Teamwork & Terror

By Omar Dickson

An ambitious pipeline project across the North
African desert seems like a straightforward task for
Darren Hudson, freelance geophysicist, and parttime
rogue agent for the British Secret Intelligence
Service. However, sinister forces are at work
with a plan to uncover a deadly secret hidden
in the past. Can Darren survive long enough to
unravel the tangled webs of government deceit,
underhand business dealings, and terrorist plots?
Can he resolve the issues in his personal life and
avoid heartbreak at the hands of a beautiful
Egyptian girl? Can he locate the deadly hoard
before his enemies? The sands of Egypt are vast,
but the sands of time are running out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477218204

Omar Dickson

Born in Brighton, he studied exploration geophysics in London before working in the international oil industry. He spent ten years living in North Africa mixing with the local people and seeing sights well off the tourist track. Omar now resides in East Sussex with his beautiful Moroccan-Berber wife and children.

Book preview

Prelude –

All Change? February 2011

Despite being an old hand to the region, I was as surprised by the news of revolutions in Egypt and Libya as much as anyone. Being situated in the Western Desert of Egypt it may have come as a surprise that I was able to get any news at all but I was there as Party Chief of Seismic Field Crew 209 conducting a survey for Independence Oil. Each field crew had its own fast satellite uplink and a mobile computer centre for processing the seismic data and transmitting it back to the clients’ European headquarters. So while the Internet was down in Cairo and Tripoli we were still able to pick up news from the outside world using our own dish. This was a fact I had let slip at a British Embassy reception whilst chatting with the ruddy faced, portly gentleman in the tweed suit who seemed politely interested in my work. Bob Lowe had introduced himself as a PR consultant attached to the Embassy and had generously kept my champagne glass full while listening to me ramble on about oil exploration. Two weeks later he had followed me into the desert and, in the privacy of my air-conditioned trailer, presented me with two sheets of paper. The first was from the client ordering us to stand down and to move the crew to a new set of coordinates and to follow the instructions of the bearer. The second was a copy of the Official Secrets Act which I had signed so long ago. I feigned interest in the papers while in reality I observed myself in the reflective surface of the glass-topped desk searching for an answer. A square jaw and slightly sulky mouth seemed set against the idea but my dark green eyes were dreaming of heroism and adventure. It had been years since I had turned my back on the Army to pursue a civilian career but I still felt guilty about not doing my bit. Dr Johnson was right; everyman does feel bad with himself for not having been a soldier. I looked at the square hands laid palms flat on the desk and the muscular forearms. They were suntanned, hairy and scarred in places; a working man’s arms I proudly thought. I sat back and pushed my dark brow back from my forehead and looked at Bob. He was wearing the same tweed suit but, with him sitting cross-legged in the metal and canvas chair, I noticed how stumpy his legs were and how the trouser ends crumpled up over his brogues and Argyll socks. My amusement faded as I met his piercing blue eyes that were fixed on me. His short-cropped, dark grey hair seemed to bristle with impatience. I had delayed enough and had little choice but to comply with his instructions so my crew and I were now working at Her Majesty’s pleasure.

We had been joined near the Libyan border by First Lieutenant Sylvia Wellstone WRN (Signals) causing mixed reactions amongst the crew. Even today desert crews tend to be an exclusively male environment and perhaps she had sensed this. In any case she had apologetically introduced herself as Bob sent me. She had quickly got to work with our IT Engineer to disable our GPS transponders and to reconfigure the computer setup. A camp bed was installed in the computer caravan and a strict timetable for showers imposed so her presence went as unnoticed as possible. Three days after her arrival we struck camp and our convoy of white-painted 4x4s, trucks and trailers crossed into Libyan territory trailing a discreet fibre optic cable through the dunes behind us like a latter day Hansel and Gretel.

It was only over lunch a few days later that she gave me an inkling of what we were doing. The mess tent was full and noisy with the chatter of Egyptians and the clatter of cutlery but we had a table to ourselves for the time being.

What have you told your crew? She asked.

About this project? Not many of them have asked as they are content as long as they get paid. Those that have, I told them we are doing a deep crust refraction survey as you would lay out a long line for that. I might arrange for a couple of dynamite shots tomorrow to make it convincing. I can’t say I like this cloak and dagger stuff—especially as it’s putting my people at risk without them knowing why. She took my hint.

Well, the government is trying to make up for its lack of initiative in the early days of the revolution in Egypt by getting onside early in Libya. As you probably heard, the social networks like Facebook were a key tool for organising the protests but were vulnerable to the government closing down the servers. Your computer centre on wheels is now acting as a server that they can’t get their hands on.

I hope you are right, about the not getting their hands on us. I can imagine a fairly unpleasant outcome if we get caught. Gaddafi would be a tad pissed off!

A tray clattered down on the table next to me. It was Yasser Al Wahsh, the crew foreman. He usually ate with me or the other managers as the other Egyptians didn’t seem to like him and he set himself above them by always wearing the traditional dark green galabeya of the Malem or boss whereas the others wore overalls. He had a Cheshire cat grin under a Saddam Hussain moustache and spectacles with thick, dark frames. I didn’t like him either as he was always sucking up or putting his nose where it didn’t belong.

What would piss off Gaddafi? He asked. Who cares anyway? We have got rid of the scum Mubarak and I’m sure he will be next. To hell with him!

Sylvia and I exchanged a look across the table and I changed the subject.

Is everything okay with the accommodation arrangements etc?

It’s fine she said. Except… is there anything you can do to encourage Mike to take a shower? It gets quite stuffy when we’re working together in the caravan.

I’m afraid personal hygiene is not among his better attributes. There seems to be a tradition among skilled digital engineers that washing is optional. Be grateful for the air conditioning.

I was worried as I left the table and went back to my cabin. The only people who spoke badly about dictators are those who know that they can get away with it. If Yasser was an agent provocateur then it would explain his unpopularity amongst the others. Well, he couldn’t get to a radio and the GPS was shut down so he couldn’t do much harm I thought.

Mike burst into my trailer about an hour later. I could tell he was worried about something because he was rubbing the palms of his hands on his blue overall trousers, beads of sweat were forming on his bald pate and he was reluctant to speak.

What’s up, Mike?

You’ve got to do something about that girl, Boss. She keeps spraying perfume everywhere and it plays havoc with my sinuses. He took out a far from clean hankie and blew his nose loudly to illustrate his point.

Okay, I’ll have a word. Why don’t you relax the rest of the afternoon so I can deal with it, maybe treat yourself to a long shower. He nodded and opened the door before hesitating and turning back to me.

Yasser reckons that we have crossed into Libyan territory. He says he can tell by the colour of the sand. Is this true, Boss?

We are in the border zone. I can’t tell you more than that at the moment, Mike. I’m sure you realise that this isn’t a normal project but just try and keep a lid on things. Where is Yasser by the way?

He’s gone to set up one of the shot recorders. He said we were going to run some dynamite shots this afternoon. I was going to go and reactivate the GPS on the other recorders.

What the hell! I followed Mike out of the cabin and went in search of Yasser. I saw to my annoyance that the big white fuel truck was parked next to the computer caravan violating our safety procedures. That was it, Yasser would have to go. He had headed out of camp in one the Toyota 4x4’s pick-ups equipped with a shot recorder used to detonate explosives and then record the returning seismic wave—an expensive bit of kit. I took the other Toyota and headed out after him following his tracks across the white sand. After just 5 minutes of driving I could see him through the heat haze parked up and setting up the equipment. There was a sharp crack followed by a loud roar and I just had time to slam on the brakes before the blast wave hit the Toyota, forcing me off the track and into the sand dunes. I could see a mushroom cloud of flame above the campsite before it changed to a black pall of smoke and I scrabbled in the cab for my field glasses and climbed up on the roof. I could see some of the crew running with extinguishers towards the burning remains of the computer caravan and the signals truck but it was hopeless. I turned as I heard the sound of a helicopter approaching and searched the skyline for it but it was difficult to see through the heat haze. Finally I saw it approaching Yasser; it was a Russian built Mi-24 Hind military helicopter. It hovered alongside him and he ran towards it waving before a burst of sub machinegun fire cut him down. I watched as he staggered forward before collapsing face down. The helicopter took off again and headed in my direction so I dived into the dunes and did my best to dig myself into the sand. The first rocket exploded into the dunes showering sand over me and the second ripped into the Toyota blowing it to pieces before they roared overhead. I could hear more rocket fire and the sound of automatic weapons as they strafed my camp mercilessly, cutting down the survivors. Three of our security guards returned fire with pistols and automatics but it was hopeless against the armoured attack helicopter and they were scythed down. The helicopter hovered for a while, searching for movement, before heading west and disappearing over the horizon.

I was unhurt except for a few scratches and bruises and I shook the sand from my clothes. Yasser was clearly dead but I gave the treacherous son of a bitch a kick for good measure before removing the keys to the 4x4 from his pocket. The Toyota appeared to be undamaged and started first time. My instincts were to get as far away as quickly as possible but I overcame the urge to run and drove back to the campsite. I’ll never forget the smell; the mixture of explosives, petrol and burnt rubber underlain by the tinny, metallic smell of spilt blood. I found one the catering staff, a young skinny lad, who had hidden beneath the folds of the mess tent. He was slightly burnt and had been shot through his left arm so I fashioned a tourniquet as best as I could and told him to wait in the Toyota. He refused and did his best to help me search the camp for other survivors. Ahmed, head of the security detail, was concussed but otherwise relatively unhurt and I sat him in the shade to recover. I found Mike face down in the sand and the back of his coveralls had been burnt away except for the cuffs. Gingerly I turned him over and felt for a pulse in his neck—it was faint but it was there, thank goodness. He hadn’t been shot but the flash burns were horrific and the pain must have cut through his unconsciousness as he screamed when the cook and I carried him to the flatbed of the pickup. There was no sign of Sylvia; she had probably been in the computer caravan. Ahmed stood up, brushed the sand from his green coveralls and checked the workings of his AK-47. He was a short but stocky man with the white hair of his magnificent handlebar moustache betraying his years. He was a retired Sergeant Major in the Egyptian Army but I had never once heard him raise his voice. He had controlled his men with cool but firm authority. He was cool now despite his eyes blazing with fury.

They will be back he warned. They didn’t land so they will pick up some troops and come back soon.

He was right, I thought, and there was no way we could get enough distance between us and them in time. They could be back in a matter of minutes.

Find me a pistol and check it works I ordered Ahmed and turned to the Cook. There was a bottle of whiskey in Mike’s tent. Fetch it please. He looked puzzled.

Whiskey now Boss?

Pour it out and bring me the bottle. I went to fetch my satchel and some charges from the Toyota and prayed we would have enough time.

The Mi-24 Hind circled the camp twice before landing and I prayed that they wouldn’t spot the undamaged Toyota which we had hastily camouflaged with the remnants of the mess tent. They landed close to the camp on a flat, clear patch of ground and four black soldiers jumped down. They were wearing a ragtag mixture of uniforms and carrying different weapons and their faces were laughing beneath bright yellow hats. They were overconfident and unprofessional and made the mistake of bunching up which was what Ahmed had counted on. He burst from where he was hiding underneath a sand covered groundsheet and dropped all four mercenaries with one burst of his AK-47. The port waist gunner in the Hind shouted a warning to the pilot and started to swing his machine gun around. This was the chance I was waiting for.

Now! I shouted and the cook and I emerged from our hiding places in the sand on the other side of the helicopter. The starboard waist gunner was distracted by the gunfire coming from Ahmed and I stood and took careful aim and shot him in the head and then the chest before dropping the pistol and pulling my trusty lighter from my pocket. I lit the rag of our home-made Molotov cocktail and then the fuse of the dynamite charges. With an underarm lob the cook tossed the bottle into the helicopter where it smashed at the feet of the other gunner but didn’t catch fire immediately. The gunner was distracted for a moment and Ahmed wounded him in the left leg. He stumbled but recovered and hit Ahmed in the chest with a burst from the heavy machine gun before finally the petrol ignited. I ran forward and tossed the satchel into the cabin. He stopped slapping at the flames around his ankles and tried to `grab the hissing bag but the helicopter lurched forward as the panicking pilot pushed the variable forward and it slipped to the back of the cabin and out of his grasp. The helicopter rose to about 30 m and started to turn before the charges exploded and it dropped vertically to the sand, the main rotor blade pin wheeling away.

Sir! The cook was pointing towards the setting sun. Sir!

It was another helicopter. They must’ve been flying low, nape of the Earth, as neither of us had heard them approach and now they had us cold. I braced myself against the blowing sand and for the impact of machine gun rounds as the chopper turned sideways onto us. The cook fell to his knees and started to pray. No gunfire came and I collapsed to my knees next to him in exhausted relief when I saw through squinted eyes the distinctive silhouette of a Lynx rescue helicopter. Two crewmen jumped down and we were heaved aboard before it took off like a bat out of hell towards the north-west.

We were taken aboard HMS Cumberland and only then did we hear of the civil war that had started. I visited Mike in the sick bay when he regained consciousness and tried to reassure him and encourage him with talk of home. He gestured for me to come closer and he whispered in my ear.

You bastard. You utter bastard.

Chapter 1 –

Another Dawn, Another Day

Waking with the usual morning aches and pains, I part sighed a heartfelt Oh no, not already as the local mosque started the call to prayer. It was the priest with the good voice today and not an unpleasant way to be woken; in fact I tended to miss it when visiting family outside of Egypt. The problem was it meant it’s around 5am and I felt like I’d been asleep for about one hour. Well, I could doze for another three hours and take my time getting dressed—not the same as a good nights sleep though. Lying there in the half-light, even the morning light in Cairo has a dusty quality to it; I pondered the day ahead and tried to arrange what facts I knew and what my instincts were telling me into some sort of plan. As I knew nothing and didn’t have a clue what I was doing I decided to stick with Plan A; keep my mouth shut and my ears and eyes open and see what happens. I’d been briefed the night before but after several gin and tonics washed down with beer I never can remember much. Still, I knew I’d have time to update myself on the journey across town with Bob.

Bob was going to supervise and guide me on this project and had already given me the background last night. I suspected that he knew me well enough to make sure of telling me again and he’d insisted that we meet at eight thirty in the morning for the trek across town. Our appointment was at ten o’clock on the other side of the city and, with the Cairo traffic, the journey could easily take an hour. This meant we’d still be well on time and the Egyptian we were going to meet wouldn’t show up until eleven at the earliest. Unless I was meeting a European I normally didn’t bother leaving until the time I was due to be there. After a year or so in Egypt even the Yanks got casual about meeting times but, as the old boy seemed pretty up tight already, I decided I’d better be co-operative. It was to be his project and I was to listen and learn so maybe he had a point. And according to Plan A it was best not to make waves this early.

I lived on the top floor of six storey block of flats at the corner of Pyramid Street and Feisal Road. Pyramid Street is a long road which leads out to the famous monuments and is populated by fast-food restaurants, 3-star hotels and nightclubs.