Chapter Thirty-Nine
Off the Coast of Yemen
The Next Night
The skipper of the small craft took the approach slow and steady.
The boat had been dropped in the water alongside the Inventi, loaded with gear, and then occupied by the shore party, who climbed down a caving ladder.
When all were aboard, he started the slow journey to shore.
It was dark when they departed, a necessity to avoid detection by other craft as well as anyone who might be on the beach.
Tim lay on his stomach at the bow of the boat, looking for shallow ground.
If they were to hit solid ground at speed, it could cause the entire craft to flip, sending the occupants and their belongings careening into the sea.
If he noticed any shallows, he would motion to the man piloting the boat, who would immediately slow the single outboard motor and change direction.
It was low tide, which made them easier to spot in some places, and more dangerous to miss in others.
Shane was near the stern, directing the driver.
He was searching for a narrow inlet northeast of Al Ghaydah, where his contact would be waiting for them.
In the middle of the boat, Wally sat awkwardly between Nate and Ana.
The two had barely spoken since the pirate attack and it had created a strange and uncomfortable atmosphere for everyone.
Before setting out, they had done one final sanity check.
They packed their Mystery Ranch bags with the needed equipment, filled Nalgene water bottles, and made sure the batteries for the two Thuraya XT-PRO satellite phones and individual Garmin Foretrex 701 wrist-mounted GPS navigators were charged and that they had extra batteries ready to go.
Of course, there wasn’t really anyone they could call for assistance if they got in a tight spot.
It was the reason Shane had purchased the fully stocked medical bag for Wally, which Nate stuck one phone with spare batteries into, and the purpose behind the grim reality check Nate had done before disembarking the cargo vessel.
“It’s not too late,” he had said to the assembled group.
“We can stay on the ship and get off in Dubai, no questions asked. If we choose to go in now, it’s just us.
No flags on our shoulders, no government protection.
We get into trouble, the cavalry isn’t coming.
I need to do this. But anyone who wants out… now’s the time. No hard feelings.”
Everyone had been silent. They were as committed as he was.
He had looked at Ana, who returned his stare.
She would do whatever it took to find out what had become of her father.
As for the rest of them, they were steadfast in their decision, and Nate expected that deep down they were as excited about the prospect of the adventure as he was.
As they neared the shore, Shane found his beach landing site and the boat slowly crept toward the shoreline.
The rubber craft coasted until it found solid footing and the passengers jumped out, holding the boat in place as the waves crashed against them.
Shane went on ahead, holding the Makarov pistol Tim had given him, a gift from their attackers in Cairo.
Tim pulled security from the boat with the single AK-47 they had managed to talk Shen into selling to them at an outrageous price.
After several minutes, Shane reappeared out of the darkness and motioned them forward.
They gathered their gear, said their goodbyes to the boat pilot, and set off across the beach under the cover of darkness.
After several hundred meters the group stopped next to an older Yemeni man who appeared to be in his sixties.
He greeted them and then paused when he saw Ana, who was wearing a hijab.
“No hijab,” he said, shaking his head and waving his hands. “Niqab.”
“I don’t have one,” she replied in Arabic. He held up a finger and walked over to his van. After rummaging around he returned holding a black cloth.
“This belongs to my wife,” he said in Arabic. “You may have it.” Ana thanked him and accepted the garment. She threw it on over her clothes and instantly looked as if she belonged in the region.
“Beautiful,” Tim said sarcastically. If Ana made a face in response, none of them could see it, as only her eyes were visible.
“Come,” the man said. He led them to his van and encouraged them to enter. Nate was hesitant, but Shane reassured him.
“It’s good, man,” he said, nodding. “Amir is good people.”
“I trust you,” Nate responded.
They all climbed into the back of the van.
It stunk like rotting fish, which was appropriate since the man worked as a fisherman who then drove his cargo around the area, delivering fish to those who did not live near the coast. The heat only intensified the smell.
Adding to their misery, the man began stacking cases of raw fish around them, enclosing them in the cargo area.
When he was finished, he climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and pulled onto the road.
“It will be sunrise soon,” he yelled into the back. “There may be checkpoints along the way.”
“Army or Al Qaeda?” Shane asked him.
“Who knows? Maybe both. It’s okay, though. They know me. No problem.”
“Well, if there is a problem,” Shane said, “honk the horn twice and we’ll come out shooting.”
“Okay, but no problem.”
Mohammad was a very simple man, and he lived a very simple existence.
He was born in Al Ghaydah, he had lived here all his life, and he would die here.
Just like his father and his grandfather before him.
It may have been a rudimentary life, but it was one he enjoyed.
He had a wife who kept a nice household and had raised four children, two boys and two girls.
All had married and moved out and now lived in the same village.
Their needs were few. No one went hungry, and the war had barely touched them way out here on the outskirts of the country.
Since the Americans had left years ago there had been no trouble in the town, and the Al Qaeda men stayed out in the desert for the most part.
Those who lived in town didn’t cause trouble.
They had families here too, and they didn’t want to invite misfortune into their homes.
If they did anything active, it was generally far away from here.
Some would even leave and go to the cities in the west, either Aden or Sana’a, to fight the Houthis and the Westerners.
But not here. Never here. Not for years.
So when he was out early at the shore mending his fishing nets, he was shocked to see a group of people who looked like Westerners come ashore in a small boat.
It was difficult to tell in the dark, and Mohammad had not wanted to get too close for fear of being discovered.
He hid in a ditch and watched as they left the boat, gathered up their bags, and went inland.
This was a terrible occurrence. The last time the Westerners were here there had been much death.
They had provoked Al Qaeda, and the group attacked.
The ensuing battle caused considerable damage to the town and over a dozen innocent people had been killed in the village, along with the dead up at the fort.
If they were returning, it could only mean more death.
He saw them meet with someone, though he couldn’t make out who it was.
He crept closer and recognized the van of Amir.
Was he working with these men? Had they made an arrangement?
The van sped away toward the road and Mohammad walked back to his nets, anxiety gnawing at his stomach.
He didn’t know what to do or who to tell.
Or if he should tell anyone at all. What if Al Qaeda killed these men and then the West sent more soldiers?
After mulling it over for a while, he decided he wasn’t going to come to a decision on his own and he needed to talk it over with someone.
For over thirty years his wife had been his trusted confidante, giving him advice whenever he asked for it, and sometimes when he did not.
He would ask her opinion, and together they would decide what to do.
He gathered his things and quickly headed toward his home as the sun began to rise over the water.