85

THE RED SEA

By noon, the team was finally steaming southward.

Marcus stood on deck, close to the bow, taking in the scene as a slight breeze blew from the east. Jenny, Pete, Geoff, Noah, and Donny Callaghan were down below, cleaning their weapons and triple-checking their gear. Two teams of Delta operators and a fleet of Black Hawk helicopters were on standby—one team in Riyadh, the other in Jeddah—ready to assist. Marcus felt they had a better chance of succeeding if they went in as a small, discreet ground team rather than roaring in by air with a huge show of force. It was a risky decision, but everyone agreed, including Donny Callaghan, the former SEAL Team Six commander.

Marcus watched as they slipped along the coastline of Eritrea on their starboard side, with Yemen on their port side. With the prince’s help, they were traveling aboard an Iranian-flagged oil tanker. It was not, of course, owned or operated by Iran at all. Rather, it was a Saudi intelligence vessel, but it did give them a cover story for what they were about to do next.

Around 5 p.m., Marcus went up to the bridge and conferred with the captain. He confirmed they were right on schedule. Coming up on their left was Kamaran Island, Yemen’s largest but sparsely populated island with barely two thousand residents.

“It’s time,” said the captain, a GID veteran.

Marcus thanked the man, returned to his team, and gave the signal. They lowered speedboats disguised as fishing vessels into the water. Then they loaded the boats with wooden crates of communications gear, RPGs, AK-47s, ammunition, and other light arms—all bearing Iranian markings in Farsi—then boarded the boats themselves. Last aboard were two young Saudi intelligence officers who would accompany them to shore before driving the boats back to the tanker.

Firing up the engines, they sped quickly around the stern of the tanker, heading for the leeward side of the island toward Al-Salif.

Located on the peninsula behind Kamaran, Al-Salif was a coastal fishing village in the northwest section of Yemen. There were fewer than seven thousand residents living there, and as they zipped through the choppy seas, salt water spraying in his face, Marcus prayed that his team would be able to avoid too many questions from any officials they came across.

As they rounded the tip of Kamaran, they could see Al-Salif’s small port. They had discussed landing a bit northward, farther up the peninsula, where it was more sparsely populated. In the end, however, they had opted against it, believing their chances of coming across someone with a vehicle they could steal or commandeer, certainly of the kind and specs they needed, were better at the port.

The prince had insisted that they play the part of Iranian arms smugglers. Arrive in the port late in the day. Unannounced. Show the harbormaster false papers. Pay a small fee. And a large bribe. Break into a nearby garage or warehouse. Steal a vehicle or two. Hope that their generous supply of Iranian dinars was enough to get them out of Al-Salif and past the several Houthi checkpoints they would encounter as they headed inland. And pray they did not get caught. Such tradecraft had worked for decades. Marcus hoped it would serve them well now.

No matter how good Jenny’s Arabic, Farsi, and Russian were, the prince warned them it was not going to be enough. He had assets inside the country who could assist them, people who could help them talk their way through checkpoints and run point on buying fuel, food, water, and whatever other supplies were needed. The problem was that the assets he trusted most were nowhere near Al-Salif just now. On such short notice, he’d had to turn to two other men who were younger and less experienced. But they would have to do.

Callaghan had recommended waiting until the veteran assets were in place. But Marcus had overruled him. Yes, there were serious risks of getting stopped and caught anywhere along the route. But there was a greater risk, he’d argued, that the targets they had identified would not be there if they waited. The prince agreed.

Docking was no problem. Nor was greasing the palms of the old man who stumbled out of the harbormaster’s office to welcome them, an AK-47 dangling from his bony shoulders. The man was barely coherent, though Marcus was not certain if this was from fatigue or if the man was simply spaced-out from chewing qat, the Yemenite drug of choice. Either way, he posed little threat. He pocketed his payment, wandered back toward his office, and disappeared.

Marcus scanned the port in all directions and saw only a handful of people who appeared to be wrapping up a long day on the docks. No one seemed to be watching his team. Moving quickly, the team heaved the crates of weapons onshore, then signaled the two Saudis to hightail it back to the tanker. Marcus spotted a warehouse about a hundred meters from the docks and went over with Geoff to investigate. The warehouse’s bay doors were padlocked, but Geoff pulled out a bolt cutter from his backpack while Marcus protected his flank.

Inside it was pitch-black. Marcus pulled out a flashlight and entered first, gun up and ready to fire. No guards were on duty, so he came back and helped Pete, Geoff, and Callaghan carry in the crates. Noah closed the door behind him and stood guard, while Jenny and Marcus proceeded to search the facility.

They found tire marks and oil stains on the floors. Vehicles were typically housed here. But there were none there now. Breaking into the office, they found hooks on the wall where keys usually hung, yet nothing was dangling from them this evening. Jenny went through the desk and the file cabinets, looking for anything useful. She found nothing and reported that to the group.

“All right, look, we’re going to need to move deeper into town,” Marcus said. “I say we ditch the crates. We can hide them behind some of those pallets over there. We’ll move faster without them. Once we find some vehicles, we can come back.”

A man stepped from the shadows. “Welcome to Yemen, Mr. Ryker.”