CHAPTER 16

Aboard the Bitter Harvest

Indian Ocean, Mozambique Coast

March

REECE HAD STAYED ANCHORED south of Pemba, Mozambique, for four days, waiting impatiently for the new moon. His journey from Cape Verde had taken him down the western coast of Africa and around the Cape of Good Hope; ninety-six days at sea. He had risked going ashore for supplies only twice, in Nigeria and Namibia. He treated each like an over-the-beach operation with an offset infiltration to a local village, where he played the part of a wayward traveler stocking up on a few supplies before disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.

His maritime skills had matured over the course of his voyage. The Bitter Harvest had kept her end of the bargain and delivered him safely halfway around the world. He was thankful for the boat’s faithful service and felt a bit sad to be scuttling the Hastingses’ beautiful blue-water voyager that had been his home for so long, but it was time for him to get back on terra firma.

With thunderstorms blocking the usually dazzling starlight above, the only light visible was from a handful of structures, miles away on the horizon. Using the subdued illumination from the red LEDs on his headlamp, he double-checked his bags, packed with clothing and what was left of his gear and cash. Cash opened doors and closed mouths; with cash and a bit of luck, maybe he could get where he was going.

Confident he was ready to make a hasty exit, Reece went belowdecks and found the thru-puts in the bottom of the hull. He’d never sunk a sailboat from the inside before and did his best to remember what they had taught him in the low-vis sailing course he’d taken in the Teams years ago. He located the macerate pump and outboard dump handle, turned it ninety degrees, and opened it to the outside elements. He loosened the hose clamp to ensure that the first big wave the yacht hit would free the hose completely, which meant the craft would start taking on water and begin her journey to the bottom of the ocean. He made his way to the circuit breaker and flipped the one labeled BILGE to prevent the bilge pump from pumping water. With a nonfloatable hull it was unlikely to pump water out faster than the forty-eight-foot craft would take it on, but Reece wanted to be sure. He then unscrewed the thru-put and scampered topside.

Reece killed the red light and pulled the elastic strap on the headlamp so it dangled around his neck. The inflatable launch was tied along the port side of the Bitter Harvest, protecting it from the prevailing winds and mild seas that lapped along the starboard edge of the hull. He shouldered his pack and secured the bump helmet to his head, lowering the dual lenses of his NODs; the world turned green and the immediate space brightened significantly. He lowered his Sitka Gear duffel into the launch and took one last look around the deck before swinging himself over the railing, his bare feet landing on the rigid deck of the Zodiac MK2 GR below.

Reece pumped the primer bulb and set the choke before cranking the motor. It took three tries before it caught, and he let it idle for a full minute to warm it up. Satisfied that it wasn’t going to stall at the wrong moment, he untied the bow and stern lines from the Bitter Harvest’s cleats and drifted away from the boat that had been his only home for the past fourteen weeks. As he advanced the throttle, the bow lurched skyward, obscuring his view of the shoreline in the distance. He kept the speed to a minimum, just enough to stay on plane. He wasn’t in a rush and there was no sense in making any unnecessary engine noise. He assumed it was too early to encounter any fishing vessels, and he didn’t know if his destination nation had a navy or even a coast guard patrolling its waters. After sixteen years in the Teams, Reece felt perfectly comfortable in a small boat headed toward the coastline of a foreign land that wasn’t expecting his arrival, though he did silently long for a couple of armed teammates, some fresh intel, and perhaps a map.

He had debated whether to steer the Bitter Harvest to within a mile of shore and simply swim in from that distance, but given that his only exercise over the past several weeks had been operating the sailboat, he wasn’t sure he was physically up for it. Also, given the lack of intel about potential coastal patrols, he preferred the decreased signature that the Zodiac gave him. As he steered the boat and scanned the horizon, he inflated the small dive vest around his neck using the plastic tube attached to the front. The spray of salt water that soaked him felt good against his skin in the warm night air. It took twenty minutes to close the distance to where Reece planned to make his approach, approximately five hundred meters offshore. He carefully scanned the sandy beach and dark waters for any sign of activity.

Seeing nothing concerning, he swung his legs over the side and entered the eighty-degree water while keeping a firm grip on the inflatable hull, his vest helping support his head above the waves. He had lined the inside of his duffel with garbage bags to render it effectively waterproof, which also made it buoyant. His NODs quickly fogged thanks to the water, body heat, and humidity, and he pushed them up onto the helmet and out of his way. He didn’t need to see much other than the white sand of the beach at this point, anyway. He unclipped the Winkler folding knife from the waistband of his board shorts with his right hand, locking the blade with a flick of his thumb before methodically stabbing each section of the sponson tubes, turning the workhorse craft into a flooded mess. Weighed down by the thirty-five-horsepower outboard motor, the craft quickly sank into the black water. Pushing his floating duffel ahead of him, Reece kicked toward Mozambique.

• • •

The beach was deserted. Reece had aimed for the darkest spot on the horizon during his approach and, as his feet made landfall for the first time in ages, he made his way onto a stretch of coastline devoid of structures. He paused in chest-deep water, slowly scanning the shoreline in front of him with his NODs, looking for any movement, the glow of an ill-timed cigarette break, or sharp edges to shapes that might signify something man-made. Satisfied his approach was clear, he waded ashore. He had thought he might feel an urge to kneel in thanks like some conquistador who had just discovered the New World, but, oddly enough, he felt like he was coming home.

Reece moved as quickly as the soft white sand would allow toward the tree line ahead. As he entered the scrub vegetation, he opened the duffel and reached into the back pocket of his pack to remove his Glock from the freezer bag that had protected it during his one-man over-the-beach operation. He then sat quietly, pistol in hand, for ten minutes, letting his senses get in tune with his new terrestrial environment. It took about thirty seconds for the mosquitos to discover his presence and he endured scores of bites as he struggled not to move.

Satisfied that no one was aware of his arrival, he reached back into his duffel and tore through the garbage-bag liner. He stripped off his vest and traded his soaked T-shirt for a dry one, using his wet shirt to clean the sand from his feet before putting on socks and lightweight Salomon trail runners. SEAL or not, Reece was not a fan of sandy feet. Digging a hole with the help of a nearby rock as a spade, he dropped in his vest and dirty wet shirt. He then removed his NODs and helmet, giving them one last look. He needed to travel light, and being caught with ITAR-restricted night vision might complicate his story as just another backpacker wandering the earth in search of the meaning of life. Not the greatest backstory, and not much to support it except for the long hair, beard, and lack of personal hygiene, which just might be enough.

Looking down at his M4, he whispered a quick good-bye as he wrapped it and his NODs in trash bags from the boat and cached them as best he could in the ground, brushing over the area with a dry limb. Though it didn’t fit his thin backstory, he couldn’t bring himself to cache his Glock. It wouldn’t do much against many of the larger animals of the African bush, but it would be more than sufficient against the two-legged variety. Be prepared. Noting the exact position of the cache on his GPS, Reece stood and began the next phase of his journey.

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