Seal Team Six Hunt the Wolf(58)
Klausen said, “Of course, you’re to communicate immediately with Mr. Donaldson if you uncover any information that might be of value to him.”
“Of course. What about weapons?” Crocker asked, thinking ahead.
“What kind of weapons do you need?”
“Submachine guns preferably, but automatic handguns at least. Chances are we’ll encounter resistance if we board the ship.”
Mikael Klausen, who hadn’t thought of that, considered the problem now. “This could be difficult.”
“Weapons are necessary. We entered the country without them. I can’t risk sending my men onto the ship unarmed.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Five, including me.”
“I’ll talk to Reiersen and see what we can arrange.”
“All right.”
“Anything else?”
Crocker said, “Get us to Salalah, and we’ll take care of the rest.”
The Gulfstream V loaded with five SEALs landed shortly past one in the morning on a straight asphalt strip along the alluvial plain before the rough Jebel Akhdar mountains. A big half-moon hung slightly off-center in the blue-black sky.
“That’s where Job is buried,” Mancini said, pointing to the rough outline of peaks in the distance.
“Who the hell is Job?”
“You don’t know Job? The prophet from the Bible. The blessed, righteous man who was tempted by Satan.”
“Oh, him.”
“Remember the story of how God tested Job’s faith by taking away his children, wealth, and health?”
“I didn’t pay attention in Sunday school,” Crocker said. In fact, he’d hardly given any school a thought until he joined the navy at age eighteen. Before then he’d been a bat-out-of-hell shitkicker more interested in riding motorcycles and raising hell with his friends than in any form of study. The navy and SEALs had given him a purpose and goals.
“Where do you find this stuff?” Ritchie asked Mancini.
“I’m curious about things. I read and retain.”
“Read and retain—I like that,” Akil remarked.
They taxied past jets from Air India Express and Jazeera Airways, and stopped before the military terminal. A thick-shouldered man in camouflage pants and a white T-shirt waited outside.
“I’m Hal Reiersen,” he said in a thick Norwegian accent, extending a hand with stars tattooed on the knuckles.
Several French-made helicopters, two British SEPECAT Jaguar jet fighters, and a C-130 Hercules transport all painted with Royal Air Force of Oman insignia stood behind him.
“My name is Tom Crocker. This is the rest of my team.”
The night air was warm and fragrant with the lemony smell of frankincense, which grew in the nearby mountains.
“Let’s proceed to the port.”
“Good idea.”
They piled into a black van. Crocker sat up front next to Reiersen, who was built like a weightlifter and had an undistinguished round face and short, very light blond hair.
“The port is a few minutes from here. There are only two major hotels.”
“We’re not planning to spend the night.”
“Oh.”
There was no one on the highway that hugged the rocky coast stretching west, past a small fishing harbor. Then came a long strip of moonlit beach on their right.
“The Bedouins used to control this area,” Mancini explained from the back row of seats. “It was the beginning of the legendary frankincense trail.”
“Thanks, professor.”
A few miles past the city of Salalah, they entered the port area, which was bigger and more modern than Crocker had expected, with a half-dozen modern cranes and wharves stacked high with containers.
The gate was locked, so Reiersen had to get out to find the person in charge. He returned ten minutes later accompanied by a short man in tan overalls and a round Bedouin-style hat.
“This is Samir, the night manager of the port.”
“As-Salamu Alaykum.” Bowing like a character out of a movie.
“As-Salamu Alaykum. Peace be with you, too.”
“The night…it is beautiful.”
“Yes, it is.”
Moonlight glistened off the whites of Samir’s eyes.
Reiersen cleared his throat. “He told me the Syrena never docked here.”
“What!” Crocker did a double take. Did we land in the right fucking place?
The night manager spoke a little English in short sibilant bursts. “The Syrena, no. Never dock here, sir. Not this day.”
“But it was supposed to dock yesterday at noon, correct?”
“Cor-rect.”
“What happened?”
Samir threw up his arms. “No here. You can see.” He waved at the pier where a half-dozen ships lolled in the water.