Covert Kill: A David Rivers Thriller
Jason Kasper
To Raoul Jacques DeLier
Build me a son whose heart will be clear, whose goal will be high; a son who will master himself before he seeks to master other men; one who will reach into the future, yet never forget the past.
-Douglas MacArthur
Africa is mystic; it is wild; it is a sweltering inferno; it is a photographer’s paradise, a hunter’s Valhalla, an escapist’s Utopia. It is what you will, and it withstands all interpretations. It is the last vestige of a dead world or the cradle of a shiny new one.
-Beryl Markham, West with the Night
Pirate ships and guinea pigs from hell: gentlemen, we have officially arrived in Africa.
-Worthy
1
Niger River, Nigeria
Reilly’s voice crackled over my earpiece. “We got a speedboat behind us...no running lights, trailing a hundred meters off our six. I can make out two or three guys at least, possibly more.”
He sounded more confused than apprehensive, and I grasped my rifle to cross our boat’s walkway toward the bridge as I replied, “Let me check with the captain. Sit tight.”
The palm trees silhouetted against the sky glowed green in my night vision, augmented by dim moonlight as we cruised north on the Niger River. My only previous foray into Africa had been Somalia, but those windswept deserts were a far cry from the view on the opposite side of the continent.
Here, the coiled mangroves at the river’s edge should have been a lush explosion of wildlife, but instead they seemed withered, tinged with a vaguely petrochemical scent that I would have expected in New Jersey. I’d been anticipating a dramatic Apocalypse Now-style infil upstream into the heart of the country, but we’d been met with an uneventful boat ride—until now.
I arrived at the bridge and yanked open the door, entering the room and addressing the tall Nigerian man steering the ship.
“We’ve got a boat following us. Are they pirates?”
His terse reply came in crisply accented English. “Of course. Who else would be in these waters right now?”
I cursed under my breath. Speed was the one thing we lacked—we’d opted for a slow 31-foot vessel in the interests of hiding three white men along with our cargo.
Keying my radio, I spoke quietly to my two teammates. “Definitely pirates.”
Then I asked, “How many men on their boat?”
“As few as three, as many as seven.”
“Three to seven,” I transmitted, releasing my radio switch as I felt the first tugging suspicion that this supposedly-vetted boat driver could be complicit. If he made a wrong move in the coming proceedings, it would be my responsibility to take him out.
“Can we bribe them?” I asked quickly. “Talk our way out?”
The captain shook his head gravely. “They will search this vessel no matter what you say. If it were just me, they would rob any cargo. But with expatriates aboard...they will kidnap you, take you to the mangroves. And try to extort ransom, probably 50 million Naira, from your employer.”
Well, wasn’t that a subtle irony, I thought. My employer wasn’t in the practice of paying ransom, at least not for us—the entire reason my team had been selected for overseas jaunts like these was that we could be completely disavowed. And if denying our affiliation would prevent a major international incident with Africa’s largest economy, then that’s exactly what would occur.
I swallowed hard, then updated my teammates with the information. “Skin color’s working against us here; there’s no way to pay off the pirates. We’re worth more to them as ransom.”
To the captain, I asked, “What are they waiting for?”
“Maybe they are trying to decide how to attack. Or maybe they are drinking cocktails first to ward off evil spirits.”
“You’re kidding me.”
He shook his head again.
“These are primitive people, Mr. Suicide. But dangerous. They have been killing men in the delta for many years.”
Well that was too interesting not to pass along, I thought as I keyed my radio.
“Sidenote: the pirates believe in magic.”
Nervously clearing his throat, the captain went on, “Any moment now, they will order us to halt.”
As if on cue, Reilly transmitted, “Here they come, making a move for the port side.”
The thin, high buzz of a boat engine roaring to full throttle was the only warning I had to duck before a blinding white spotlight illuminated behind us, its glare slicing through the windows.
“Stop!” a booming, amplified voice shouted over a bullhorn. “Stop, or we will send you to hell!”
“All right,” I told the captain, “come to a full stop and let them board.”
“What?” He sounded incensed at the suggestion. “Why do you not simply shoot at them?”
“Because,” I explained impatiently, “they’d break off pursuit and come back with their friends. It’s not the shooting we mind, it’s leaving survivors. I need them to get close.”
Another prospect was lingering at the back of my mind: this was no accidental encounter. If our mission had somehow been leaked, any number of interested parties would be incentivized to use local forces to kill us all. And before I risked drawing potential threats toward the rest of my team, I needed to know for sure one way or another.
The captain reluctantly throttled down his engine, the boat cruising to a gradual halt as I transmitted to my teammates.
“All right, we’re stopping to let these guys board. Stay down until the first ones come over the side. Then we’ll hit them.”
Worthy crouched against the short sidewall at the bow, peering over the edge as the pirate vessel approached with its spotlight fixed on the bridge.
In hindsight, Reilly’s initial report of a speedboat was a bit optimistic. Perhaps twenty feet in length, the battered craft had an open deck bearing masked men wielding rifles, with one at the rear manning an outboard motor.
The pirates slowed alongside them as Reilly transmitted, “Five men, one on the motor. Looks like they’ve all got AKs or shotguns, nothing belt-fed.”
“Copy,” David replied. “Doc, I want you to take out the man on the engine—if they manage to speed off, we’ll never catch them.”
From the rear of the boat, Reilly transmitted back, “On it. Looks like they’re approaching the bow.”