Armed Response. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
was full of mercenaries. Maybe they were training Eritreans, or any other group for that matter. They could also be training jihadists or pirates, and that would be a concern. Djibouti was of great strategic importance. The Marine and naval base, Lemonnier, was the only one of its kind in Africa, and its proximity to Yemen and the rest of the Middle East increased its value tenfold.
“Have you any idea as to the nationality of the mercs? Are these oil guys in any danger?” Douglas asked.
Saint-Verran smiled again, this time a little sadly as if to say that his intel wasn’t quite up to scratch. “I am afraid that I have no idea who these mercenaries are. The Trenchard men—if it is them—did not return to me for my services. Nor did they approach my competitors. They have not reapplied for visas to enter the country, unless they changed their nationality to French. It is possible that they are in danger, so my answer is yes. If rebels or jihadists find them, then they would be killed or taken hostage. You know how your television loves it when Americans are taken hostage.”
Douglas groaned, and even Davies looked worried at that thought. If these men were Americans working for Trenchard Oil Industries or any other company, and if they were captured or killed, the fallout would be huge. Then he would come under the scrutiny of the company and the ambassador, both wanting to know why he hadn’t acted sooner. This was just what his career needed, another disaster in the making.
Pierre Saint-Verran rose from his chair. “I am afraid that I can offer you no further information at this time, my friend. I am sure that you will be able to learn something for yourselves. Many of my clients are oil companies, and I am sure they will be very surprised to learn of oil being discovered in Obcock. The drinks are my treat.” He smiled at Douglas, nodded curtly at Davies and walked over to the bar to settle the bill.
“What now?” Davies asked. He had already finished his cola and seemed to be wondering if there was time for another before they trekked back outside into the blistering heat.
“We make a report and have these Trenchard guys checked out. The idiots. They probably think this is a backward hick country, where visas don’t apply. Unless they’re French nationals. Then they wouldn’t need a visa. And we have mercs running around. God only knows who they are or what they’re doing. We’d better get back and see what we can find out. Maybe we can get some of our guys to fly a drone up there. Jesus, what a mess.”
Douglas and Davies waited for a few minutes until Saint-Verran had departed. They didn’t want to be too obvious by leaving with him, although Douglas reflected that meeting in such a busy and public room was hardly unobtrusive. Standing up, they observed a white Mercedes-Benz car, its windows blacked out, pull up to the main doors. They watched as Saint-Verran climbed into the back, the hotel’s doorman closing the car door behind him.
“Can he be trusted?” Davies asked, indicating the car.
“About as much as I would trust anyone around here. He knows a lot of what goes on in Djibouti, so, yeah, I think that we can trust him for now. He can be as slippery as an eel and almost certainly has his own motives for passing this intel on to us. He’s probably hoping that we make a mess of things, get the Trenchard men killed and then he can sell the oil information to somebody else. Come on, let’s go.” Douglas began to work his way toward the dining room door, past the bar, Davies in tow.
Peter Douglas had no true recollection of what happened next.
There was a bright flash, followed by an almighty bang.
The bay windows of the dining room imploded, sending thousands of shards of glass into the hotel on a wave of superheated air.
The shock wave hit him hard, sending him up and over the bar. The mirror above the bar, along with the bottles of alcohol and all the drinking glasses, simply shattered, cascading onto the floor.
Douglas hit the ground facedown with a thump, his head slamming violently against the wooden floor. He wasn’t aware of it hurting. A heavy weight landed on top of him, which knocked the remaining air from his lungs. He was partly aware of being wet, wetter than he should be. He moved his right hand along the floor, instinctively jerking it back as a large sliver of glass cut deeply into his palm. Blood flowed from the wound, mixing with the cocktail of whiskey and vodka.
Douglas tried to move, tried to raise himself up but couldn’t. He couldn’t move. His vision was swimming. Were his legs broken? His back? He moved his head to the left and saw that his third hand wasn’t moving. His third black hand. He tried to make it twitch, to make it respond but it wouldn’t. His inner voice was trying to say something, but he couldn’t hear it. He gritted his teeth and listened. Listened intently. The voice, his common sense told him that it wasn’t his hand. It belonged to someone else.
He began to struggle out from under the deadweight, trying to avoid the broken glass. After moments, minutes, hours, he was free of the load. Still lying on his stomach, he slowly turned his head to see who had been on top of him.
The sightless eyes of the dead bartender stared back.
Douglas gradually moved into a sitting position. The world wobbled. He was soaking wet. There had been a flash. Where was the rain coming from? He raised his head and stared directly into the fire sprinkler on the ceiling. As he watched, it stopped, the flow of water ending. Had there been a fire? Where was he?
He realized that he couldn’t hear anything. There was a lot of smoke and a lot of glass. He was covered in it. He raised his hand and caught the edge of the bar and began to lever himself up. His feet went out from under him, and he landed on his buttocks. Again he tried, this time with two hands. He managed to get to his feet, his legs wobbling under him. Using the bar for support, he looked around, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.
He cursed in horror as his memory began to return.
The dining room of the Waverley was gone. The bay windows shattered. Outside the hotel was a smoking crater, where what appeared to be the remains of a white car were burning. Through the smoke he thought he could see what was left of the military checkpoint. Inside the hotel was a scene of carnage and total devastation. Chairs, tables, people had been flung like confetti around the room. Everything was soaked. Nobody was moving.
There was no sound. None.
Douglas raised his cut and bleeding right hand to touch his ear. It was still there; he hadn’t lost it. It dawned on him that he was deaf, hopefully only temporarily. He’d be retired from the CIA if it was permanent. The CIA! Shit! He was with someone. Davies! Douglas heaved himself up and over the scratched and splintered mahogany counter, falling to the other side when his feet failed to keep up with him. Pain returned to his hand in an instant, and he thought he might have yelled from the shock of it. Davies, where was Davies? He had been following right behind him… There! There were his beige cargo pants. Douglas crawled over and found the kid intact. No arms and legs seemed to be missing. The kid was facedown, unmoving. Douglas rolled him over and felt for a pulse. Could he feel one? Were his fingers still working? Then he thought he felt something. As if in confirmation, Davies moved slightly. The kid was still alive.
Douglas coughed and heaved a sigh of relief simultaneously. The kid was still alive. Then he remembered seeing the torn wreckage of a white car burning outside the hotel. Saint-Verran. It had to be Saint-Verran. A car bomb? How had it gotten past the checkpoints? Who had planted it? The mercenaries in the north? Somebody else? It didn’t make sense. Douglas held the kid in his arms and felt rather than heard movement behind him. He craned his neck and saw people entering the room, looks of horror on their faces. He raised his left hand and waved slowly at them.
“Over here,” he yelled. Then all thoughts disappeared as a dark wave overtook him and he fell back onto the drenched floor, unconscious.
Above Southern Yemen
Loadmaster Terrence Smith almost tumbled from the ladder as he emerged from the flight deck of the Lockheed Martin C130J Hercules C5. He caught himself