A Murder in the Mosque
By
UCSBdad
Disclaimer: No, I don't own Castle. Wish I did, though. Rating: K+ for some soldier's language. Time: After Season Eight.
The lights of the port of Muscat, Oman had slipped below the horizon. Now the small sailing dhow was alone on the Arabian Sea on a night with no moon. The sea itself was covered in a blanket of thick fog.
Hakim, the dhow's captain, walked to the port side of his ship. Every step sent pain up his right leg, reminding him, if any reminding was necessary, of the day the Islamic Republican Guard Corps patrol boat had shot up his old dhow, killing and wounding many, family and friends alike.
He stared into the fog and saw nothing.
He turned and spoke to the man who shared the small bridge with him.
"Ibrahim, will the ship you seek be here?"
The man called Ibrahim shrugged.
"If God wills it. Inshallah."
Hakim nodded. Ibrahim was a good man and a good Moslem. Hakim knew little of the man other than he fought against the Iranian bastards who'd attacked Hakim. That was enough for him. He often wondered about who Ibrahim really worked for. He hoped it was for Riyadh, Cairo or perhaps Amman. But Hakim had long ago decided that even if Ibrahim worked for the Americans, or even, God forbid, the Jews, Hakim would still stand with him.
He wasn't so sure about Ibrahim's friend, Saad, the Moroccan. He was obviously a city boy and Hakim was suspicious of cities. Plus, Morocco was too close to Europe. Why, many Moroccans spoke French in their daily lives, rather than Arabic. But, then again, Hakim thought, the Sultan of Morocco was a descendant of the Prophet, a Sayyid.
"The ship we seek is just ahead and slightly to our port." Called young Daud, from the front of the dhow. He had the best eyesight of any of the crew.
"Are you certain?" Hakim called out. "I can see nothing."
"It's there. They're showing no lights and there's no wake. He's stopped."
"Daud has excellent eyes." Ibrahim said. "The ship is there, I'm sure."
"Then go with God, Ibrahim." Hakim said.
Ibrahim and Saad slung their AK 74s over their shoulders. Daud had reeled in the small boat that had been towed behind the dhow and jumped in, followed by Ibrahim and Saad.
Daud started the small outboard engine and easily pulled up alongside the darkened ship. A cargo net had been dropped over the ship's side, allowing the two men to climb aboard.
Once at the rail a sailor shoved a rifle into Ibrahim's face.
"Are you Warrant Officer McCarty?" He demanded.
"No, I'm the fucking tooth fairy and I'm gonna make you rich tonight if you don't get that fucking weapon outta my face."
"Sorry, sir. We really didn't know what to expect."
Someone, probably an officer, took over.
"Mr. McCarty, if you'll come with me, the captain would like to speak with you."
McCarty could feel the ship's engines begin to throb under his feet and felt the ship begin to move. He followed the officer through a hatchway and into an aircraft hangar. Then they went through a series of passageways, and up some ladders until they reached the bridge. The bridge was dark except for the soft glow of radar and computer screens.
"Sir, this is Warrant Officer McCarty."
The captain was tall, heavily built African-American.
"McCarty, can you tell me why the fuck I got pulled off my patrol to pick you up and get you to Djibouti?"
"That's need to know, sir, and apparently neither of us need to know. I was in the middle of running an op targeting Iranian weapons smuggling to the Houthis, in the Yemeni civil war. Then I got told to drop everything and get to you. No one told me a fucking thing more."
The captain sighed.
"Okay, we've been told to head for Djibouti and put you on our Seahawk helo when we're in range. Then I can get back to my job. In the meantime, you can eat in the mess. They're serving midrats now. You can grab some sleep in a bunk someplace. I'll have Ensign Walters show you where everything is."
The captain looked past McCarty at his companion, who was dressed much as McCarty was: Camouflage pants, ankle boots, a baggy dark colored shirt, a ChiCom chest rig for ammunition magazines, and a keffiyeh on his head. The captain also noticed the slung AK 74.
"Does your…friend have any dietary restrictions?"
"Oh, no, sir. I'll eat just about anything and have in the Army. I'm not partial to deep dish pizzas. If I wanted a loaf of bread with toppings, I'd…"
"That's enough, Doc." McCarty said.
They were taken to the mess where they went through the chow line.
"Hey, "Doc said, "they have breakfast."
"We have everything." The messman said, then looked up at Doc. "Um. Whoever and whatever you are."
"I'm hungry." Doc said and began piling his plate. McCarty did the same. They sat as far from anyone as they could and ate quietly.
They did attract the attention of the sailors.
"Since when do we haul jihadis around." Whispered one
"They're not jihadis. I heard them talk in the chow line. They spoke American English."
"They're black ops." Said the most senior of them. "SEALS, Army Special Forces, CIA paramilitaries, maybe mercenaries."
"Does the US really use mercenaries?"
"Of course, we use mercenaries. And just because they sound American don't mean they are. They could be from anyplace."
The two ate quickly and then found a bunk for a few hours of sleep.
The sun was well up when the two men got into the helo and headed for Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti on the Horn of Africa. When they arrived, they were met by a Humvee which took them to a large compound. Unlike most buildings at military bases around the world, this one lacked a sign telling everyone what unit was stationed there.
The two men went inside and were met by a major.
"Mr. McCarty and Sergeant Peake, coming back to civilization." The major said with a smile.
"Good to see you, too, Major Cunningham. It's a bitch, though, that anyone would call Djibouti "civilization"."
"But here we are. Come along and we'll go into my office."
They followed Cunningham through a large office. Most of it was radios, probably tracking jihadi communications. Several showed aerial views, probably taken from UAVs flying over Somalia or Yemen. McCarty noticed several TVs showing satellite news feeds from around the world. No one seemed to pay any attention to him and Peake. He assumed odd looking characters weren't strangers to Major Cunningham's unit.
"Can you tell us why we were pulled out of our mission?" McCarty asked once they were in the office.
"Not a clue. Not even a little one. All I know is to give you two AWOL bags. They have two sets of clothes for you for the time being. Also, some toiletries and assorted stuff. And I'm to send you to the base barber to get your haircut and a shave." Cunningham sniffed. "Jesus. When was the last time you took a bath?"
McCarty laughed.
"Water is precious out in the desert. You don't waste it on bathing."
"Well, you'll be going to the transient quarters to shower before you get to the barber."
"We aren't going back to Big Army, are we?" Peake asked. "All high and tight haircuts, spit shined everything and yes sir, yes sir, three bags full."
"All I know is that once I get you all bright eyed and bushy tailed, I'm to get you on a C-130 headed for Israel. It'll be here in four hours, assuming the Air Force keeps to their schedule, which they never do. Oh, and turn your AKs in here, but keep your sidearms."
In another hour they looked very different. McCarty was wearing a pair of khaki trousers and a deep blue polo shirt while Peake had jeans and a Hawaiian aloha shirt. They got a few odd looks from the loadmaster and some of the other passengers, but soon everyone settled into the flight up the Red Sea, over the Gulf and Aqaba and into Israel. They landed at Ben Gurion International Airport, rather than at a military base. The plane was sent to a remote apron. Apparently, someone didn't want anyone to know the USAF was around.
The other passengers were put on a bus, while McCarty and Peake were driven to the terminal in a car driven by an Israeli in civilian clothes.
"How come all the secrecy?" McCarty asked the driver. "It's not like no one knows that American military comes here."
The driver shrugged.
"Just a precaution."
McCarty let it drop.
They stopped at the terminal and were led inside by their driver. They were led past customs and immigration.
"Hey, how come those guys don't have to go through customs?' An American on his first trip to Israel asked,
The Israeli policewoman didn't bother to look up.
"I didn't see anyone."
"What do you mean? You didn't look."
Another man put his hand on his shoulder.
"This is Israel, Ben. All kinds of enemies around. You'll learn that some things aren't seen by people here. And nothing is talked about."
"You mean they're Shin Bet or something?"
"Probably not Israeli intelligence. They'd just walk in like everyone else so as not to stand out. Maybe they're Arabs from some country not officially friendly to Israel."
"They didn't look like Arabs." Ben said.
"All Arabs don't look like the ones on TV."
The three men got into another car and were driven to a house on the outskirts of Tel Aviv.
"You're here." Said the Israeli
"Where's here?" McCarty asked.
"The guy who got you here is inside."
When they got out, the house's door was opened by a wiry looking older man, dressed casually.
"Get in here. I haven't got all day,"
"We're coming, General Tate." Mc Carty said quickly as the man went back in the house.
"Who's he?" Peake asked.
"Brigadier General Chuck Tate. Nasty son of a bitch, but good at what he does."
"What's he do?"
"Fucks people up."
"That's what we do." Peake objected.
"He does it on a larger scale than we do."
Once inside, Tate offered them coffee.
"Sorry to have pulled you out of your mission, but we have a problem. McCarty, you used to be an NYPD cop, but got set up by some crooked cops?"
"Not exactly, sir. I was a rookie cop paired with an experienced cop named Dunn. One day Dunn met up with two other cops in a very bad area of New York. The place was an open-air drug market. Then Dunn sent me down the street to get ice creams for everyone. I thought it was some stupid rookie hazing thing. I was getting the ice cream when I heard automatic weapons fire. I found the three cops in a building, all dead."
"How did that jack you up?" Tate asked.
"The NYPD decided, unofficially, that I must be a coward and that I'd either refused to go in with the other cops or I had run. Of course, I was the only witness, so they couldn't actually prove I done anything wrong."
"Couldn't the other witnesses testify that they'd seen you getting ice cream?"
"Talking to the police in that neighborhood was worth your life. No one saw a thing."
"What happened?" Tate asked.
"I got sent to Personnel at One Police Plaza and told I'd be there for the rest of my career. The NYPD has their own ways of dealing with people they don't like. Eventually, I got tired of pushing paper and enlisted. And here I am. Years later, they found out the three dead cops were dirty. In fact, they'd been set up by some members of my family who were running the op. Stealing from drug dealers. The dead cops had been flashing way too much money around, doing drugs and partying with hookers.
"You've worked with the NYPD before, haven't you? Both of you. What do you think of Captain Kate Beckett at the 12th Precinct?"
"She's the best. She was the best homicide detective in the NYPD and she's probably the best precinct captain."
"There's been a murder in her precinct. Do you remember a Hadji Mohammed al Amriki?"
"Sure, one of those Islam is a religion of peace types." McCarty said sarcastically.
"Maybe he was, but he was also one of our intelligence assets."
TBC