MAC WALKER'S BENGHAZI: The Complete Collection (14 page)

“Mind if I do the honors?”

Mac’s teeth could be seen flashing faintly in the darkness as he smiled while taking a few steps away from the door.

“By all means Alabama – but try to keep the noise down.”

Jack fired just one of the AS-50’s armor piercing incendiary explosive rounds into the deadbolt and accompanying door frame, creating a momentary explosion that sent disintegrated bits of metal and stucco flying in all directions. The detonation echoed momentarily across the Benghazi desert before the area returned to silence again.

Jack looked approvingly at the result. Nearly half of the door had been blown from the frame, the remaining half leaning inward by a single hinge. Mac gave a low whistle as he ran a hand along fragments of stucco.

“Son-of-a-bitch do I love fifty caliber firepower.”

Both men proceeded slowly inside the building, pausing to allow their eyes time to adjust to the interior darkness. Mac felt Jack tap his shoulder.

“Hey dumbass, use the night vision.”

Mac chuckled at the obvious that he had to admit, he hadn’t thought of. As they brought the binoculars to their eyes, Jack’s enthusiasm made itself known.

“Oh hell yeah.”

Two vehicles were parked inside. The first, and not the source of Jack’s enthusiasm, was an older Chevy station wagon with wood paneled sides. The second vehicle was a massive, all black 2010 H2 Hummer with darkened windows and a custom, all chrome mesh grill.

Jack ran his right hand along the Hummer while Mac considered the practicality of the station wagon. As Jack caught Mac’s indecision, he turned around and pointed dismissively at the Chevy wagon.

“Not that one Mac. We go big or we go home.”

Mac shook his head.

“That thing will draw attention to itself Jack. That’s the last thing we need.”

Jack refused to go along with Mac’s suggestion.

“Bullshit. Look at the tinted glass. They can’t see inside. Plus, which one of these do you want to be caught in a firefight with Mac? We just look like your typical rich Libyan coming down the street. You want to draw attention to yourself, take out that family truckster and that’s what you’ll get. I didn’t see any of those on the road when we were driving through Benghazi.”

Mac knew Jack was likely exaggerating the conspicuousness of the station wagon, but he had a point about the darkened windows and the possibility the Hummer would allow them to pass as a wealthy Libyan and thus, not be bothered as much by the authorities. Also, as much as he hated to admit it, the Hummer was just plain cool.

“Ok Alabama – let’s take the damn Hummer.”

Jack was already opening the driver door of the monstrous SUV, his hands clapping together as he found the keys already in the ignition, as well as the control unit for the garage door.

“Telling you Mac – it was meant to be man. Meant to be!”

By the time Mac was settling into the passenger seat Jack was already driving the Hummer slowly away from the building, the large access door closing behind them.

“Gonna go dark Mac, no headlights – use the night vision.”

It was a good idea, one that Mac again wished he had already thought of. Jack was on his game.

“Take us back to where those transport trucks were heading. See if we can locate their location.”

Jack nodded and pushed down on the Hummer’s accelerator, grinning as the big V8 Vortec engine rumbled its approval. It took no more than a minute for them to come to the same turn the United Nations trucks had taken. Jack headed down the secondary road, as both he and Mac scanned the area through their night vision binoculars.

“Pull off the road Jack – something headed our way.”

Jack had already spotted the same set of headlights Mac was referring to. With the Hummer’s headlights still off, he moved the SUV some thirty yards off of the road, its black exterior blending into the dark desert landscape.

Another of the food relief trucks drove past them, coming out of a gate just up the road from where Mac and Jack’s location.

“Leave this parked here and let’s take a walk. I want to see what that place is. We’ll stay off the road, come in from the side where that little hill is over there. That should give us a good vantage point.”

Moments later, Mac Walker found himself looking down on a property enclosed by a well built, thick stucco wall, with at least four security personnel walking the perimeter while two more armed men manned the access gate. Unlike the property they were instructed to watch from their safe house, none of the security team appeared to be Libyan. They were all white men. Several buildings were housed inside the property walls. The only vehicles Mac could see were four unmarked black sedans, identical to the one he had seen earlier at the property across the road from the safe house.

Mac felt Jack nudge him. The big man was pointing into the night sky.

“Two hundred yards out, moving directly over the property.”

Mac followed where Jack indicated and saw, courtesy of the night vision binoculars, the profile of yet another drone moving silently across the desert no more than fifty yards off the ground. Unlike the earlier drone they had seen before though, this one appeared to be armed.

“We sure as hell aren’t the only other ones who know about that place.”

Both men watched as the drone flew directly over the heads of the armed security team before it disappeared into the darkness.

“Now I might be a dumb, corn fed redneck Alabama boy, but what the hell would the United Nations need so much security for a place that has a bunch of food relief trucks stopping by?”

Mac gave Jack’s question a thin smile, already aware of the implications of the possible answer.

“They ain’t moving food. And to be using trucks that big, and all the security involved…”

Mac’s comment trailed off as he and Jack continued to peer down into the property. It wasn’t the possibility of arms dealing that had Mac unsettled. It was the seeming involvement of the CIA that appeared to be orchestrating the operation - and Mac and his team’s still uncertain secondary involvement in whatever that operation was intending. He had no problem pissing off a mob of angry Muslims, but coming in on the wrong side of the CIA was another matter entirely.

First they would return to the safe house and then tomorrow, Mac would drive into Benghazi and get a sit down with Ella and hope she could provide some answers.

XVIII.

Ray Tilley sat in the darkness of his home office, wondering who he could turn to find the answers he promised Mac he would give him. His conversation with Dasha left him more certain than ever that something truly insidious was being undertaken in Benghazi, and Tilley was the one responsible for putting Mac’s team in the middle of it.

His cell phone, sitting on his desk, began buzzing. The number displayed indicated it was the general.

“This is Tilley.”

“Mr. Tilley, I have some more information for you. Could you possibly stop by my home to see it? Say, first thing in the morning?”

Why is he wanting to see me in person? Is it a trap? Did someone get to the general?

“Mr. Tilley – are you there? Don’t keep me waiting on the phone, son.”

“I apologize sir. I just…I wasn’t expecting your call.”

General Vannatter’s tone lowered slightly.

“This isn’t some kind of trap Mr. Tilley. I just don’t want to talk about this stuff over the phone. So will I see you tomorrow morning? You remember the way, right?”

Tilley decided to trust the general.

“Yes sir, I remember. I’ll be there.”

Ray Tilley awoke just before dawn and prepared for the five hour drive to the general’s home in West Virginia. Given the early hour, traffic was still light, allowing Tilley to push the BMW a bit and make good time. He arrived at General Vannatter’s spacious country estate shortly after 8:00 a.m.

The house was as Tilley remembered it when he last visited here almost three years ago. That was for the reception that followed the general’s funeral for his wife of thirty nine years. She had been suffering from congenital heart failure for nearly a decade and finally collapsed in the bathroom, fell into a coma, and passed away in the intensive care unit of the area hospital four days later. It was the first and only time Ray Tilley had seen the general appear so weak and helpless.

The Vannatter home was a large four bedroom red bricked Tudor-styled home so common to the upper classes in this part of the United States. Tilley recalled the main room with the massive oak beam that ran from one end of the sixteen foot high ceiling to the other, a beam the general had once informed him was put there when the home was originally built in 1887.

Tilley saw the entrance door open and the bent figure of a man he once regarded as among the most intimidating men he had ever known. The last few years had not been kind to the general. He was more frail, and the upper portion of his spine now noticeably forward. When he looked at Tilley and smiled though, the general’s hawkish eyes still gleamed with clarity and pride. Though a physical shadow of what he once was, the general’s legendary clarity and pride remained within him.

“Mr. Tilley, so glad to see you again.”

General Vannatter extended a slightly trembling hand, which Tilley gladly took, noting how thin and fragile the general’s skin now felt as he shook it.

“Thank you sir. And thank you for the call. I appreciate all the help I can get on this one.”

The general’s eyes looked past Tilley, scanning the driveway behind him.

“Come in Mr. Tilley - we need to talk.”

Tilley followed the general past the main room, and down a long hallway to where Tilley now remembered the general’s study to be. It was a room with its own fireplace, and a large window overlooking the property’s horse pastures. The general would spend hours watching his beloved horses moving about the fields.

“Any soldier who isn’t a lover of horses is no soldier I want in my command.”

Ray Tilley smiled to himself as he recalled those words from the general spoken to him years ago as they both looked out from the same window they now stood in front of.

“Have a seat Mr. Tilley.”

Tilley sat across from the general’s simple, steel lined Tanker desk – the same one the general had used during his time at the Pentagon.

“Have you heard any more from your. Mr. Mardian?”

Tilley shook his head.

“Well, I did what you asked Mr. Tilley. Asked around a bit about this Dasha Al Marri. Very interesting woman. Very connected. So much so that my initial contact shut me down. Got scared. They didn’t want anything to do with looking into her business.”

“That normal?”

The general shook his head.

“No, especially not from this person. They’ve been feeding me information for years. The fact they backed away just made it more interesting, so I made a call into someone I know at Fort Meade. As you might recall, I had Level Three clearance there right up to my retirement, and still have some folks from my era kicking around. Your request begins with this Dasha woman, so that’s where I’ll start.”

Tilley knew the reference to Fort Meade meant N.S.A. The general went to the big time to find more out on Dasha.

“As I said earlier, I knew a bit of her family, her father. She’s expanded the family’s portfolio quite a bit though. A very political woman, with direct ties to the Saudi Royal Family. My guess, and that is all it is because she’s done a hell of a job muddying her own waters, is that she’s working for the Saudis. She was educated in London, very familiar with Western culture, attractive, all the elements for a good facilitator.”

Tilley raised an eyebrow, confused over the general’s choice of word.

“Facilitator?”

General Vannatter smiled warmly back as he took a piece of paper from a simple manila file folder and slid it across his desk toward Tilley.

“Look at those dates in the left column. Do they ring familiar to you in any way Mr. Tilley?”

Tilley shook his head. The dates appeared random. The general continued.

“The first few dates are during the first half of 2009. What are the locations on the right side column that corresponds to those first few dates Mr. Tilley?”

Tilley saw it was Kyrgyzstan.

“Kyrgyzstan.”

The general paused to see if Tilley would find any significance. When Tilley remained silent, the general continued.

“In late 2008, Kyrgyzstan completed a rather significant natural gas and oil feasibility study. Those dates in 2009 indicate personal visits this Dasha Al Marri made to Krygystan. Do you recall what happened by late 2009 and early 2010 in Kyrgyzstan, Mr. Tilley?”

Suddenly Ray Tilley grasped the significance.

“Revolution. The government was overthrown. Some of our own Intel people later said that Kyrgyzstan was the real start of the Arab Spring.”

General Vannatter pointed a finger at Tilley, as excited for the realization as Tilley was.

“That’s right Mr. Tilley. Now if this was a one time deal involving this Dasha, perhaps we could argue coincidence. What are the next two dates in the left column though?”