Abandoned airstrip
North of Atar – Mauritania
A young, barefoot boy with black, curly hair walked beside a couple of gaunt-looking goats, gently steering them with a narrow stick while singing softly to himself as he headed home. He paid no heed to the world around him, as the sun started to dip below the horizon, painting the sky with a pinkish hue. An odd sound in the distance made the boy stop in his tracks. He raised a hand to his eyes and peered up into the sky. He looked around and saw nothing, when suddenly the noise seemed to fill the very air around him. He yelled in fright as he threw himself to the sandy ground, covering his head with his hands, just as a helicopter seemed to appear out of the sun. It flew straight over him, missing him by mere meters. The startled goats bleated and darted for their lives back out into the desert, fleeing from the terrifying noise.
Yuri Uvarov checked his hand-held GPS one last time. He banked the helicopter over and flew it to a long-abandoned military airstrip a few kilometers north of the Romanov oil refinery, where he expected Mitchell and the rest of the team to rendezvous with him. A minute later, Yuri saw a couple of parked vehicles and people milling about, outside of a derelict hangar. After landing the helicopter on the open tarmac, Yuri switched off the engines and then jumped out. He was surprised to see Fahimah, Sam, and Cardinal standing there without Jackson and Mitchell.
A horn sounded from behind one of the battered old hangars. A few seconds later, Mitchell and Jackson turned the corner in a decrepit-looking, sand-colored Toyota truck that looked like it had four mismatched tires on it and a cloud of steam pouring from its overheated engine. With a loud squeal from its worn brakes, the truck came to a shuddering halt beside the helicopter.
“Anybody order a pizza?” said Jackson as he got out of the driver’s side door.
Mitchell climbed out the window on his side, as the door had long since stopped working. He jumped down to the hot tarmac, walked over and filled in his compatriots how he and Jackson had eluded several army patrols until they came across a grizzled old farmer trying to fix a flat on his truck. Bartering with the man, they traded away the borrowed AKs and some U.S. currency for the truck, a deal the man seemed to think was in his favor. They had subsequently driven cross-country to avoid the police and the army. Mitchell was amazed that their ride had made it this far.
Mitchell spotted Yuri standing there, with his greasy black hair tied in a ponytail and a cigar hanging from his mouth. He walked over and shook his friend’s hand. With a smile, Yuri opened the passenger door of the helicopter and pulled out several long wooden boxes, and a dirty, green duffle bag full of the equipment that Mitchell had earlier asked him to get his hands on.
“I hope whoever is paying for all of this has deep pockets. This stuff cost me a fortune. I had to cash in several favors to get everything,” complained Yuri, as he placed another duffle bag, this one full of clothing, onto the hot, dusty ground.
“Don’t worry, Yuri. You’ll get your precious money back,” said Mitchell. “Besides, just think about it as money well spent.”
The unhappy look on Yuri’s unshaven face said he did not agree, but he knew he could trust his friends and would see his substantial investment returned with interest.
Yuri dug around inside the chopper until he found a map of Romanov’s refinery. He handed it to Mitchell, who studied it for a few seconds, before laying it out on the hood of Sam’s Jeep. Mitchell called his friends over and outlined his plan. As he always did, he then asked his team for feedback. Aside from Jackson saying he would send flowers to Mitchell’s funeral, no one offered any changes. Everyone knew it was a plan thought up in haste, but sometimes simple was better when dealing with the unknown.
Yuri’s satphone rang. He chatted away in Russian for a few seconds before hanging up. “My contact says that Romanov is on his way back to the refinery. Just so you know, my dear Ryan, that call just cost me ten grand in hard U.S. currency,” Yuri whined.
“Yuri, for God’s sake, will you give it a rest?” said Cardinal. “My great-grandfather’s family emigrated from Scotland. I’m supposed to be the cheap one, not you.”
“You are cheap,” threw in Sam. “I’ve had many a dinner with you, and I can say without a doubt that you are tight with your money.”
A chuckle spread through the group at Cardinal’s expense.
“Okay, folks, it’ll be dark soon. Stay alert out there, and let’s all RV back here safely in a couple of hours’ time,” said Mitchell, with a determined look on his face. He slapped a fresh magazine into his 9mm Berretta, and then placed it into his shoulder holster.
Their preparations complete, Mitchell, Sam, and Yuri boarded the helicopter while Nate, Cardinal, and Fahimah drove off in Sam’s Jeep toward Romanov’s oil refinery.
Right away, Mitchell could see that Yuri had managed to get his hands on a bargain-basement helicopter. The seats were held together with duct tape, and the battered-looking instrument panel had grease pencil instructions written all over it in Cyrillic for Yuri to read.
Mitchell had changed into a uniform similar to the one the mercenaries at the dig site had been wearing. It was not an exact copy, but in the dark, it would have to do. His uniform, along with several days of growth on his face, should fool the workers at the refinery into thinking that he was one of Romanov’s men. That was, unless someone took a good look at him.
“Yuri, I told you to not be cheap. Where did you get this death trap?” asked Mitchell into his headset as the helicopter seemed to fight taking off from the ground, as if it somehow knew better.
“I looked for a Eurocopter,” replied Yuri into his headset, “but I only find this old French Army piece of crap.”
Mitchell looked over his shoulder at Sam sitting behind him, her face a mix of horror and anticipation as red hydraulic fluid leaked from the roof of the cabin onto the seat beside her, coating the empty gold spray paint cans piled up on the chair.
If the helicopter makes a return trip, it’ll be a miracle, thought Mitchell, as Yuri banked the helicopter over and flew toward the bright lights of the refinery that illuminated the desert sky.
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