of Oman. During Iraq's Saddam Hussein's invasion of Kuwait in 1990-1991, it was a staging post for U.S. forces.He calculated in his mind that the Special Forces would use the C-130 Hercules transport plane to reach Djibouti in four hours.There is a huge US Air Force base there. "What kind of permission do you need to lend them to Uncle Sam?" "At the highest level," said the Special Forces commander. "To be sent there, I suppose, requires approval from our Prime Minister. If he says yes, then yes. Everyone else will just pass the information up." "Then who can best convince the Prime Minister?" "Your president," the general replied. "And what if he can convince the Prime Minister?" "Then the Cabinet will give orders to the Secretary of State for Defense, then the Chief of the Defense Staff, the Chief of the General Staff, the Chief of Operations, and then me. Then I do what I have to do." "That would take a whole day. I don't have a whole day." The special forces commander thought for a moment. "Look, those lads are on their way back, via Bahrain and Cyprus. I can get them to change their route and go to Cyprus via Djibouti." He looked at his watch. Depart in an hour and land in Djibouti by sunset. Can you get someone to meet them and cheer them up?" "Absolutely no problem." "You pay the bill?" "We pay." "Can you go there and brief them? Including photos and targets?" "I'll go in person. I have a Grumman jet at Northolt Airport." General Chamney smiled. "If I want to fly there, I can only do that." The seats in the rear cabin of the transport plane are as hard as rocks, and these two men have experienced too much. "I have to go. I have to make a lot of calls." "I'll turn Hercules," said the Special Forces commander. "I'm not leaving the office. Good luck." Thirty minutes later, the trackers returned to the embassy.He rushed into his office and looked at the pictures of Tampa on the screen.The missionary's convertible was still bouncing through the ocher-brown desert.The five men were still sitting in the back of the car, one of whom was wearing a red baseball cap.He looked at his watch.Eleven o'clock in the morning London time, two o'clock in the afternoon Somalia time, and just six o'clock in the morning Washington time.Gray Fox was sound asleep.fuck it.He called Fox.The voice of answering the phone was obviously still awake.This is already the seventh call today. "What do you want?!" he yelled into the phone.The tracker explained to him what had happened in London this morning. "Please... Let the President go and tell the British Prime Minister, please do me a favor. And authorize our base in Djibouti to fully cooperate with this matter." "Then I must wake the Admiral first!" said Gray Fox.He was talking about the commander of the Joint Special Operations Command. "It's only seven o'clock in the morning to you, but he's a sailor and wakes up early. The Commander-in-Chief gets up early every day to keep fit. He'll answer the phone. Just let him talk to his fellows in London. Tell me a friend, do me a favor. That's what friends are for." The tracker had other calls to make.He told the pilot of the Grumman plane at Northolt Airport to draw up a flight plan to Djibouti; then booked a car at the embassy base car park under Grosvenor Square in London, thirty minutes Depart for Nokholt Airport. He ended up calling Tampa, Florida.He wasn't an electronics expert, but he knew what he wanted and knew it could be done.He was going to pack something in the Grumman cabin and control the Global Hawk over the Somali desert from his bunker in Tampa.He can't receive video, but he needs to keep up with the latest information on the pickup's crossing of the desert and its final stop. He told the communications center at the base in Djibouti that he wanted a direct line to the Tampa bunker, with audio and video signals.He also asked Djibouti to cooperate with himself and the incoming British paratroopers.Based on the influence of JSOC in the U.S. Armed Forces, he did all of this.
The President of the United States took a shower after his morning exercise and took a call from Joint Special Operations Command. "Why do we need them?" he asked after hearing the general's plea. "The target was one of those you selected in the spring, sir. When selected, he was known only as a 'missionary.' He instigated eight assassinations on US soil, including the bus massacre, There were a lot of CIA personnel in the car. We now know who he is and where he is. But he may disappear again at dawn." "I think he's coming, Admiral. But it's almost twenty-four hours until next dawn. Is it too late for us to send someone there ourselves?" "It's not dawn in Somalia, my President, it's almost sunset there. This British force happens to be in that area and they have a training mission nearby." "Can't we use missiles?" "A friendly intelligence agency agent is traveling with the target." "That is to say, it is very close to the target, and it is close?" "That's the only way, sir. That's what our people on the ground said." The president hesitated.As a politician, he knows that such a favor is a debt owed, and he will always have to pay it back in the future. "Okay," he said, "I'll call." The British Prime Minister in his office in Downing Street.It was one in the afternoon and he had a habit of having a light salad for lunch before crossing Parliament Square to the House of Commons.Can't get in touch after that.The Prime Minister's private secretary took the call from the Downing Street switchboard, put his hands on the receiver, and said: "It's the President of the United States." The two have maintained a personal relationship and are very familiar with each other.This contact is not necessary, but very useful.Both had stylish wives and young children.Greeted each other and asked about the current situation.Both London and Washington had unseen operatives who recorded every word of the conversation. "David, I want to ask you a favor." "Say it." The president of the United States should say no more than five sentences.The request was so strange that the Prime Minister was a little surprised.The calls were made over microphones, and cabinet ministers, senior civilian officials all looked suspiciously at their superiors.Bureaucrats hate surprises.The possible outcomes need to be carefully considered.Letting the Trailblazers parachute in another country could be considered an act of war.But who is ruling the wild lands of Somalia?No one deserves it.He shook his finger to warn everyone. "I'll have to check with my people. Call you back in twenty minutes, I'm sure." "It would be very dangerous, Prime Minister," said the Cabinet Secretary.He wasn't talking about the soldiers involved, but the international influence. "Let the chief of the defense staff and the chief of MI6 come to my office in turn." First came the professional soldier. "Yes, I know what the problem is and what their request is," he said. "Will Chamney told me about it an hour ago." The Prime Minister, he thought, should know who the commander of the Special Forces was. "So, can we do it?" "Of course. As long as they provide an accurate briefing before the Blazers enter the target area. That's up to our allies. If they have a drone over each other's heads, they can see the target clearly Chu." "Where is the Blazers now?" "On the Yemen side, it's less than two hours' flight from the U.S. military base in Djibouti. They'll land there to refuel, and they can get a detailed briefing there. If the young officer in charge is happy with the situation, he'll tell Will at Camp Albany. , and ask for permission. But this permission can only be given by you, Prime Minister." "In an hour I'll give you the final decision. I mean, I'll give you the political decision. The technical decision is up to you professionals. I'm going to make two calls and then I'll get back to you." There was someone from the British Secret Intelligence Service ("MI6", or just "Six"), not the director, but Adrian Herbert. "The Director is out of the country, Prime Minister. But my friends and I have been dealing with this matter for several months now. How can I help you?" "You know what the Americans want? To borrow one of our troops, Trailblazers." "Yes," replied Herbert, "I know." "How did you know?" "We did a lot of surveillance, Prime Minister." "Then you also know that Americans can't use missiles because there is a Western agent in the gangster's entourage?" "yes." "Is he one of us?" "no." "Is there anything else I should know?" "At sunset, there may be a Swedish merchant ship's clerk near there. He's a hostage." "How do you know that?" "That's what we do, Prime Minister," replied Herbert.Bulstrode would be rewarded afterward, he thought. "Can this be done? Rescue two people and eliminate the target?" "It's a military issue. We leave things like this to the military." The Prime Minister is not the kind of politician who does not have a sharp eye and sees the bad.The Swedes would be very grateful if the British pioneers could rescue the Swedish staff from there.The kindness may go directly to King Carl Gustaf, who may mention the matter to Queen Elizabeth.No harm will be done, no harm at all. "I will approve the matter and let the army consider the feasibility." Ten minutes later, he told the chief of the defense staff.He then called the Oval Office back. "Okay," he told the president, "if the Army says it can be done, the Trail Blazers are yours." "Thanks, I won't forget," said the man in the White House.
By the time the phone call between London and Washington hung up, the Grumman twin had entered Egyptian airspace.After flying over Egypt and Sudan, the plane lowered its altitude and headed for Djibouti. Above 33,000 feet, the sky outside the plane was still blue.The sun was still on the western horizon, a red fire-breathing ball.In Somalia, though, the sun was already dipping below the horizon.Tampa's voice came through the tracker's headset. "They stopped, Lieutenant Colonel. The convertible drove into a small village. It was between the Ethiopian border and the coastline. There was nothing for miles around. There were only a dozen households in the village, maybe twenty A mud house, some bushes, and a sheepfold. We don't even know the name of it." "Are you sure they didn't keep going?" "That's what it looks like, no more walking. They're all out of the car, stretching their arms and legs. I zoom in and I can see one of the targets talking to some villagers. The guy in the red baseball cap is taking it off." .Wait, two other convertibles are approaching from the north. The sun is going down." "Use GPS to lock on to the village. Before you enter the infrared surveillance, take advantage of the last sunlight, from as many angles as possible, take a series of pictures for me in various scales, and transmit it to the communication room of the base in Djibouti. " "Yes, sir. Carry out orders." The co-pilot came over from the plane deck. "Lieutenant Colonel, we have just received a call from Djibouti Control. A C-130 Hercules transport aircraft with RAF markings has just landed in Oman." "Tell Djibouti to take good care of them and fill up the Hercules. Tell the British I'll be there soon. By the way, how long is the estimated time until arrival?" "Just flew over Cairo, sir. We'll be at the airport in about ninety minutes." Outside the window, the sun has set and there is no moon.Within minutes, South Sudan, eastern Ethiopia and all of Somalia will be shrouded in darkness.
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