Ian replied, “Nigeria imports close to a million dollars’ worth of corn every year. It’s a smart play: not expensive enough to be targeted for theft, and able to be shipped anywhere without raising suspicion. In stark contrast to, say, their other leading imports of computers, vehicles, pharmaceuticals.”
“Yeah?” Cancer asked. “Then where did all this coke come from—all I’ve got are tracking numbers, no point of origination for the shipment.”
“We’ll figure that out in time. Anything else?”
Cancer debated whether to send the final detail rather than wait until he was back, then decided in favor of the former. “Just one thing. All the kilos are labeled with a sticker, a ram skull.”
There was a long pause before someone responded, and this time it wasn’t Ian but David.
When he did reply, Cancer had no idea why the team leader sounded so haunted by the information.
“Get the fuck out of there and move to linkup.”
29
Tolu keyed the ignition and the van’s engine rumbled to life. I glanced over to Ian, who gave no indication that he’d heard the transmission that our entry team was now less than a minute out—he was seated at his computer, still poring over the photographs from the objective. Cancer had texted a highlight reel of new images from the warehouse, and it had taken Ian all of five minutes to decipher the seemingly glaring contradiction of oil barrels alongside a major narcotics shipment. The intelligence operative was now riding an emotional high, almost giddy with excitement.
And while I wished I could have shared his sentiment, my mood was considerably darker—the second discovery of a ram skull logo bothered me to no end.
The first time we’d seen it had been on infil up the Niger River. Had the pirate attack been a deliberate interdiction to stop us, paid for in coke? If that was the case, we definitely had a leak. But that explanation didn’t hold up to further scrutiny: if the pirates had known a paramilitary element was onboard, they would have come at us with far more people. So at present, Cancer’s confirmation of the ram skull logo seemed to indicate some connection I couldn’t divine.
Still, the thought vanished under a euphoric wave of relief when Ian opened the van’s cargo doors and our other three team members piled inside. Worthy was the first to climb in, followed by Reilly—covered in sweat—and Cancer looking like he’d just finished a particularly irritating day at the office.
He closed the doors, and I called to Tolu, “Let’s go.”
The van pulled forward as I turned to face my team. “You guys up on equipment?”
All three shot me a thumbs up, and Cancer added, “Could have been a lot worse after Building 8 got added to the agenda.”
I ignored his comment, noting that all three men looked none the worse for wear. Their nerves were clearly rattled after the hair-raising penetration effort, but no one had been compromised, and that was the best outcome I could expect.
Keying my command mic, I transmitted, “Raptor Nine One, all personnel and equipment accounted for, beginning our final leg of exfil now. Only known signature on the objective was inability to re-pick door on Building 13 to locked position due to tactical necessity. Will send consolidated intel once we get back, estimate two hours’ time.”
Duchess’s voice came over the speaker box. “Copy all, CCTV footage shows no increased security activity. Assess your incursion was undetected. Nice work out there.”
I set the mic down in time to hear Cancer say, “I don’t get it. Why import oil to Nigeria—don’t they have plenty of their own?”
“To say the least,” Ian replied. “Their production is twelfth in the world. But they still rely on oil imports because they don’t have sufficient refining capability. The real key, however, was in the register of shipping that you photographed.”
“You gonna fill us in, or am I supposed to guess?”
Ian said, “The freighter that transported that oil is registered in Russia, at the Port of Vladivostok. That load of oil was officially registered as agricultural machinery, and it was picked up at the Port of Puerto Cabello, which is in Venezuela.”
“So?”
“So Venezuela’s dictator of a president has killed close to 10,000 of his own people to stay in power, to say nothing of his ties to narco-terrorism and drug trafficking. He’s under international oil sanctions, which Gradsek is bypassing by laundering Venezuelan oil into ostensibly Nigerian product.”
“Oil laundering,” Cancer muttered, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you just say so?”
Worthy offered, “So the drugs are just the icing on the cake.”
Ian nodded, explaining eagerly, “Gradsek is functioning as a transit hub. South American-produced cocaine comes into Nigeria to be funneled into South Africa and Europe, while Asian-produced heroin gets sent out to South America so it can make its way into the US. Pretty ingenious when you think about it.”
Reilly piped up then, sounding confused about this new information.
“So to be clear—and please let me know if I’m missing anything—we’ve uncovered a pretty vast international conspiracy.”
“Uncovered,” Ian replied, “and documented thanks to the pictures. Drug samples don’t hurt either, because maybe the CIA can test them to determine the country of origin.”
“Right,” Reilly said cautiously, “but what has any of this got to do with Boko Haram or the hostages?”
Cancer answered for him.
“Not a single. Goddamned. Thing.”
Reilly threw up his hands.
“Great. So I almost suffocated between shipping containers over some bullshit that has nothing to do with us.”
Ian raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, almost suffocated—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Reilly snapped. “Just seems like this entire thing was a waste of time.”
Cancer nodded. “Time, money, effort...pick your cliché. And the worst part is, we didn’t even get to shoot anybody.”
Worthy patted him on the shoulder. “Life can be cruel sometimes. Still, that was a job well done any way you slice it. Bad guys always get a vote, and I for one am glad their vote tonight didn’t involve us getting rolled up or killed on the harbor.”
The speaker box crackled to life as we approached the highway back to Tolu’s apartment.
“Suicide Actual, Raptor Nine One.”
“Go ahead,” I transmitted.
“Send SITREP,” Duchess said, then clarified, “a complete SITREP.”
Her tone gave me pause, but I quickly responded, “No change from my last, over.”
“Sure you don’t want to revise that statement?”
“Stand by,” I told her, lowering my mic to survey my team.
“Everyone sure they’ve got all their equipment?”
They responded in the affirmative, without hesitation. Before transmitting again, I asked, “Anyone shoot some people and not tell me about it?”
All eyes turned to Cancer.
“Why are you fuckers looking at me?” he protested. “If I shot someone, I’d be in one hell of a lot better mood than I am now.”
Ian turned to me and confirmed, “That checks out.”
Keying my mic, I transmitted, “That’s a negative, Raptor Nine One. My report stands—we are proceeding on final leg of exfil, no issues.”
Duchess, for some reason, sounded furious when she responded.
“Report back to me the second you get to a safe area.”
30