Troubleshooters (Jackson Chase Novella Book 2) (6 page)

“
I
t appears
an explosive device was in one of the suitcases,” Lieutenant Kahembe explained as we stood on the apron at Arusha’s tiny regional airport. “It detonated after falling off one of the baggage carriers that were being hand-towed to the plane.”

Having left our vehicle in the dirt parking lot, Sterba and I were brought immediately to the scene of the detonation. Lieutenant Kahembe stood before a train of three small metal wagons that were used to pull bags to the aircraft. The device had obviously been in a bag on the last wagon, because the frame was a tangled mess, covered by suitcase fragments and singed strips of clothing.

A man in a dirty high-visibility vest held a battered red water can, the black hose in his other hand delivering a tiny stream of water over the smoldering pile of tattered luggage. Behind him, a fire truck—easily fifty years old—rested. It’s hood was up, and two men were arguing about something to do with the engine.

This was the kind of sleepy little airport that, under any other circumstance, I loved. A place where, after your flight landed, you’d help the pilot unload the bags, and then join him at the pub for a beer. But terrorism put more and more of these precious, informal gems on the endangered species list.

“Casualties?” Sterba asked.

“The baggage handler pulling the hand truck was injured quite severely. He’s been taken to hospital,” Kahembe replied. “But thankfully, there were no deaths.”

“Lucky it didn’t detonate when the plane was in the air,” Sterba said, pointing to the small twin engine that had been roped off.

Kahembe nodded. “Baggage is typically stored in the nose and just behind the last row of seats. They would have had no chance if the device had gone off in flight.”

As they spoke, I ran my eyes across the airport and the crowds that had gathered. The first thing we needed to do was assume another device was on site and get passengers scheduled to be on this flight to safety, while remembering that one of them could be the bomber. Kahembe, however, appeared to be a bit stunned, and wasn’t showing the cool efficiency he had yesterday. The poor man wasn’t used to this, and needed a little support getting things rolling.

“Lieutenant,” I said, “I think it might be wise to take the passengers from this flight to a safe location. I saw an empty hangar just down the ramp, so I’d suggest organizing the group there.”

This seemed to kick him into gear, and he immediately pulled his shoulders back and said, “You’re right, Commander, thank you. This flight was taking tourists to the Serengeti. We will get the manifest and match it to the passengers.”

“And if you can, get a photograph of each of them along with a statement.”

He nodded in affirmation. I turned to Sterba and said, “Let’s have a look around.”

“What are you looking for?” Kahembe asked.

“The outlier, Lieutenant. The one who stands out with too much—or too little—interest,” I said, my eyes beginning the search already.

As we looked over the distraught passengers on the apron, Sterba asked, “Uncommanded det?”—An accidental detonation, common enough with IEDs, improvised explosive devices.

“That’s my guess. Either from the bag falling off the dolly or some sort of radio interference from airport operations.” Something else was bothering me, so I asked, “Why so little damage?”

“Small amount of explosive material. No shrapnel. Wouldn’t need much to take down a small plane like that, and anything more than necessary would have made the bag noticeably heavy.” He was right. The skin of the plane was thin enough that even a small detonation would have had the desired effect.

As Kahembe’s men moved the passengers across the ramp to the empty fire brigade hangar, we looked over each face. And while we were looking for the fidgety nervousness of a bomber, we only saw fear and sadness. These tourists had come to Tanzania to fulfill a dream of seeing Africa’s beautiful wildlife. If today had gone as planned, they would have been setting down on the Grumeti’s dirt strip, watching a group of giraffes carefully nibble leaves from the Acacia trees. Instead, they we being ushered into a hot shed, left to wonder what would have happened had their plane taken off.

“He’s not in that lot,” I said.

Sterba nodded. “Increase the perimeter. Could have been thrown on the baggage cart by someone not on the flight. Easy enough here.”

He was right. While there was a fence around the perimeter, it had likely been put up ages ago more to keep animals off the runway than anything else. Efforts had been made to secure the row of small hangars and sheds that ran parallel to the runway, but the scraps of gates and fencing could easily be hopped.

We walked by the terminal building, the sturdiest building of the lot that looked more like a standalone restaurant. Faces, a mixture of black and white, stared out at the tarmac. To the right was a tiny wooden building, its age and colonial style leading me to believe it was the original airport terminal. There was a gap between the little old building and a rusty corrugated hangar just beyond. It was obscured slightly by a large green dumpster and some old barrels.

Sterba turned away so as not to look directly at the suspicious location, and said, “Looks like a good spot if you needed to do a BDA.”

While we assumed that the bomber had left, there was still the chance he’d stick around to do a battle damage assessment. I doubted jihadists used the term BDA, but I was pretty confident they’d want to see how many infidel notches they could put in the stocks of their AKs.

“Let’s keep the pace, then jump,” I said.

And so we strode with a slow gait past the gap, as if headed towards the fire brigade shed further down the ramp. When we were just past the dumpster, both of us spun quickly. Sterba drew and covered deep down the weed-strewn space between the buildings. I charged the dumpster, arriving there in a flash.

Nothing. I made a quick circuit of the area to be sure. I holstered my weapon, disgusted at this lack of progress.

“Damn it, Sterbs, I have had enough!” I said with a bit more volume than intended. “We’re chasing, playing detective.”

“I know, but that’s how this one is going. Gotta play the hand you got, partner, so let’s stay cool and keep hunting.”

I looked at him, my teeth clenched in the frustration I felt. He was right, of course. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.

“We have to stop them, Sterbs.”

“We will,” he replied, his voice calm. “Now let’s clear these buildings.”

We continued, scanning the odd assortment of sheds and the gaps between, and still found nothing more than the occasional worker who would wave, or come up and ask us about the explosion.

The last building was the fire brigade shed. Beyond that, only a scattering of rusty barrels and retired trucks and tractors remained. We resigned ourselves to the fact that whoever had loaded that suitcase had long since left and went to see Kahembe.

“Anything?” he asked.

“No, Lieutenant,” I replied, likely betraying a bit of my frustration.

His hands clenched. “I have had enough of this in my city, Commander. This has to stop.”

“I feel the same way, Lieutenant. And what I’ve had enough of is playing defense.”

Kahembe stepped forward, coming closer to me. He stood ramrod straight, and, grasping both of my shoulders, said, “Then don’t, Commander. Find the monster that is terrorizing my city. Find him now.”

As if on cue, my phone vibrated. I looked at the screen and scrolled through the message.

“Locations on calls made during the hotel attack are in from Chen,” I said.

“Be nice if Naseeb could take us directly to these locations, since he knows the area,” Sterba said, looking down at his own phone, “but still no response from him.”

“She’s given us coordinates. I think we can figure it out on our own.”

“Those sound like the famous last words of every male.”

Kahembe shook his head and returned to the hangar.

T
he locations Chen
had provided were scattered, and often on strips of road in between clusters of buildings, likely from someone driving along and placing a call. Some came from street corners where people gathered and motorcycle taxis took a break from the intense sun beneath scraggly trees. Our chat with the men in each of these locations turned from friendly to rather quiet when we asked about the provenance of their phones.

A few of the marked locations were the ubiquitous mobile phone stands that were a part of every dusty little row of shops. And while nice enough, the proprietors had no idea that some of the SIMs they had used were stolen.

We carried on, wanting to cover each location, and soon found ourselves near the edge of town on the western side of Arusha, the road that eventually turned north to Nairobi.

Head down, monitoring the map display on his phone, Sterba said, “Number eleven on the list. Just over a klick ahead.”

We hit, for perhaps the hundredth time, a large pothole in the dirt road. Sterba’s head knocked into the doorframe.

“Could you please not hit every hole in the road?”

“Could you please stop whining every time I do?”

“200 meters,” he finally said. “Left side.”

I scanned ahead. A woman stood below a tree next to a bushel of onions, waiting for a bus or dala dala. A man pulled a wooden wagon loaded with corrugated roofing material past her. Just beyond them was what appeared to be a disused petrol station. A faded sign reading ‘Niake’ stood on two exceptionally tall posts. The pumps had been pulled out, but the workshop and attached office remained.

I slowed, preparing to make a left turn into the area under the portico where the pumps once stood. Just as my finger went to the indicator, Sterba suddenly said, “Contact! Don’t turn. Continue straight ahead.”

I resisted the urge to turn and look, sensing that Sterba’s urgency meant whoever saw could be looking our way. We continued on past the petrol station.

“What do you have, Joe?” I asked while trying to maintain a constant speed.

“No threat,” he said. “Noticed someone on the roof holding what could be a rifle. Or a broom, for that matter. But keep your eyes straight ahead. Don’t want to spook ‘em.”

To our right was a small hill. An opening in the vegetation showed the corners of some buildings.

“There’s a small road to the right that may go up the hill. How about we find a good spot to have a look?”

“Sounds good,” Sterba said.

We were about 800 meters or so past the petrol station when I turned off the main road and onto the small dirt trail. The surface was loose and deeply rutted, throwing the little truck side-to-side as we made our way past a couple of small sheds. They were in a sad state, and gave me the impression we were entering an old farm of some sort.

I pushed my chin out and to the right, needing both hands on the wheel, and said, “Let’s take this path to the right. Might double us back.”

“Take it slow. I don’t want to leave a dust trail they can see,” Sterba said.

The path took us up a slight incline, the brush thickening as we backtracked. It finally ended after 500 meters or so.

“End of the line,” Sterba said.

“Grab the gear for a little recon time,” I said. “I’ll call Chen.”

Sterba hopped out of the passenger seat. I pulled out my phone and dialed.

“Haley, it’s Jackson,” I said when she picked up. “We’re at site eleven on highway 104, edge of town. Sterba pinged a guard on the roof, and we’re proceeding on foot to have a look.”

“Understood,” she replied. “I’ve been digging into calls made on the stolen cards. There are inbound and outbound calls overseas before and after the bombings that I’ve been focusing on.”

“You think a go-order came from overseas?”

“The timing is suspiciously close,” she continued. “Could be nothing, but I want to check. I’ll focus on calls made to and from site eleven.”

“Good. We’ll keep you posted.”

“Might want to let Kahembe know you’ve hit on something.”

“Will do. He is at the airport. Assume you heard.”

“I did. We have to stop this, Jackson. Take them down.”

There wasn’t the need to respond.

“Once I collect these data, I’ll have Naseeb bring me back to the police station.”

“Roger. Out.”

I closed the line and stepped out of the truck to join Sterba. He passed me a small pack and continued to try and find a path through the brush.

“Dilbert have anything?” he asked. Dilbert was the call sign Sterba had christened Chen with in Thailand, much to her dismay. It was interesting that he switched to that now, and I sensed it meant he felt we had just gone operational.

“She’s found some calls that make her think there’s a connection outside of Tanzania. Looking into it now.”

“Over there,” Sterba said, pointing to a small path that let roughly in the direction we needed to go. I put the pack on and followed.

After a few minutes of making our way through the bush, he said, “Check six.”

“I think the baddies are ahead of us, Sterbs.”

“Not the baddies I’m worried about.”

I checked behind us. Nothing. “What are you worried about?”

He stopped and turned to me. “In case you haven’t noticed, Hillary,” he said, using the call sign I had inherited in Afghanistan, “we’re in the bush in Tanzania. Ever occur to you why so many tourists come here? Do you remember Kahembe saying, ‘It is rather easy to dispose of bodies here’?”

Well frankly I had been more focused on finding bad guys. But now I saw what he meant, and the feeling didn’t exactly fill me with warmth.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Lions, cheetahs, leopards. And plenty of other things that go chomp-chomp.”

I took the opportunity to move past him on the path.

“My turn to take point,” I said. “They always go for the straggler.”

After ten minutes or so, we found a small, flat patch that gave us visibility to the petrol station across the road. We settled in, slowly adjusting branches to make sure we were adequately concealed. We lay prone next to one another, each with a pair of field glasses, scanning the petrol station and main road.

“I don’t have anything, Joe,” I said after several minutes.

“Give it a little time.”

The station was of average size, with three bays for the workshop, all of which were closed. What must have been the cashier’s office was attached to the right side of the building, and had only a door. Some sort of sheet, or perhaps paper, covered the window in the top half of the door.

I scanned from left to right, studying the station. The fence surrounding the property had largely fallen down, allowing for some entry and egress points on foot. There appeared to be space behind the station which would have allowed vehicles to enter the workshop bays from either side of the structure. Out front, the pumps had been removed, but a large portico and the concrete pad below remained.

The surrounding area, where customers once pulled in to check the air in their tires before embarking on safari, was packed dirt. And while the scattered sprigs of weeds announced the station as well past its time, there appeared to be some recent tire marks.

As I was scanning, a shape appeared on the flat roof.

“Contact. Roof, left side,” I said.

Sterba shifted to look as the figure approached the edge of the roof. It was a man, holding what looked like an AK-47. The roof was recessed slightly, so the edges of the building formed a solid railing and only allowed us to see him from the stomach up, but it was enough.

The sentry came to the edge and scanned the road. He adjusted slightly, leaning over to check the immediate grounds. It was clear the portico below him was a problem.

“The pad under the portico is his blind spot. He doesn’t have the angle to see directly underneath,” I said.

“No. But
he
does,” Sterba said, pointing out a new sentry. “Right side. Low.”

I moved to glass the lower right side of the building and saw the shadow of another guard rounding the building. The silhouette of a barrel was clearly visible above his shoulder.

“OK, this is the location we’ve been looking for. Notify Kahembe, and I will update Dilbert.”

“Wilco,” Sterba said, pulling out his phone to contact the Lieutenant.

I took a quick scan from left to right and then brought out my phone to call Chen. There was a message from her on the screen.
Naseeb on his way to pick me up and take me to the police station. Keep me updated on your progress.

I called, and after a few rings was sent to voicemail. I tried once again with the same result. Sterba did get through, and I heard the tail end of his conversation before he closed the line.

“Kahembe will be notified that we’ve found a possible location for the bombers. I’ve asked that they come in quietly from the west, and notify us when they’re ten minutes out.”

“No answer from Chen,” I said, considering this a moment as there was no reason for a member of the team to go off comms. I tried Naseeb, as we had periodically throughout the morning. Again, there was no answer.

“Nothing from Naseeb either,” I said. Collecting my thoughts, I made a decision. “Police are on the way. Naseeb is giving Chen a ride back to the police station, and she’s only been off comms for a few minutes. The threat here is our priority. We stay, observe, and collect as much information as we can on the objective.”

Sterba remained prone, his field glasses on the petrol station as he replied, “Roger.”

We settled into a routine, scanning and calling out movement. The dirt road between our position and the petrol station was the northern lesser used of the two main roads west of Arusha. Most of the tour groups used the road just south of us to reach destinations like Tarangire and the Serengeti, going from the airport we’d left earlier today. Traffic on this road was mostly supply lorries and a few safari outfits taking customers north into Kenya.

The sentries didn’t seem to have a set patrol schedule. We still had only seen two guards, and their intervals were sporadic at best. We were able to see some variances in light and shadow behind whatever blocked the door’s window, which let us know that someone was inside. Problem was, we couldn’t tell if it was a dozen bomb-wearing lunatics or a cat finding a nice place to have a nap.

As I watched, I couldn’t knock the feeling that something was strange about Naseeb picking Chen up. He’d been hired as our fixer, but was oddly unavailable this morning. Then suddenly, he appears and picks up Chen. Why was that?

I voiced as much to Sterba.

“What I want to think,” he said, “is that Naseeb slept through his alarm, had a little action with the missus, and then decided to turn up for work. He sees a message from Dilbert, which is a more attractive proposition than ours, and goes right to her.”

“Mmmm,” I replied, not liking the explanation. Even if it was a more realistic happenstance, fixers are generally in the business for the money. And when money, specifically money from the generous hand of Uncle Sam, is flowing, they tend to err on the side of more attentiveness than less.

Suddenly, the pieces began to come together. I pushed back from the shrubs into the small clearing and withdrew my phone.

Sterba sensed my urgency, but stayed in place. “Jackson?”

“Sterbs, why was Naseeb so fired up at the bakery?” I said over my shoulder.

“Because we found the phone.”

“
He
found the phone,” I corrected. “And what stood out about that phone?”

“Well, I think the fact that it was used to trigger a bomb that killed eleven people tends to make it special.”

“We didn’t know that at the time. Think about when you saw it sitting there
in the stacks of flour
.”

Sterba was silent for a second while he reconstructed the moment in his mind. “Jesus,” he finally said. “It was clean.”

“Exactly. Everything else in that back room was covered with a dusting of flour. Those sacks come in and out all day. They’re opened and poured. Even if the Ashas clean diligently, there will always be a layer of flour dust everywhere.”

“So Naseeb’s carrying the phone used to detonate the bomb. He sees an opportunity at the bakery to throw us off the scent, and plants it as he walks in from the back.”

“Exactly,” I said again as I tapped the green call key on the phone.

Back in Virginia, Landon Clark’s cell phone rang. He picked up on the first ring.

“Jackson,” he said. “How are things going?”

“Fine, Landon. No time for a sitrep now. Can you get me coordinates on Chen’s phone?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Landon, we may not have ten minutes. You gave us agency phones. Can’t you just flip a switch and have her show up on my phone?”

“It’s not that easy, Jackson. There’s a protocol here.”

“Do what you can. Chase out,” I said and closed the line.

Sterba had his field glasses pointing left. “We might not need Landon’s help. Vehicle approaching. Looks like Naseeb’s.”

“Why would Chen have him bring her directly to the target?” I said, more to myself than Sterba.