Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (20 page)

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Justin finished his coffee and gladly accepted a refill from the ever-smiling and always attentive flight attendants. As he was finishing it, the pilot informed him they were going to land soon. Justin asked one of the flight attendants for a change of clothes, and she led him to the galley.

She opened the folding doors of a walk-in closet. Justin glanced in surprise at the vast wardrobe that appeared in front of his eyes. There were perhaps twenty suits of various shades of black, blue, and gray, along with matching shirts and ties. A large number of dress shoes and even a few pair of boots sat on the bottom shelves.

“The casual wear closet is at the other end of the plane,” explained the flight attendant. “But these are much nicer clothes. You’ll look fantastic in a black suit.” She reached for one that seemed quite expensive. “It’s a Brioni. Hand made in Italy.”

Justin ran his hand over the front of the suit. The surface was smooth and the texture felt rich. He tried it on. “A bit snug around the shoulders, but it will do.”

The flight attendant smiled. “You look like Bond, you know the British—”

“Yes, I know about James Bond.” He returned her smile.

She picked him a light blue shirt and a matching tie, a shade darker than the shirt. “Whites are so boring,” she said.

Justin took the clothes, then reached for a pair of ankle-high boots. “I plan to do some running,” he told the flight attendant, as she began her objections.

She nodded and smiled. “Whatever you want. And here’s a belt.” She gave him one she had taken from a hanger at the end of the closet.

“Thank you. For everything.”

Five minutes later, he barely recognized the man staring back at him from the washroom’s mirror.
She was right, I kind of resemble Bond. Well, maybe just a little.

Sana’a, Yemen

September 27, 9:10 a.m. local time

The troubles in Yemen began even before the Gulfstream landed at El Rahaba Airport, Sana’a International Airport. The air traffic control tower insisted the airplane did not have the full authorization in order to land. The Yemeni Air Force used the same airport, operating out of al-Daylami military base adjacent to the airport. The control tower claimed the Gulfstream needed permission from the military base as well. Justin was not sure about the truthfulness of that claim, but he wanted in no way to infuriate the air force, whose fighter jets were stationed at the far end of the airport. Some heated arguments followed, but Justin heard only bits and pieces through explanations of one of the pilots. Then someone higher up in the airport administration concluded no further permits were necessary, and the airplane landed safely after a thirty-minute delay.

Justin reluctantly said goodbye to the luxury of the Gulfstream. He was met by a gust of dry heat as soon as he stepped outside. The tarmac surface mirrored most of the sunrays, and the stench of jet fuel hung low in the air. He hurried toward a man waiting for him next to a white unmarked van at the side of the runway. The man was dressed in black pants, white shirt, and a black tie and was flanked by two security officers in camouflage uniforms, AKs hanging around their shoulders.

The man identified himself as a customs officer. Justin glanced at the badge around the man’s neck, convinced he was just doing his job. Justin showed them his Egyptian passport, one of many he possessed that were not registered with his Service. As an Egyptian national, he needed no visa to enter the country. The custom official nodded his satisfaction. They all hopped in the white van, and one of the security guards drove them to the small terminal.

Justin went through another security check inside the terminal: custom officials, plus local police, as well as four men in green Yemeni army uniforms. A metal detector and full pat-down. They ran his briefcase through the scanner, and the security officers made him remove his boots. Finding everything in order, they gave him no further hassles and waved him through after welcoming him to Yemen.

Justin walked through the terminal toward the exits. Crowds of people moved in all directions, with soldiers in camouflage uniforms and AKs providing a visible security presence. Sana’a International Airport had been a battleground as recently as three months ago, when tribesmen and sacked army officers had mounted a siege of the airport, attacking it with heavy machine guns and RPGs. The regime change in Yemen had not gone very smooth. The new embattled government was fighting loyalists of the deposed President, especially those still holding great power within the military. The government was also locked in fierce clashes with al-Qaida in the south and al-Shabaab in the north of the country.

A couple of the flights display screens were out of order, but the place was quite clean. Some of the common amenities found in larger airports were missing, but not the hustles from eager salesmen. Since Justin had no luggage, they bombarded him with offers to find him a taxi or a hotel. Justin declined them in English with polite words.

Outside the terminal, he pushed his way through a crowd of cab drivers, all vying for his business. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun and looked around for his ride. He spotted two white Land Rovers parked just beyond the area reserved for taxis and began to walk in that direction. Most of the taxis were small cars, neat and clean European and Asian models, with the occasional van and SUV, all painted in white and yellow. When he was a dozen or so steps away from the first Land Rover, the front passenger door opened. A large muscular man with close-cropped blonde hair stepped out.

“Are you Justin?” he asked in English with a thick Russian accent.

Justin stopped. “Who are you?” He flexed his arms, balling his hands into fists.

“Don’t be afraid. My name is Grigory. Mr. Romanov sent us to meet you.”

Grigory’s nose was crooked.
Broken one too many times,
Justin thought. He looked at the Land Rover behind the man. UN was written in large black letters on the hood and on the side. The driver looked like a copycat of Grigory, only he had a dark complexion. His threatening eyes were fixed on Justin. A woman—Justin recognized her as Yuliya Markov—was seating in the back. She gave him a slight nod.

“Are you coming or not?” Grigory’s spread out his big arms and gestured with his head toward the Land Rover.

“Sure,” Justin replied.

“No luggage?”

“I travel light.”

“Back seat.”

Yuliya reached over and slid open the door for Justin. “Welcome,” she said.

“My name is Justin Hall.”

“Yuliya Markov. Nice to meet you.”

They shook hands.

“This is Anton,” Grigory said.

Anton said nothing, but gave a low grunt. He made quick eye contact with Justin through his rearview mirror before starting the engine.

“And this is the lady Mr. Romanov sent us to pick up for him,” Grigory said to Anton in rapid Russian. “She’s to be our leader. Her name is Justina, and she’s dressed like she’s going to a party, not a mission.”

Anton grinned, then looked up at Justin, who held his blank, emotionless face, like he had no idea what they were saying in their language and they were making fun of him. Grigory turned around to see Justin’s reaction. “Anton doesn’t speak English, so I told him your name and that you’ll be working with our team.”

Justin nodded, his face warming up to the explanation. “That’s OK. I don’t speak Russian either.”

He threw a quick glance at Yuliya. Her eyebrows had formed a deep frown, and her eyes had narrowed. “That’s enough,” she said in Russian in a firm, but soft voice, trying to give no hint of her anger to Justin. “Leave him alone and mind your own business.”

Anton drove in silence. Grigory said to Yuliya, “You don’t like jokes?”

“Not when they make fun of women and our friends.”

Justin immediately liked her.

Grigory shifted back to the forward-facing position in his seat. Yuliya looked at Justin and offered him a warm smile. “We’re going to the safe house, which is not too far.”

Justin looked at the white and gray structure of the airport terminal while Anton put the car in reverse. He honked to indicate his intention to get out of the parking area and pushed his way in front of a small Volkswagen that screeched to a halt to avoid crashing into the large SUV. They pulled onto Airport Road, then traffic crawled to a stop because of a heavy military checkpoint.

A couple of tanks—old but still menacing—along with a host of armored vehicles had formed a semi-circle around the checkpoint, bottlenecking the two-lane road. Six soldiers seemed to be doing most of the work, checking documents and throwing casual glances at trunks and back seats. The other soldiers were chatting amongst themselves, seeking shelter from the broiling sun next to their vehicles.

“They’ve increased security since the attacks on the airport,” Yuliya said.

“Yes, but this
security
has no point,” Grigory said in English. “They searched our car
thoroughly
when we arrived but did not find our guns in the secret compartment.”

Yuliya shrugged. “Yemeni security, what can I say?”

Ten minutes later, they had left behind the checkpoint. Anton kept his foot on the gas pedal. Even the Land Rover behind them was struggling to keep up. The two- and three-story whitewashed buildings became a dusty blur as they travelled north. Airport Road turned into A8. A few green fields stretched on the left side of the road. They were at the northern edge of the city.

Anton took a couple of right turns, and they entered into a residential area. One-story houses built very close to one another, separated by debris-littered, narrow alleys, with dirt roads in the front. A group of children in tattered clothes ran behind a young man riding a shabby bicycle. Four or five men talked next to a couple of old, battered Toyota taxis parked by a fruit stand in front of small store.

“Our safe house is in there, to the right,” Grigory said.

Anton slowed down almost to a halt to make the tight corner. As the Land Rover turned, the screech of an RPG cut through the air. It slammed into the house to their left, blowing a huge hole in the wall and missing the SUV by just a couple of feet.

“A trap,” said Anton.

Those were his last words. A long barrage from a heavy machine gun sprayed the windshield of the Land Rover. Bullets bounced around the cabin. Justin lowered his head, avoiding Yuliya’s knees and feet. She was sliding down to the floor and digging under the seat.

Grigory mumbled something in Russian, but Justin could not make out his words. “What’s he saying? Where are the guns?” Justin asked Yuliya in Russian.

“You speak Russian?” Her eyes narrowed.

“Yes, but I can’t explain now. The guns. Where are they?”

More bullets slammed into the car. More groans came from Grigory.

“Here.” Yuliya slid a gun toward him.

Justin did not see where it came from but assumed it was from the secret compartment. It was a PP-19 Bizon, a 9mm submachine gun, one of the perks of being a Spetsnaz member. He grabbed it and pushed the door open with his shoulder. He rolled on the ground and flattened himself against the wall of the nearest house. Gunshots rang all around him. The ear-splitting drum of a PK machine gun, followed by the distinctive clatter of dueling AKs. Justin glanced toward the Land Rover, but did not see Yuliya. The windshield and the hood were full of bullet holes.

He sidestepped along the wall. Voices chanted in Arabic, praising Allah and shouting battle cries. Justin snapped open the folding metal stock of the gun. The PP-19 became an extension of his right arm. He scoped the end of the road through its sight. A parked Mercedes-Benz. Two open windows in the houses behind it. A balcony with the door leading to it open as well. Then he found his targets.

A man was reloading his AK on the roof, right above the balcony. Justin aimed his gun, squeezed the trigger, and put a bullet through the man’s head. He dropped the gun half an inch and fired a quick burst, hitting the two men who came out on the balcony. They had no chance to use their AKs.

A barrage came from the left. Bullets whizzed over his shoulders, digging holes in the whitewashed wall. Mini-explosions of dirt blew up inches away from his face. Justin turned his gun to the left and let off a few wild rounds. It was suppressive fire to force the enemy down.

It worked. The barrage stopped for a moment. Justin raced to the other side of the road, seeking cover against a door.

“Right behind you,” he heard Yuliya’s voice. “I got your back.”

Justin nodded, then asked, “Grigory? Anton?”

“Both dead.”

Gunfire exploded behind them. A heavy machine gun rattle, then silence for a couple of seconds. A weak burst of a pistol followed, then an AK silenced it.

“The other Rover,” said Justin.

Yuliya nodded. “Yes, but we can’t help them.”

Bullets ricocheted off the potholed road, flying in a crisscross pattern. Uncontrolled and off-target shots, but sufficient to keep them pinned down.

“I saw two shooters behind the Merc,” Yuliya said.

She reloaded her AK-9, a new model in the Kalashnikov family. Justin had read about it, but had not seen it in action. Its barrel was fitted with a silencer, not that one was needed in this situation.

“You like my toy?” she asked, noticing Justin’s glance.

“Looks great.”

“I’ll let you play with it when this is over.” She grinned.

Justin glanced at his gun. “How many bullets does this hold?” He pointed at the drum sitting between the receiver and the fore-end.

“Sixty-four.”

“I’ve gone through at least half. Got extra mags?”

“No, but you can have their guns. Cover me.”

Justin pulled the trigger, while Yuliya ran in a crouching position. A few bullets kicked up dirt by her feet, but she reached the alley separating the two houses. She checked upwards and behind her. Then she concentrated her firepower on the Mercedes-Benz shooters now exposed to her line of fire. She emptied her entire magazine into their bodies.