PRIMAL Renegade (A PRIMAL Action Thriller Book 8) (The PRIMAL Series) (19 page)

CHAPTER 17

JARJANAZ, SYRIA

The ramp of the Priority Movements Airlift
C-130 transporter
dropped with a whine and Bishop shielded his eyes from the sand that whipped inside the cargo hold. He pulled on goggles and lifted his shemagh to cover his nose and mouth as he peered out over the ramp.

“Bish, can you chock the wheels? This wind is trying to push us back to the Emirates,” transmitted the pilot through his headphones.

“Roger.” Bishop unhooked the blocks of plastic joined by rope, yanked out his headset cable, and strode down the ramp to the dirt airstrip.

He glanced around. There wasn't much to see. Thick red dust hung in the air and in the distance a massive cloud of sand crept slowly toward them. He quickly shoved the blocks against the aircraft’s wheels before returning up the ramp and plugging back in.

“No sign of our reception party yet,” he transmitted.

“What do you think, Mirza?” the pilot asked his copilot over the intercom.

“We'll give them ten minutes. If they don't turn up we should take off, get clear of this sandstorm, and head across to Baghdad.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Bishop stood on the ramp peering into gloom. Dark shapes grew in size until he could make out that they were vehicles. “We've got movement.”

A convoy of five four-wheel drives appeared from the sandstorm and parked in a line perpendicular to the aircraft’s ramp. “Five vehicles, Red Crescent markings,” he reported as men stepped out of the four-wheel drives. “At least eight guys.”

“Acknowledged, I'm coming back now,” replied Mirza.

The men strode forward unarmed with their faces wrapped in keffiyehs, traditional Arabic scarves. One of them stopped at the ramp and lifted his hand in greeting. “
As-salaam alaykum
,” he offered dropping the scarf to reveal a thin narrow face with a protruding chin and scraggly beard. “My name is Salim.”

Mirza appeared from behind the crates of supplies secured in the cargo hold. “
Wa alaykum salaam,
Salim, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Mirza and this is Aden.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” He gestured to the crates. “Are all of these for us?” The aircraft was stacked with large wooden boxes stamped with World Health Organization markings.

Bishop nodded. “Yes and we need to get them offloaded as quickly as we can.”

“Of course, you wish to beat the storm. We will hurry.” He turned and snapped an order to his men. They formed a line as Bishop unfastened the straps holding the supplies in place.

The first pair of men lifted one of the wooden crates and struggled down the ramp with it. They were immediately replaced by another pair who lifted the next box clear.

He watched as they rapidly unloaded the stores from the back of the four-engine transporter and piled them on the sand-covered runway. Once all the boxes were stacked in front of the vehicles Bishop recovered the chocks and ducked back inside.

Mirza shook hands with Salim and the Syrian strode out of the cargo hold and down the ramp.

Bishop looked beyond him at the looming sandstorm as Mirza headed back to the cockpit. “Pedal to the metal, guys, we need to get the hell out of here.”

“On it,” replied the pilot.

The C-130’s engines roared at full thrust adding more sand and wind to the mix. Bishop hit the ramp controls as he watched the workers struggle to stop the stack of supplies from blowing away. One crate toppled over and another splintered open tossing its contents across the sand. As the ramp closed Bishop caught a glimpse of dark green tubing among the broken wood.

When the ramp thumped shut he pulled off his goggles and scarf and secured himself in the loadmaster’s seat. He felt the aircraft gather speed, bounce, and lurch into the sky. The onslaught of the oncoming storm hit them hard and the airframe shuddered sideways.

“Hold on, this is going to be rough,” transmitted Mirza in a tense voice.

“That's what she said,” managed Bishop as he braced himself. The violent turbulence tossed him about in his seat as the pilot struggled to find smooth air in front of the storm.

After five minutes of clinging to his seat they leveled out and he unclipped his safety belt. As he walked toward the cockpit a glance out the side window revealed clear blue skies.

Bishop climbed the short ladder to the cockpit and opened the door. “Mirza, can I have a quick word?

“What was in the boxes?” he asked once they were back in the cargo hold.

“You know what is in those boxes, medical supplies.”

He shook his head. “That's not what I saw.”

“What did you see?”

“Goddamn TOW missiles.”

Mirza frowned. “You sure?”

“I know what a bloody
TOW
looks like. Tariq has some explaining to do.”

“He might not even know this is happening. Lascar is supplying the aircraft but the UAE government has organized the payload.”

“Then he's being used or he is using us. We have no idea where those missiles will end up.”

Mirza nodded. “We've got another shipment out in two days.”

“We'll use it to find out exactly what is going on.”

Mirza returned to the cockpit leaving Bishop alone in the empty cargo hold. He walked across to the aircraft’s side door and peered through the window at the desert landscape below. His thoughts turned to Saneh. She was probably in South East Asia by now, or so he hoped, turning to meditation and yoga to come to terms with the loss of their child. She had her way of dealing with loss and he had his. He would find out who was using Priority Movements Airlift to smuggle sophisticated weapons into a civil war rife with rogue militias and religious extremists. He had a new mission; one close to his heart. Poachers may have taken his child but it was an arms dealer who had cost him his parents.

***

SHANGHAI, CHINA

Rain drizzled from dark clouds as Zhou stood on a massive concrete wharf holding an umbrella. To his front the rusted flanks of the
Zenhai
reached up toward the night sky. The ship had docked half an hour earlier and already Chinese officials were on the bridge checking her paperwork and manifest. The Triad smuggler watched as a uniformed officer strode down the gangplank and avoided the puddles as he approached.

“I take it everything is in order.” He handed the man an envelope thick with cash.

“Yes, there are no problems here.” The official took the money, tucked it inside his green military jacket, and set off down the wharf to the next freighter.

Another figure approached from the gangplank. He recognized the stocky build and watched intently as Kehua presented a wooden box.

“Where is Mamba?” he asked.

“We had a disagreement and he took a swim,” his lieutenant replied opening the box. The rhino horn looked dull and unimpressive.

“What about the ivory?”

“It is safe in the hold.”

Zhou licked his lips. “Then I guess delaying his payment was a wise move.” He took the box and tucked it under his arm. “You've done well, Kehua. A bonus is in order. Once you deliver the ivory to the warehouse come and see me in my office.”

The gangster bobbed his head in appreciation and turned back to the ship.

As he shuffled between the shipping containers Zhou smirked. The deal had gone even better than he could have hoped. Without Mamba he was saved considerable expense.

He reached his BMW and handed the waiting driver his umbrella. Climbing into the back of the sedan he dialed Fan. Hejun’s pretty assistant had been hassling him for updates on the horn. “I have it,” he reported.

“We’re waiting at your office,” she said and terminated the call.

“Rude bitch.” Zhou pocketed his phone and turned his attention back to the box and its contents. The horn felt cold and its surface rougher than expected. It was a fine specimen, however, heavy and in good condition with no cracks or chips visible on its surface. Hejun would be satisfied.

He glanced out the window as his driver guided them to the parking lot in front of Shanghai Greater Exports. The beverage tycoon's black Mercedes was parked at the entrance. Fan waited under an umbrella alongside the car.

His driver parked, stepped out, and opened his door with the umbrella held ready. Zhou returned the horn to the box and closed it. He licked his lips in anticipation of the payment he would soon receive.

Less than two hundred yards away Chen Chua watched the scene on a monitor in the rear of an unmarked police van. An adhesive label stuck to the front of his jacket announced in Chinese characters that he was an 'observer'. The other three people in the van were a BBC journalist, his cameraman, and their Chinese police minder.

“When will they make their move?” asked the journalist in his crisp English accent.

“Any second now,” replied the policeman.

“Make sure you get this,” the journalist said to his offsider who had a camera aimed at the image on the screen.

“We will make the footage available to you,” said the officer. “China wants the world to see what we are doing to combat poaching.” He had already delivered this party line a dozen times.

Chua smiled as his assessment of the situation had proven accurate. The Chinese government had jumped on the opportunity to portray their anti-poaching activities in a positive light. The information he’d presented them regarding Zhou and his syndicate had prompted a large-scale police operation.

“OK, they are going in now.” The police officer pushed opened the door at the back of the van as police sirens wailed and tires screeched.

The BBC team leaped from the van and dashed across the road to where police officers were hauling people out of two cars and cuffing them.

Chua watched the screen from the van as Zhou and his two clients, one an attractive young woman and the other an elderly man, were shoved into a police car. “Justice is served,” he whispered as he tore the sticker from his jacket and scrunched it into a ball. Stepping out of the van he walked a dozen yards to a busy street and flagged a cab.

EPILOGUE

NORTH LUANGWA NATIONAL PARK, ZAMBIA

Kruger brought the Polaris all-terrain vehicle to a halt and studied the screen bolted to the dashboard. He and his co-driver, a ranger named Francis, had driven the ATV deep into the bush under the cover of a starless night.

“What have we got?” the South African asked.

He saw Francis shake his head in the soft glow from the screen.

“We’ve lost them.”

The image was being beamed down from a silent electric drone lurking in the dark sky. Its infrared camera had been tracking a group of suspected poachers who’d been spotted at the edge of the park. Kruger and Francis were on patrol nearby so were the first to respond. Other teams had been scrambled from the base camp.

“Springbok this is All-Black, what have you guys got out there?” Dominic Marks’ distinctly New Zealand accent came over the headset Kruger wore underneath his helmet. The headgear was plugged into the high-powered radio mounted next to the tablet.

“Nothing, the drone has lost them.” Kruger reached across and brushed his glove across the screen swiping from the drone feed to a map displaying the location of the other teams, the drone, and the previous location of the suspects.

The ATV and its high-tech fit-out was one of five anonymously donated to Dom’s organization along with drones, non-lethal weaponry, radios, and night vision devices. It hadn’t taken much to convince Kruger to stay and help train the rangers on how to use the new equipment. Within a matter of weeks they had deployed the systems and apprehended no less than five separate poaching parties.

“Springbok,” continued Dom. “If we lose these guys there’s every chance they could get through and kill Kassala. We haven’t been able to locate her since her tracking chip went down.” Dom referred to the last remaining female black rhino in the park. Recently confirmed to be pregnant, her GPS tracker had been working intermittently making it difficult for the team to protect her from the constant threat of poachers.

“Got it.” Kruger examined the terrain around where the drone had first located the party of five. Numerous dense patches of trees could have been the reason the aircraft’s sensors couldn’t see the men. He swiped back to the drone feed, reached up, and flicked the pair of night vision goggles on his helmet down over his eyes. “Hang on, Francis, we’re going to head in for a closer look.”

The two-seater ATV accelerated with a high-revving roar as he pressed the pedal to the floor. With a stealthy hybrid-electric engine and capable of accelerating to 40 miles an hour in four seconds the nimble Polaris was the perfect vehicle for chasing down poachers. With Kruger at the wheel they darted between trees and bounced over rocky outcrops.

He followed a game trail that snaked through the bush toward the trees he’d spotted on the screen. Branches and thorns scraped the side rails of the ATV as they closed in.

“Springbok this is All-Black, we got a hit on Kassala, she’s only a few clicks to the west,” reported Dom over the radio.

“Roger,” Kruger transmitted. He glanced across at Francis. “That’s the direction these pricks were heading.”

“If they get to her before we find them they’ll kill her,” Francis said frantically.

“That’s not going to happen.” Kruger sent them barreling through a thicket of bushes.

“I see them!” yelled Francis as they burst out the other side.

“Where?” Kruger stomped on the brakes and they skidded to a halt. He scanned the terrain through his night vision goggles.

“From the sky.” Francis pointed at the tablet screen. On it a cluster of heat signatures was moving from the trees in the direction of Kassala.

Kruger glanced down under his goggles at the screen then scanned the terrain ahead. The forest was a thick dark mass that blocked their way. “We can’t go through there.” Spinning the wheel he skirted the trees searching for a way through.

“Springbok, we’re not going to get to them in time. It’s up to you,” Dom’s voice came through over the headset.

He hit the radio transmit button as they bounced over a log hidden in the long grass. His helmet slammed against the roll bar dislodging his night vision goggles. Stomping on the brakes he sent the ATV skidding sideways before it dove nose first down a slope into a dry creek bed. It rolled sideways completing a full rotation before landing back on its wheels.

“Springbok, you hear me?” transmitted Dom.

He secured his goggles and adjusted the racing harness that held him secure in the vehicle. After confirming Francis wasn’t injured he replied, “
Ja
, we’re on it.” He checked the tablet and saw the creek would take them roughly in the direction of the suspects.

Amazingly the Polaris still ran; testament to its durability. It belted along the dry riverbed at top speed, Kruger weaving it around dead trees and large boulders like a seasoned rally pro.

“There’s a track up ahead,” yelled Francis. “The poachers are using it. They’re getting closer to Kassala.”

Kruger spotted tire marks in the sand. Backing off the throttle he skidded the ATV pointing the nose up the bank. They crested the rise and drove slowly through tall grass in the wheel ruts left by a safari tour. Glancing at the tablet he confirmed the poaching party’s presence only a few hundred yards away. “You ready?”

Francis had taken one of the
pump-action shotguns
from the rack between the seats and held it across his knees. “I’m ready,” he said adjusting his headset.

“Then let’s do this.” Kruger shifted the ATV’s hybrid engine into electric mode to mask their approach. Up ahead he caught a glimpse of an armed figure walking alongside the road. As they rolled closer they saw all five men of the hunting party, armed with rifles and bush knives. Most likely they were dirt-poor farmers forced to poach to put food on the table.

He flicked open a red cover on the dash and held his finger over a button as they closed in. When the rearmost man turned toward them he stabbed the button with a gloved finger.

Above the roll cage a bank of xenon lights turned night to day, dazzling the poachers. Behind the lights a speaker screamed with an ultrasonic beam.

Wearing active-hearing headsets and sitting below the focused acoustic beam, Kruger and Francis were unaffected by the
sonic weapon
. The poachers were not and they dropped to the ground with hands over their ears, screaming and vomiting.

At the edge of the group a poacher raised his rifle. Francis fired the shotgun launching an
XREP Taser
. The high-tech projectile hit him square in the chest and he collapsed into the grass with five hundred volts coursing through his shuddering body.

They leaped out of the Polaris and easily disarmed and restrained the poachers. Only then did Kruger terminate the frequency emitter and contact Dom. “All-Black this is Springbok, we’ve intercepted and detained five suspects.”

“Good work. We’ll be in your location within the next thirty minutes to pick them up,” replied Dom.

“Take your time, these guys aren’t going anywhere. Springbok out.”

An hour and a half later the five poachers were being loaded into a Zambian police truck back at base camp.

Kruger sat in the newly constructed command center with a tablet on his lap. He was filling out the forms the rangers submitted to assist the police in prosecuting the poachers. A bottle of cold beer sat at arm’s length dripping condensation on the bench. Princess, his hound, lay at his feet under the desk, snoring gently.

“Enough excitement for you?”

Kruger glanced up as Dom walked across and took the seat next to him. The office was a recent addition to the anti-poaching facility. With its screens, radios, and laptops it reminded him a little of PRIMAL’s old headquarters, the Bunker. “I live for the post-op paperwork,” he replied sarcastically as he took a swig from the beer.

The New Zealander grunted in agreement. “Yeah I hate it too but it’s probably the most important piece. Without it those guys will be back in the park within a week. The legal system here is flimsy to say the least. If we can get a prosecution then we can make them talk and cut a deal.”

“To sell out the big wigs?”

“That’s right. I mean let’s face it, bro, most of the poachers are trying to make ends meet. We get some leverage on them and they give up the ringleaders pretty quick smart.”

Kruger finished with the tablet, dropped it on the desk, and turned his attention to his beer. “So when do we get to go after them?”

“We already are. The ATVs, drones, and gear were only a small part of the donation that our anonymous,” he used his fingers to emphasize the word, “benefactor made to the fight on poaching. TRAFFIC received enough money to hire permanent intelligence staff and lawyers to track and prosecute the smuggling rings. They’re plugged into law enforcement agencies across the continent. But hey, you wouldn’t know anything about where the money came from, would you?”

He shrugged. “Like you said, the benefactor’s anonymous.”

Dom shook his head and reached down to fondle the dog’s ears. “You heard anything from Bishop or Saneh? Christina keeps asking after them.”

“Bishop’s working with a humanitarian aid organization and I haven’t heard anything from Saneh.”

“They’re a good match those two. I really hope they sort things out and get back together.”

“It’ll happen, it might just take a while.”

Dom rose from the chair. “Well, bro, another good day’s work. You and Francis did a great job out there today.” He gripped the big man’s shoulder. “Thanks again for everything you’ve done.”

“No problems at all.”

The New Zealander left the office and Kruger reached down to give Princess a pat. “How do you feel about hanging out here for a few more months?”

The hound lifted her broad head and stared at him, licking her nose.

“Yeah, I thought as much. Don’t count on having me around for too long though. It’s only a matter of time till Bishop gets himself in the shit again. Although, with all the attention Christina gives you I don’t think you’ll miss me much, hey girl.”

The dog grunted and Kruger laughed. “Yeah, I thought so.” As he drank his beer he glanced up at the screen showing the feed from one of the drones. A handful of the autonomous electric aircraft now constantly patrolled the park pushing their video feed via the web to vetted volunteer observers all over the world. It had been Christina’s idea to crowdsource the surveillance and it worked well. Literally hundreds of eyes didn’t miss much.

As he downed the last of his beer a message pinged and a dozen alerts popped up on the side menu of the screen. Sure enough the image revealed three heat signatures well within the confines of the park.

His radio crackled to life. “Mr. Kruger, do you see the screen?” It was Francis. Since the ambush that had killed Melo and wounded Saneh the ranger had been obsessed with taking down poachers.

Snatching it from the desk he responded. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I can sleep when the park is safe.”

Kruger tossed the empty bottle in the trash. “Right, I’ll meet you at the buggy.”

As he rose and made for the door, a low whine emitted from under the desk. Princess raised her head.

“OK, you can come.” He grabbed a tan vest from a hook on the wall and snapped it over her stocky frame. The K9 vest had been included in the last ‘anonymous’ donation. It offered the dog ballistic protection and allowed Kruger to track her in the scrub.

As he pushed open the door, Princess gave a sharp bark and dashed out into the darkness. He smiled; at least he wasn’t going to get bored while he waited for the PRIMAL team to drum up some work. As he threw on his own assault vest, his cell phone rang. Striding outside he checked the screen. It was Toppie. “Hey, old man, if this is about your new wings you need to contact the service provider.”

“No, the bird is beautiful. I’ve got a job offer for you.”

“
Ja
, what is it?” Kruger directed Princess into the back of the ATV; Francis already sat in his seat, shotgun held ready.

“Our friend the Pirate King wants your help.”

“Is that so? I don’t work for criminals.”

“It’s against Al-Shabaab, they’ve kidnapped a bunch of women from a village he is responsible for.”

“OK, you’ve got my attention. Tell me more.” Kruger strapped in and checked the drone feed on the dashboard-mounted tablet.

“He needs brains. He asked specifically for you and he’ll pay top dollar. I’ll supply the weapons, you train and lead the muscle. We can get some of the old regiment boys in.”

“I’ll need to talk to some people about it. I’ll get back to you, ASAP.” Terminating the call he turned to Francis. “When it rains it pours, bro. Now, let’s take down these poachers.”