Blood diamonds, p.3
Blood Diamonds, page 3
“And Palansky’s in charge of security there? Shit, he’s a Polack, all right.”
Mad Dog sighed in frustration. “Listen, Morstarr needs us because the thieves are well armed and the terrain is dangerous. Jack doesn’t trust all of his people, and he trusts the local police and military even less.”
“How much?”
“They’ll pay an even two mil to recover—plus Jack says he’ll pick up our travel expenses and bribes, but that’s it. Bottom line: no diamonds, no money.”
“Fuck that. You want the usual five hundred Gs just to go there and take a look around—because those rocks are long gone.”
Mad Dog shook his head. “Jack thinks they’re still in Angola. For some reason, the thieves are laying low.”
“Angola…now there’s a fun place. Decades of civil war, thugs running wild, fighting over diamonds. Poverty, disease, shit. You want to go there on a goose chase?”
“I gave Mr. Bibby a call, and he tapped his contacts at the diamond cartel in London. No one’s been approached yet about the buy of a lifetime. He also checked with some people in Antwerp and in Jerusalem to see if the cutters and polishers have been given any heads-up for an influx of new work.”
Over the years, Mad Dog had used his contacts within the military community to carefully recruit a team of first-class operators from all branches of the ser vice. While he preferred Americans, he recognized the need for international operators, leading him to hire Mr. Alastair Bibby, formerly of MI6, the British secret intelligence ser vice. Bibby was a character, all right, an intelligence specialist who abhorred most of the other team members, deeming them heathens and barbarians, though he seemed to tolerate Mad Dog well enough. However, even Mad Dog wasn’t allowed to call him Alastair. It was Mr. Bibby, thank you.
“You want to take this on, it’s up to you,” said Dan. “But I don’t like it.”
“Maybe you’re right. Could be a waste of time—or it could earn us two million big ones.”
Dan thought a moment. “Did Palansky say anything else about the thieves?”
“He thinks they’re the same band who tried hitting them a few times in the past.”
“Locals? I doubt it.”
“Well, here’s the thing. They couldn’t pull it off until now, so Jack thinks they got help from the inside.”
“Well, I don’t buy that some local yahoos got lucky and stole twenty-five million in rocks.”
“Like Jack said, they got help.”
“So he’s giving you gas money and greasing palms up front. No diamonds, and you lose big time. The boys will still need to be paid, and that’s big-time overhead.”
Mad Dog thought of the pictures hanging in his living room, focused on one in particular, a shot of himself, Eddy, and Doc eating breakfast at the “special table” before they’d flown off to Germany. They might not be his partners in the flesh, but he continued to seek their guidance. He heard them bickering over the job. Eddy was ready to go full throttle. Doc, like old Diaper Dan, had his reservations.
“Sometimes you just go with your gut and take the leap. It’s a good payout.”
“And you know what? Even if it winds up costing us, so long as no one gets hurt, it’ll still be worth it.”
“How you figure?”
“Come on, Michael. Running around in the jungle and hunting other guys? Playing with big bombs and big guns? That shit is fucking fun! I wish I could go with you!”
Mad Dog grinned and felt the rush—just a hint—but the rush nonetheless.
Dan nodded. “All right, so you’re going, leaving me here all alone in paradise with two young broads.”
Mad Dog widened his eyes and waved his index finger. “Hey, I find out you went online and bought more Viagra—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Mad Dog rose. “So how is your blood sugar?”
Dan made a face.
“You’ve been sneaking ice cream again. I told you!”
“Get out of here. Go run around Angola and bring back some money so you can support the old burden.”
Mad Dog went over to Dan, put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re an old fuck. But you’re not a burden.”
Mr. Alastair Bibby was already in the Philippines when Mad Dog had called him regarding the diamond theft in Angola, thus he was the first to arrive at the Spanish-influenced colonial-style home with guest house.
Bibby wanted to buy a house on Cebu himself, and he had been shopping around the island for the preceding few days. He would never stay with Mad Dog when he was in town, despite the six bedrooms, all with ample guest accommodations. He wanted to avoid the others as much as possible.
Deep down, Bibby was ashamed of what he had become, and he recognized quite clearly that he was living in denial. He thought he could make the situation better by placing himself above these callous killers, when he, in fact, was as cold and capable of murder as they were.
He had a history to prove it. After resigning from MI6 because of “personality differences” between himself and his superiors, he had gone to work for one of England’s most notorious mercenaries, Colin Ricer, a man who had nearly caused two international incidents, one in Papua New Guinea, the other in Sierra Leone. After leaving Ricer’s group, he had learned about Mad Dog from a mutual acquaintance, Mr. Waffa Zarour, a Palestinian man who had been educated in Saudi Arabia and who had opened up an Internet café in Ram Allah, ten miles north of Jerusalem.
Zarour, nicknamed “the Waffle Man” by Mad Dog, was one of the team’s best informants in the Middle East and belonged to a private network of spies who sold information to everyone, including the Israeli army, and, unfortunately, terrorist groups. While at MI6, Bibby had done quite a lot of “business” with Zarour, and when he had left Ricer’s group, Zarour put him in touch with Mad Dog.
And so for the preceding two years, Bibby had been collecting a paycheck from IPG and had participated in four major jobs. Sure, he had been tempted to join a much larger Private Military Company (PMC), but many of those lumbered along on bureaucratic treads, just like MI6. If Bibby was going to dedicate his time and efforts toward something, he wanted to be sure that the outcomes would be real and significant. That was the idealist in him. At thirty-nine, he was getting too old to just take the money and run. What he left behind was equally important.
At least that much he shared with Mad Dog and the others. They could affect change. They had, and they would again.
With all that in mind, he spoke briefly with Mad Dog, helped the man contact the rest of the team, then returned to his hotel. In the morning, the team would assemble for the obligatory briefing, then they would chopper up to Manila.
Bibby spent the rest of the evening coordinating their trip to Angola. You couldn’t kite around the world without proper cover, and he would make sure that all those ducks were in a row before they departed.
Several calls and chat sessions via his satellite-linked computer put the wheels in motion.
The next morning, as was his wont, Mad Dog had the caterers prepare a massive gourmet breakfast, and as the men slowly arrived, one by one, they immediately tore into fresh fruit, eggs, croissants, and crisp bacon. Heavenly scents wafted through the house, and it was all Bibby could do to hold back from gorging himself. He rarely ate breakfast. Only tea, thank you. He sat in a corner, watching his socially inept colleagues chew with their mouths open and swear, like, well, mercenaries.
To his left were Wolfgang and Sapper. Bibby wasn’t thrilled with those Neanderthals being on the team. He had repeatedly shared his concerns with Mad Dog, arguing that both men needed to take their positions more seriously.
The bearded and long-haired Tommy Wolfgang was a former master gunner in the U.S. Army, and while he had considerable experience with vehicles and weapons systems, his claims of being a “real demon” with the deadly arts had thus far gone unproven. He was an impressive shooter, though, carrying both the RT–20 Anti-materiel Sniper Rifle from Croatia (a 20mm rifle that he used to destroy big targets like APCs or anything else from a distance) and the H&K G36C, his primary weapon, a 5.56mm Commando carbine with a dual sight system and more. Both guns were as big and loud as their operator.
Sapper, whose real name was Daniel Culpepper, was a former army combat engineer, the team’s demo guy, and resembled a black prizefighter with diamonds in his ears and a tattoo of black flames rising up his neck. He carried a Barrett M468 6.8mm SPC carbine with an integral M203 grenade launcher to lob explosives farther than he could throw them. He also packed lots of 40mm buckshot rounds in addition to the HE grenade rounds, and he was probably the most heavily armed man on the team. Sure, he could blow up and kill with the best of them, but his bloated ego often clouded his vision.
Wolfgang and Sapper were Bibby’s biggest annoyances. The other six were all assholes, but they were serious about what they did and had true talent. Moreover, not all of them were recruited for every job. Wolfgang and Sapper were always around and simply too full of themselves. Even more disturbing was the fact that Wolfgang constantly vied to become assistant team leader, voicing his desire after every major operation.
Interestingly enough, Mad Dog had decided early on that leadership roles and increased bonuses would go to people on the basis of their ability, rather than on past service rank or seniority. True pirates of the Caribbean functioned that way. Mad Dog remained a strong leader and clung tightfistedly to the business-side of operations. That was understandable. Still, based on his own experience, willingness to listen, and willingness to let others demonstrate their prowess, he always received unanimous approval. His men didn’t just follow him because he had the money; they followed him because his skills in business and in war had earned their respect.
Bibby’s past successes, coupled with his intellect, had in the past year garnered him the title of assistant team leader. Fire Team leaders were also selected by Mad Dog. It was important for the team to function as a cohesive unit, despite personal differences. Mad Dog was all about unit integrity, which he firmly believed separated the combatants from the corpses.
“Why, hello there, old chap,” called Wolfgang, who wore a good portion of his croissant on his beard. “Having a spot of tea, are we?”
Like some Americans, Wolfgang enjoyed speaking with a British accent and didn’t realize how foolish he sounded.
And Bibby always threw it back in his face. “Nah, motherfucker,” he said like an Italian American New Yawka. “I’m drinkin’ my fuckin’ tea while you scumbags eat like a buncha gavones.”
“Come on, Ally, you know you love us,” said Sapper. “We’re just doing our thing. Someone has to provide the entertainment around here, and it might as well be you.”
Bibby lowered his voice and spoke normally. “Well, if that’s the case, then let me entertain you with a warning: I’ll expect nothing but the best out there, especially from you, Wolfgang. Your inability to grow up has worn thin my patience. There’s a lot of money at stake, not to mention our lives. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He headed across the room, to where old man Dan had staked out a position near the coffee pot.
Mad Dog finally arrived and gave everyone the requisite briefing, with Bibby stepping in to provide what intelligence he had already gathered. Wolfgang and Sapper folded their arms over their chests and looked unimpressed.
After the meeting they took careful inventory of their gear, packed it into a trio of Land Rovers, and headed off for the chopper, piloted by their rotary wing expert, Dick Gallway, aka “Night Stalker,” a former captain with the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment who had flown in Somalia and had some interesting tales regarding the whole “Black Hawk Down” affair.
Once in Manila, they boarded a C–130 that Mad Dog had purchased eighteen months prior. With Bibby’s assistance and contacts, he’d had it surreptitiously upgraded to the J series along with a customized avionics package that would make the USAF drool if they knew it existed. The plane was painted with a big TA (Tagalog Aviation) on each side of the stabilizer and was referred to by Mad Dog and the other gorillas as “Tits & Ass” Airlines and flown by a retired Air Force pilot named Gerald Styles, who also flew vacation charters for Mad Dog but who refused any job dangerous enough to interfere with his golf game. Mad Dog respected that. The guy was sixty-one. So Mad Dog routinely lied about the dangers involved. That got Styles in the cockpit every time.
They took off at midnight for the four hour, 1,287-nautical-mile leg to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. An hour layover there was necessary to repaint the T’s to emerald green and the A’s to powder blue on the stabilizers to signify “Thailand Army” military colors while the ever-conservative Styles topped off fuel tanks.
Why were these changes to the aircraft necessary? Because Bibby had made a deal with his MI6 contacts on Diego Garcia to make a refueling stop at the joint U.S.-UK air and naval refueling and support station. Thailand was conducting joint covert counterterrorism ops with the UK, and they would exploit these exercises by appearing as just another Thailand military aircraft.
They got out of Kuala Lumpur under the cover of darkness with no witnesses to their custom paint job.
The Diego Garcia leg was 7.5 hours, 1,862 nautical miles, at below best altitude to evade nosy radars. Styles told Mad Dog he’d have to keep it under 260 knots because of turbulence at low altitude.
“Even then it’ll be one hell of a bumpy ride, fighting head winds all the way,” warned the old pilot.
From Diego Garcia, they made the five-hour, 1,609-nautical-mile jump to Antananarivo, Madagascar. After refueling, repainting the TAs once more, and securing the latest intel, the smoothest leg of their trip began. It was a 6.5-hour, 2,081-nautical-mile run at best speed, over the mountains to Luanda, Angola.
During the last hour of their flight, Mad Dog leaned over and asked Bibby, “Jack’s got us covered on the ground? No questions? No interference?”
“He promised.”
“Great.”
Bibby hesitated. “Can we really trust him?”
Mad Dog smiled broadly. “Oh, I think we can. He was a marine.”
Bibby nodded slowly, but a question that had been burning inside since he had first learned about the job finally reached his lips. “Mr. Hertzog, what if your friend Jack stole the diamonds?”
“That would be interesting, wouldn’t it?”
“He told his boss about IPG and the ser vices we provide so he could exploit your trust in him. He sends us chasing false leads, while he gets away.”
“If he took the diamonds, he would’ve boogied in a second. He’s a hit-and-run kind of guy. Forget it. We can trust him. Period.”
Bibby leaned back, removed his small glasses, then rubbed aching eyes.
By the end of the hour, everyone was sitting upright, eyes wide, as rubber struck tarmac, the plane slowed, then taxied toward the gate at Luanda 4 de Fevereiro (LAD).
“Hey, Michael, we got a welcome wagon outside,” said Styles from the cockpit. “This is weird. Everything was cool with the boys in the tower.”
“Yeah, look at that,” said Wolfgang. “All the pretty lights—just for us.”
Bibby stood and went to one of the windows. A horde of local police cars was rolling up to the plane. “Well, he’s moved the goal posts on us, hasn’t he?”
Mad Dog frowned. “What the fuck?”
“You said we could trust him. Period,” said Bibby. “Bloody hell!”
“Doolittle?” Mad Dog called.
“Yes, Sergeant. Coming, Sergeant.”
The translator had never stopped calling Mad Dog by his rank, and the man had never corrected him. He must have liked the reminder. “Let’s see what’s going on.”
“This I don’t like,” said the translator. “Being detained is not good. Not here.”
“It’s just a mix-up. We don’t even know if we’re being held yet. Maybe Jack arranged this. It’s an escort.”
“A police escort for a planeload of mercenaries?” asked Bibby. “I find that hard to believe, even more so because Jack never mentioned this.”
Mad Dog winced. “Mr. Bibby, come along, please. Everyone else, sit tight. Keep your weapons holstered. We’ll be right back.”
The conversation with the airport security chief was, well, it wasn’t a conversation at all. He decided to arrest everyone, even after Bibby insisted that Morstarr had made “arrangements” for their arrival.
Mad Dog ordered the men to surrender, drawing groans from everyone except Bibby, whose face was locked in a smug expression.
Their weapons, cell and satellite phones, jewelry, and other personal items were confiscated, then they were escorted from the plane and, one by one, ushered into a small room, where each was subjected to the humiliation of a strip search.
Bibby ground his teeth as he removed his shirt and trousers, dropped his boxers, and glowered as the guards made a perfunctory inspection of his person. Even they seemed uncomfortable with the process.
He was allowed to re-dress, was cuffed, then transferred to a holding facility—a narrow, windowless, roach-infested room with no chairs—until the authorities could decide what to do with them. Guards were placed around the plane.
Wolfgang was thrown into the room, a pink lump forming on his forehead.
“What happened?” Mad Dog asked.
“When I bent over so they could check my crack, I farted in their faces.”
A few of the other guys laughed. Mr. Bibby did not.
The job had come to a complete standstill because Mad Dog had placed too much faith in one man. Never before had he made such an error. Bibby was seconds from meltdown.
“I bet this is all your fault, Bibby,” said Wolfgang, shambling over, his head turning even more red. “Old Jack there probably couldn’t understand your accent.”
Bibby pushed off the wall, brought himself to full height, and walked over to the man, wrists straining against his cuffs.
