Authors: Erik Williams
Yusuf nodded. The
al-Phirosh
had been scheduled to get underway from Basra at 1600, onload crude at the Al Basra Oil Terminal off the coast, and begin the long transit to South Africa. Those plans were canceled when port security secured all outbound and inbound traffic for the remainder of the day. He had assumed merchant traffic would resume tomorrow, knowing the economic costs to the country would grow exponentially if it did not. Listening to Alwad, though, he felt a similar doubt develop within him. Instinct told him something horrible had occurred in Basra. Second-guessing made him wish they had set sail earlier, regardless of the order.
“You are probably correct,” Yusuf said. “Perhaps it will work out for the best and allow those personnel who have not yet reported to make it back to the ship.”
“Perhaps.”
An American military helicopter flew in low from the east and hovered over the port. Yusuf did not think anything of it at first because he had seen several helicopters flying over downtown the last few hours. He figured it was surveying and reporting on the riot so the police or military knew where to come to help.
Then someone in the helicopter broadcasted over loud speakers in Arabic:
“The national government of Iraq in cooperation with the US military has issued a mandatory evacuation of the city of Basra. This order is a precaution to ensure the health of citizens against possible exposure to chemical weapons. Do not travel through the western part of the city. Proceed south. US forces and Iraqi national police personnel are waiting to assist with food and water. All personnel who do not evacuate and remain in Basra will be subject to arrest and incarceration. This includes all merchant personnel as well. Proceed south. I repeat . . .”
Yusuf's mind raced, pouring through what he had just heard.
“Possible chemical weapons exposure?” Alwad said.
“It must be terrorists attempting to destroy commerce.”
“No wonder people are panicking.”
Yusuf paced the length of the wheelhouse. Alwad did not follow.
“Some of the crew will panic as well,” Alwad said. “Others will flee.”
“And the rest will demand we set sail because it is safer at sea. Most do not have any family in Basra and will not shed a tear if we left.”
“Not to mention they will not receive their pay if we evacuate. No, many will insist on leaving.”
Yusuf wanted to sail as well, but his motive did not rest with a desire for money. At sea, he commanded his vessel and could move it about freely. If crew members left, they could put themselves at more risk than if they remained on board and chanced being pursued by port security.
“What do you think, Alwad?”
“Set sail. There is no reason to leave the safety of this ship and join that mob, especially if chemical weapons have been used. Better to stay away from large groups of frightened people.”
“Our people will be frightened as well.”
Alwad shrugged. “Some, yes.”
“I take it you are not.”
“No. I have seen worse.”
He had never heard his first officer's life story and would not shame him by asking. It was written in the many scars that covered his face and arms. One did not need to know how to read them to understand what they said.
“It will not be easy, sailing out of here,” Yusuf said. “And there is no guarantee the oil terminal will let us fill our tanks.”
“After dark will make it easier. And I think the terminal will pump if the price is right.”
Yusuf smirked. A small stash of money, provided by the Iraq Oil Shipping Company, was kept on board in case a customs agent required a bribe or one of their crew members needed to be bailed out of a foreign prison. Alwad was correct. Bribing the terminal manager would not be difficult.
“We will wait until dark.”
On the pier, the mob thinned. Many still fought over grain, but the majority plodded toward the south, arms full with what they could carry. About twenty of his fifty-man crew stood on the aft weather decks, watching and talking. He imagined what they said to one another, already knowing they discussed what to do next: stay or flee.
After a few more moments, Yusuf walked over to the port side of the wheelhouse and lifted the microphone for the vessel's main communication circuit. He keyed it, transmitting over both internal and external circuits.
“On board
al-Phirosh
, this is the shipmaster speaking.” Yusuf paused and glanced at Alwad, who nodded. “All hands are to report to the galley in five minutes. I repeat, all hands are to report to the galley in five minutes.”
Yusuf placed the microphone back in its cradle. He had planned to announce his decision to get underway over the circuit but thought better of it in case any in the mob heard him and tried to rush the ship in a desperate attempt to gain passage on board. Instead, he would present his decision to the crew in private.
He hoped after he told them he would still have a crew to sail with.
S
emyaza stood in the eastern part of the city just before sunset. He saw water in the distance and mobs of humans running around, crazy with panic and greed. At first, he thought the chaos was brought about by his presence. Then he noticed the humans were not killing one another. Instead, they stole food and other items or destroyed buildings and automobiles for some reason he did not understand.
Such blessed creatures,
he thought. Semyaza recalled the first humans in the time before he rebelled. They had fought and stolen and murdered just as they did now.
And yet we were wrong for rebelling?
Semyaza thought.
Look at these animals. Take order away and they degenerate. Where is their light? Where is their devotion? The favored have proven they are nothing more than balls of mud with souls.
Semyaza shook his head and glanced at his hands. The flesh had started to flake off. Not in large chunks as before, but he would have to find another vessel sooner rather than later.
A large flying machine hovered overhead. The sound of its wings beating the air reminded Semyaza of an insect. The machine spoke Arabic:
“The national government of Iraq in cooperation with the US military has issued a mandatory evacuation of the city of Basra. This order is a precaution to ensure the health of citizens against possible exposure to chemical weapons. Do not travel through the western part of the city. Proceed south. US forces and Iraqi national police personnel are waiting to assist with food and water. All personnel who do not evacuate and remain in Basra will be subject to arrest and incarceration. Proceed south.”
So that is why everyone is heading south,
Semyaza thought. He had noticed the current of humans had shifted in that direction the last couple of hours as he headed east. He had not really thought anything of it until now.
He considered turning and following the hordes, to ensure he had access to a vessel when the time arrived. But he did not like the idea of being funneled into a mass migration where the human army would have control. It would not be wise to assume the next vessel around so many humans carrying weapons. Even though they would not harm him, the devastation he caused in areas of high human concentration was counterproductive to his desire. Semyaza needed bodies. They were no good to him if they were dead before they served a purpose.
Semyaza reached into the memory of his host, searching for other avenues to follow. He found where the man had been heading. To a ship. The man had signed up as a deckhand on a ship. His wife was riding with him to drop him off at the port. It was to be his first voyage, an opportunity to gain money for his new family.
But what ship?
Semyaza thought.
He dug deeper, searching for a name. He saw the applications for work, the man filling out form after form for the position, the contract of employment. A deckhand on a merchant vessel. His first voyage would be to a place called “South Africa.” The cargo was oil.
There. The name. The
al-Phirosh
.
Semyaza looked at the port ahead of him. There were several ships moored to piers. Smoke billowed from a few of their stacks. He could not read any of the names.
Any of the ships provided a way out of the imprisoned and demolished city. If he did not find the
al-Phirosh
, he would stow away on one of the others. And once on board, he would have access to a small group of bodies in a more controlled environment.
Defeat the soul quickly,
Semyaza thought,
and the chaos will be minimal.
He nodded and continued walking east toward the Port of Basra.
B
y the time Mike reached R91 for the second time that day, the sun had set and the site basked in the light of several towers powered by diesel generators. He parked his car where he had earlier, pulled his cell phone off the charger, and walked with Lowe to the command tent.
Inside, Major Greengrass reclined back in a folding chair, feet propped up on a table. Eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest and hands tucked into his armpits, he snored, the air coming out in short snorts.
“Evening, Major,” Lowe said. “Brought our guest back.”
Greengrass's bloodshot eyes opened and focused on Mike. “Mr. Hosselkus. Welcome back to our lovely little shithole.”
Mike smirked. “Thanks. Seems a bit quieter here now.”
“Thank God.” Greengrass dropped his feet and sat up straight. “The bodies started to get that not-so-fresh smell. Thankfully, we were allowed to bag 'em, tag 'em, and ship 'em over to Camp Bucca for processing.”
Mike pulled up a seat across from Greengrass. Lowe remained standing, his hands held behind his back.
“How'd you get stuck here?” Mike said. “Figured you'd be on the front lines in Basra, running Prince to ground.”
Greengrass held up his palms toward Mike. “Washed my hands clean of him when the general took control of the operation. He's personally on the ground outside Basra, overseeing the evacuation and cleanup. My little detachment here has orders to maintain security since this is ground zero.”
“So this is punishment?”
Greengrass chuckled. “Nah. Just a slap for letting Prince make it to Basra. I don't think anything else will happen. It's not exactly a crime to not find somebody you never saw or had in your possession. And every effort was made to locate him. He just had too much of a head start.”
“That's good. I'd hate to think someone would try to blame you.”
“Well, I do blame me.” Greengrass rubbed the back of his neck. “All those deaths in Basra are going to haunt me a long time.”
Mike didn't say anything for a few moments. He glimpsed Lowe's head sagging, his face pointed at the ground, before looking away. Greengrass just seemed to stare into nothingness.
“So what brings you back here?” Greengrass said.
“I'm a man without a compass, so to speak.” Mike scratched his chin and smiled. “All the attention is on Basra. Until it settles down, my boss will be distracted, which means I'm out of a job.”
“Why not go find a hotel in An Nasiriyahâtake it easy until this calms down?” Greengrass said.
Mike shook his head. “I'd rather stay close and gather information where I can.”
And feel like a real intelligence officer for once.
“A spook through and through.” Greengrass grinned.
Mike chuckled. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”
“Well, you're not going to learn much spying on me or my people. But I can provide something that'll take the edge off.”
Greengrass reached down into a cammie bag on the ground. A second later, he set a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label on the table.
“Want a drink?”
Mike looked at the bottle and licked his lips. “God, yes.”
“Gunny?”
Lowe pulled up a seat at the table. “Quit twisting my arm, sir.”
Greengrass produced a couple of Styrofoam cups and passed them out. He filled his own before passing the bottle to Mike.
Mike sniffed the whiskey in his cup, enjoying the charred scent before taking a sip. He let it roll around his mouth a moment before swallowing. The corners of his mouth flicked up as the burn raced down his throat and warmed his stomach.
“So,” Greengrass said, “how'd you become a spook?”
Mike hesitated a moment, carefully lining up in his head what he would and wouldn't say. A little info couldn't hurt but he wanted to be sure not to tell too much.
“Well, I got recruited out of college.” Mike took another sip. “Grew up and went to school in the South.”
“Where at?” Lowe said.
Mike wagged a finger. “ âSouth' is the best you'll get.”
“Does the CIA train you to be that paranoid?” Greengrass said.
“They train us to be that careful.”
“Paranoid bastards,” Greengrass said.
“Anyway, I was a Southern kid who'd never seen the world. So, when the CIA came a-knocking, I jumped at the chance. Probably like most people who join the military, the promise of exotic lands and women were too much to pass up.”
“Here, here.” Lowe knocked back the rest of his drink and refilled his cup. “Well, that and blowing shit up.”
Mike laughed, refilled, and took another sip. He could already feel his head lightening thanks to an empty stomach.
“So I went to Langley, passed all the tests and interviews. Did well enough to get selected for field ops. Made it through Quantico.” He made sure not to mention the ex-wife and daughter. “And then landed my first assignment in Ethiopia.”
Mike thought back to Ethiopia and smiled. He took another sip.
“That's where I met my mentor,” Mike said. “Great guy. Taught me so damn much. We did a lot of work across borders in Sudan and later Somalia.”
Mike drifted off for a second as he remembered Greg, the career field agent who had taken him under his wing. Then he took a long swig, finishing off his second cup. He refilled, took another sip, and stared at the surface of the table. His vision blurred a little as he reassembled the memory of Greg sitting in his car earlier, telling him he couldn't kill this one, whatever the hell that meant.