“Wait a minute,” Emily blurted out. “Are you off your trolley? You’re not seriously suggesting attacking a bunch of heavily armed terrorists?” She pointed at Rick, “How much shoot-em-up did you do in the Navy?”
“More than you might think,” he replied. “I did quite a few interdiction and anti-piracy missions. And Ron here was in the National Guard—plus, I’ve seen him hunt, he’s a phenomenal shot.”
“Emily, we’re talking about tons of explosives, headed God knows where,” Boone said.
“That much Semtex goes off in one place, hundreds could die,” Rick said. “Or they might be dropping operatives off in different islands, each with their own explosives. No, we got a chance to shut this down now. Ron and I will go, the rest of you stay here.”
“I’m coming with you, of course,” Ana said.
“No, Miss Muñoz, you’re not. If this goes squirrelly, I’m going to need you to pass on everything you’ve told us. In exchange for that, we’ll do our best to rescue your father, but that’s the deal.”
She worked her jaw at Rick for a moment before acquiescing with a curt, “Fine.”
“Any idea how many terrorists there are?” Boone asked.
“I never saw more than five,” Ana said. “It may be down to four, if I hit the fat one hard enough,” she added with grim satisfaction. “My father has a mustache, by the way, and he was wearing a white shirt when they took us. The terrorist pigs are all wearing camouflage. Be careful who you shoot,” she said with a note of threat.
“We’ll be careful, ma’am, I promise,” Rick said. “Any idea where they’re keeping him?”
“Yes. There are several small shacks and sheds around the lighthouse but there is one sturdier, concrete building with a radio mast on the roof. I’m certain he’s in there.”
“I’m guessing they have a boat,” Boone said.
“Yes. Some sort of small patrol boat they captured from my country’s navy. It’s at a small dock on the north side of the complex.”
“I’m going,” Boone announced. When Rick started to object, Boone pressed on. “At the first sign of trouble, they may whisk Ana’s father to that boat and flee. That’s what I would do, if he was crucial to the plan. While you two scope out the lighthouse, I’ll approach the dock underwater. Can’t rightly lug a full scuba tank through the mangroves but I’ve got a SpareAir pony tank. I’ll use that until I get close, then switch to free diving, slip in, and sabotage their engine. In my line of work, I’ve become expert at engine repair… and what I can fix I can break.”
“Depending on whether there’s a guard on the boat, you might have to stay under for a long stretch,” Ron mused. “How long can you hold your breath?”
Emily raised her hand. “Ooh! I learned that yesterday. Freakishly long.”
Boone threw her a look, before continuing. “Long enough. And if I need to take a breath from the pony bottle, I can do that. Besides, we’re going to wait for dark, right?”
“Yeah,” Rick said. “I’d prefer to wait for the early morning hours but we have no idea where that submarine is headed. We’ll need to move in now, while we still have a little light, then make a close approach once it’s full dark.”
Ron was examining the assault rifle Ana had stolen. “AK-103. Pretty decent weapon for distance.” He checked the magazine. “Mag is full, but with no spares, I’ll have to make each shot count. I’ll take this one. And Darcy, I couldn’t help admiring that Tavor you have. Any chance my brother here could borrow it?”
“You know a lot about guns,” Emily said.
“I’m a Kentucky boy with hobbies.”
Darcy picked up the stubby, bullpup weapon from the console where he’d laid it. “An old… ‘acquaintance’ of mine recommended this particular gun. Compact, good for hiding in the boat, but still very accurate.” He held it out to Rick. “I have a few spare magazines.”
Rick took it. “One of my shipmates had one of these and let me take it for a spin.”
Boone was digging through his bag for the two Glocks. “I’ll bring one of these with me in a drybag. But you’ll need protection on the boat.” He offered one to Darcy who held up a hand.
“I’ve got one. Where do you think Martin got those?”
Boone started to offer it to Emily but Ana Muñoz reached in and took it. “I’m an excellent shot, and I’m in a shooting mood.”
Boone looked to Emily who shrugged. “Never shot a gun in my life. We Brits don’t have guns just lying around on our coffee tables.”
Darcy was digging in a compartment and came out with a night-vision monocular. “Here, this might come in handy.”
Rick took it. “You have any radios? Walkies?”
“Alas, no, not much call for that.”
“You should take the handcuffs,” Emily said. “If you catch a terrorist…”
Rick smiled at her, “Good thinking.”
“I also think we should take the boat around the eastern tip of the island and head back toward the lighthouse from the north side,” Emily said. “Then, if we hear gunfire, we can move in.”
“Well,” Boone said, “don’t come in too close.”
“Just within view of the bad guy boat. Take a dive light with you. If you need us to come in, sweep the light back and forth.”
“The gal’s a regular tactician,” Rick said, impressed. “Darcy, that sound like a plan?”
“If we get going now. This island is part of an atoll and there are reefs on the east side. I know where the cuts are but I’d like some light for that.”
“Then let’s get going,” Boone said, gathering the items he’d need.
Emily leaned close. “Be careful,” she said softly.
“You too,” Boone replied.
An hour later, Boone and the Claassens were on the edges of the mangroves, in sight of the lighthouse but not yet close enough to see any of the buildings that Ana had mentioned. After the sun had gone down, the going had become more difficult. Rick held up a fist. Boone had seen enough war movies to know that meant to stop. “Can you see the sniper?” he asked softly.
“Too far,” Rick said, looking through the monocular at the blinking light at the top of the lighthouse tower. “We’ll need to get closer. Boone, I think this is where we’ll need to part ways.”
Boone nodded. Before they’d lost the light, he’d scrambled up a mangrove tree to scope out the distance to the northern shore. Close to the lighthouse there was a flat expanse of sand with minimal scrub—if he had to cross that, he’d want to do it here on the eastern side of the beach, out of sight from most of the complex. I just hope that sniper doesn’t have night-vision, he thought.
He shouldered the mesh gear bag he’d brought. Within was a pair of fins, dive mask, SpareAir pony bottle, weight belt with six pounds on it, and a drybag containing a multi-tool, the Glock, and a dive light. He wore a thin neoprene wetsuit—even though it was a thin tropical suit and a “shorty”, it was still stifling in the humid, night air of the mangroves. Because it was black and gray, he’d decided it would help him be stealthy, so the discomfort was a trade-off. He took a deep breath, tipped a two-fingered salute to the brothers, then made his way through the mangroves toward the stretch of sand he could see through the branches. Looking back over his shoulder, he could just make out the Claassen brothers, advancing slowly toward the lighthouse.
“Moussa! What happened to you?”
“Shh! Keep your voice down.” Moussa whispered harshly, as he staggered to the pier. The man on guard there flicked on a flashlight, blinding Moussa. “Turn that damn light off!”
Houssaine Abouyaaqoub flicked off the flashlight and spoke in a low voice. “There is dried blood on your head, Moussa. Did you try to rape the woman? You know what the commander will do to you if…”
“Shut up and listen! The woman has escaped. She surprised me and hit me
with something. We must find her. Now!”
“I will get the others,” Houssaine said, starting to go.
“No!” Moussa grabbed his arm. “They will kill me for letting this happen. The island is small, the woman has no shoes. We can find her. You owe me.”
Houssaine sighed. This was true. Moussa Aglif was not well liked in the group, and had certain tendencies that were far from pious, but he had saved Houssaine’s life in Libya, after a drone strike took out their vehicle, killing all but the two of them. Moussa had carried Houssaine on his back through the desert outside Sirte, reaching safety before collapsing from his own wounds.
“Very well,” he said. He handed Moussa a spare flashlight before shouldering his rifle. “Wait. Where is your gun, Moussa?”
“The bitch took it. But she is cuffed, so how good can she shoot? Besides, if we find her, we tell her we will shoot her father. She will come.”
Houssaine shook his head. “You better not get me killed—it will undo your earlier kindness.” He grabbed a spare AK from a crate onboard the patrol boat and handed it to Moussa. “Meet me at the edge of the lagoon,” he said, pointing to the east. “I will tell the commander that I am going to hunt for turtle.” He stopped, frowning. “No, wait. They may check on you and the girl. Here, cover that blood.” He gave Moussa the cap he was wearing. “Go stand in front of your shack, and ‘guard’ the prisoner. I will fetch you.”
Inside the main building, Omar sat, sipping some instant coffee he had found and heated on a hot plate. In the corner, the cartel leader, Fernando Muñoz, slept soundly. On the floor nearby, Tarik was crouched over a trio of hermit crabs he had caught around the compound. His attempts to get them to race had been largely fruitless, as one or two of them kept pulling back inside their shells.
“How long until the next call?” Tarik asked. The Filipino’s Arabic was atrocious, but he used it in case their prisoner was only pretending to sleep.
Omar glanced at his watch. “Another fifteen minutes and I will have our guest order the frigate to ping once with its sonar.” This was the agreed upon signal that the lighthouse wanted to talk. The submarine would surface and radio them. Omar took a swallow of the bitter, watery brew and grimaced. “I don’t like how close that boat came.”
“Abdul said it was a pleasure cruise. A young couple kissing on the bow of the boat. And the way he said it was painted? Garish, bright colors? No cartel or military boat would look so ridiculous.”
“Hmm,” Omar grunted. “Still, Sulayman wanted to be contacted if we saw any boats or aircraft nearby.” He looked up at a rap on the door.
“Commander,” Houssaine said, poking his head inside. “With your permission, I would like to take Moussa to go shoot a sea turtle for dinner. I saw a big one not far along the beach.”
Omar frowned. “You want to eat a turtle?”
“Sea turtle, yes, a Venezuelan fisherman I talked to said they are quite delicious. It would be a pleasant change from the rations.”
“Turtle is haram,” Tarik said. “Forbidden. They are of the sea, but have no scales.”
“They sort of do,” Houssaine argued. “The shell itself. And some Sunni scholars say they are both of the land and the sea. My imam said they are halal.”
Tarik shook his head. “They are still a reptile. You cannot eat a reptile. Haram.”
“Only the reptiles that eat other animals. Sea turtles eat plants! Halal!”
“They eat sponges sometimes. And those are actually animals, so—”
“Would you two shut up!” Omar shouted. “Go shoot a damn turtle! Just make sure you slaughter it properly.” Houssaine started to go but Omar stopped him. “Wait. Why do you need Moussa?”
“Well, he’s quite strong and the turtles are very large. Also, I think he might be getting bored just guarding that shack. I checked, the woman is sleeping. I’ll tell Abdul to watch the door from above while we hunt.”
Omar took another sip of the nasty coffee. Hot meat would be a welcome change. “Very well. But be quick about it.”
“Turtle is good,” Tarik admitted wistfully, tapping a fingernail against the shell of one of his stubborn crustaceans. “I used to eat it when I was a boy in Mindanao.”
Still several hundred yards from the clearing around the lighthouse, the Claassen brothers crouched low, observing.
“Still can’t make out much,” Ron said softly, looking through the monocular.
“And still no sign of the sniper.” Rick said. He was fairly sure the terrorists would have a man up there and he didn’t want to do anything overt until they had him in their sights. “Let’s move closer. Once we get to the mangroves by the edge of the lagoon, I think we’ll have the angle we need to—”
Ron stopped him with a firm grip on his upper arm. “Movement.”
Ahead, they could just make out a pair of shapes moving through the mangroves. There was a splash and a series of low curses in a guttural language. Suddenly, a flashlight came on, followed by another. Slowly, the Claassen brothers raised their weapons.
Breathing hard, Boone Fischer completed his mad dash across the open ground to the shore line. Looking to the west, he could see a single light at the end of a pier and the dark shape of a boat, bobbing alongside it. Setting his gear bag down, he retrieved the weight belt and cinched it to his waist. He had put two three-pounders on it; the extra weight would help him stay under with minimal effort. Opening the dry bag, he extracted the dive light and attached its lanyard to his wrist. Crouching low, he flicked it on for a moment and extracted the pistol to rack a round into the chamber. When he reached the boat, there was a chance he might need to fire quickly, and the nature of the Glock’s safety trigger made it highly unlikely that it would discharge in his drybag during the swim. Satisfied, he sealed the bag and slung its strap over his neck and one shoulder. He put on his dive mask, dropping it around his neck, then grabbed his fins in one hand and the SpareAir tank in the other. Leaving the gear bag behind, he started trotting down the beach toward the distant pier. He was still far enough away that he was confident he couldn’t be seen.
Suddenly, a dark shape on the beach moved and Boone leapt to the side, heart pounding. He’d thought it was some driftwood or seaweed. After a moment, he figured out what it was. A nesting sea turtle. “Sorry, girl, didn’t mean to scare you,” he said softly, angling away from the turtle to the edge of the surf.
The night was quiet, just the gentle lapping of the ocean and a soft breeze—but that silence was suddenly shattered. There was a shout from his left, in the mangroves, then four gunshots: a single loud report, and a rapid burst of three shots, less loud than the first. The breeze, and the susurration of the sea returned. Boone gauged the distance to the pier and headed into the surf. Donning his mask and fins, he slipped beneath the waves.
“Sounds like our mighty hunters found their turtle,” Omar said. He checked his watch. The call should be coming any minute. Five minutes ago, Fernando Muñoz had ordered the frigate to send its ping. Sure enough, the radio crackled to life.
“Langoustine, Langoustine, this is Pargo Rojo. Do you read?” It was Martinez, continuing their fishing boat ruse.
“Rojo, this is Langoustine, we read you.” Omar concentrated, making sure his Spanish had a South American flavor. He was one of the few North Africans in the group who could do that.
“How was your catch today?” Martinez asked. Since Omar had initiated this contact with the sonar ping, the submarine crew wanted to know why he’d done so.
“A typical day, not bad. But we did have another boat try to move in where I was fishing.”
There was a pause. “Did they move on?”
“They did. We don’t think they were serious fishermen.”
Another pause. “That is good to hear, Langoustine. We are about to take on supplies. Would you do us a favor and ask our friends on the Agrupador to try fishing
closer to Guadeloupe while we do this. Just inside our waters would be good.”
“Understood, Rojo. Is that all?”
“How is your new first mate? Is he working out?”
“He hasn’t given me any problems.”
“Good. The captain says to remind him of our agreement. Pargo Rojo, out.”
The call ended and Tarik asked, “Well?”
Omar spoke in Arabic. “Sulayman wants some breathing room. They are about to pick up the oil they need and want Muñoz to order the frigate to move to the maritime boundary with Guadeloupe.” Muñoz looked up upon hearing his name and Omar addressed him in Spanish. “You. Our leader wished me to remind you that your daughter’s life depends on your continued cooperation.” He grabbed a rusty folding chair and dragged it to the radio. “Have a seat. You have a call to make.”
Rick examined the dead terrorists with the night-vision monocular. Ron’s AK-103 had put a single 7.62 round through one man’s head. The other man, somewhat fat, had taken three rounds center mass from Rick’s Tavor. He noted dried blood on the side of the man’s forehead. “I think this is Ana’s former guard,” he whispered. “Blunt trauma wound on his head.”
“So… if Ana was right, that leaves three,” Ron said, keeping his voice low. The men had been carrying AK-103’s as well. They had probably stolen them from the Venezuelan army, it being a standard infantry weapon for that military. “You happy with your Tavor, or do you want one of these?”
“I’m good, but bring a spare.”
Ron grabbed one of the rifles and filled his pockets with extra magazines. “Let’s move forward,” he said.
In short order they reached the edge of the compound. There was a concrete building just beyond the base of the girders of the lighthouse. Light spilled from a pair of windows and from under the rickety-looking door facing them. Ron was peering up at the lighthouse that loomed above them. Rick nudged his brother, who turned the night-vision toward him. Rick used American Sign Language: Big building. Father, probably. One terrorist, probably. You see…? He pointed up, and made a gun with his fingers, not knowing the sign for “sniper”.
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