The night at Jebut Port was torn to shreds by the searchlights of the US Navy Base.
The salty sea breeze carried the moisture of the diterranean, blowing over the anchorage.
The massive Marlin Fish cargo ship lay quietly on its designated dock like a stranded steel giant whale.
The ship had a deep draft line, silently conveying the heavy load within its hold, enough to alter the course of a war—thousands of tons of deadly munitions from the United States.
All around the dock, barbed wire glinted coldly under the searchlights, and the defensive works built with sandbags interlocked like jagged teeth.
Sentries from the US Marine Corps, clad in desert digital camouflage, moved cautiously at the border between shadow and intense light.
The muzzle of their M4A1 assault rifles slowly scanned every suspicious corner along their line of sight, while night vision goggles occasionally skimd the water surface, capturing any unusual ripples.
Armored Humvees were stationed at critical junctions, the M2 heavy machine guns on their rooftops watching like predators.
This was one of the most fortified bastions of the United States in the Horn of Africa, with an air of unyielding military presence that allowed no transgressions.
Less than a kiloter from the outer periter of the port's security zone, another force lay dormant in the darkness within an area composed of dilapidated shipping containers and abandoned fishing boats.
The sll was a mix—fishiness, rust, diesel, sweat, and a faint whiff of nitre.
No lights here, only the moonlight outlined the contours of several crouched figures, like hyenas sharpening their fangs in the night.
The leader wrapped in a filthy checkered headscarf, showing only a pair of sunken eyes burning with fanaticism and greed, like ghostly fires leaping in dried wells.
He was the notorious jihadist leader nicknad "Desert Sword," Iyass.
This was the real deal, not a scapegoated KB faction leader like Song Heping.
At this mont, fifteen billion US Dollars—
The bounty on the Dark Web worth an entire kingdom, burned at his nerve endings like the deadliest poison.
"Do you see it?"
Iyass's voice was dry and raspy, like sandpaper; he pointed towards the brightly lit, heavily guarded Marlin Fish in the distance.
"Do those lackeys of the infidels believe that guarding an ironclad fortress can protect their filthy 'gifts'? Allah is Great! Allah's wrath will ignite from where they least expect it!"
His masked followers nearby breathed heavily, their eyes twisted between fervent belief and the thirst for wealth.
Iyass's gaze passed over a particularly silent young face beside him—Samini, whose eyes were hollow, exhibiting a martyr-like dead calm.
Iyass's bony hand patted Samini's shoulder, the touch cold and heavy.
"Samini, and you all—"
He turned his head to sweep over the others, his voice dropping even lower, carrying a hypnotic persuasion.
"Allah is watching. Your actions will reduce those infidels to dust! Our nas shall be sung in the poems of martyrs! Your families will bathe in the glow of wealth, forever freed from poverty's shackles! And you—will have the chance to ascend to Heaven through your devotion to Allah! That is the Heaven flowing with honey!"
He abruptly clenched his fist, "Tonight! Let those arrogant Aricans hear the roar of our 'Desert Sword'!"
The plan had long matured in the darkness.
Yesterday, as soon as the Marlin Fish docked, Iyass's informants locked their eyes on it.
The giant vessel needed supplies: fresh water, vegetables, at…
The lifeblood to keep the massive steel shell functioning had to be provided from ashore.
The US Army tightly guarded every inch of the deck leading to the munition hold, but they could neither monitor nor had the capacity to inspect every cabbage or every box of potatoes being loaded onto the ship.
The dockworkers were a mixed bag, and the local contractors, driven by profit, consistently turned a blind eye to the verification of temporary workers' identities.
This was the gap Iyass ticulously selected.
An hour later, several worn-out, mud-caked small trucks with dim yellow lights slowly made their way to the bottom of the Marlin Fish's gangway.
The truck bodies bore obscure local fruit and vegetable company logos.
Inside the cab, Iyass's trusted driver cast a vigilant glance, his fingers nervously tapping the steering wheel.
The truck beds were piled high with baskets of potatoes, onions, and carrots, along with several large crates of fresh, full cabbages.
Samini and three other death warriors from "Desert Sword" squeezed in among these dirt-scented vegetables.
They wore greasy blue overalls, deliberately sared dirt on their faces, and their eyes were tense and focused like venomous snakes about to strike prey.
The truck ca to a halt at the gangway entrance.
Two fully ard Marines approached, their flashlight beams roughly sweeping over the truck bed and the driver's weary face.
The routine questioning carried a tone of condescending impatience.
The driver handed over a crumpled delivery note, explaining in broken French, his voice humble and ingratiating.
One Marine carelessly shifted the top baskets of potatoes and onions, his sturdy hand digging into the vegetables, scattering bits of mud.
His partner yawned, his rifle muzzle slightly drooping, his gaze looking at the calm sea in the distance.
The night's fatigue and the inherent trust in this "safe" port zone dulled their nerves.
The arrival of the Marlin Fish disrupted their routines, with orders from above indicating that the Marlin Fish needed a quick resupply overnight, prepared for sudden commands to set sail for Libya possibly arriving tomorrow.
Since this evening, the dock had been bustling continuously.
Supplies ca and went endlessly, the Marines had grown used to it.
But no one noticed the workers in the deep part of the truck bed, those few n squeezed beside the cabbage baskets, their bodies so stiff it was as if they were stone statues.
No one carefully examined those cabbages either—especially the few particularly large ones, whose tightly packed cores had been deftly hollowed out and filled with vacuum-sealed C4 plastic explosives and miniature electric detonators, weighing just enough to reach five hundred grams.
The destruction core capable of ripping open the Gate of Hell, was at this mont emanating the fresh scent of vegetables.
"Pass!"
The inspecting Marine waved his hand, his tone full of impatience.
The truck engine emitted a cough-like rumble, slowly ascending the gangway, disappearing into the vast shadow of the Marlin Fish.
In the distant darkness, Iyass watched as the truck vanished behind the ship's sides, his chapped lips curling into a grim smile.
Almost at the sa ti the truck drove into the Marlin Fish's massive shadow, hundreds of kiloters away, a silent storm was brewing within the brightly lit, air-conditioned CIA Africa Station Intelligence Center in Morocco.
Intelligence analyst Jenkins, with bloodshot eyes, stared intensely at the screen displaying a newly erged encrypted ssage window.
The information originated from a source codenad "Sand Rat," deeply embedded in the edges of Djibouti's underworld.
The content was extrely concise, yet each word cut like a knife:
[Sand Rat]: Urgent! Port, Marlin Fish, vegetable truck, concealed "Scorpion."
Target: Ship's core.
Ti: Before dawn.
Origin: Desert Blade.
"Scorpion" was a code for the operation, and "ship's core" pointed to the lethal heart—the munition hold. "Desert Blade"—was precisely a covert codena for the "Desert Sword" organization locally!
Jenkins felt a chill instantly rush from his feet to his head, his scalp tingling.
He abruptly seized the internal secure phone: "Ergency! Highest priority! Target 'Marlin Fish,' port, terrorists have infiltrated! Source 'Sand Rat,' pointing to 'Desert Blade'! Repeat, highest priority!"
His voice resounded sharply in the empty analysis room.
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