by David Liscio
Mashima turned off the gas. He told the brothers they were suspected of international drug trafficking and the United States government had evidence to prove it. “If I arrest you right now, you’ll spend the next twenty years in prison. The government will seize your boat and possibly your home. Your family will go hungry. I can only imagine what will happen to her,” he said, cocking his head toward the stove. “Or, you can do what I say and avoid that unpleasant fate.”
Tano spoke first, his voice hoarse from fear. “We’re not the only ones helping.”
“I never said you were.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“I need you to carry some packages aboard the freighter when you return with the final load of heroin tomorrow.”
“What’s in them?”
“That’s my business, not yours. You’ll bring them aboard and pack them in the hold with the bricks of heroin.”
“But the guards will know something is wrong. They carefully watch everything we do.”
“No they won’t. The packages will look no different than the heroin bricks. We’ll get them to your boat an hour before you set out for Tinian. Besides, Tanaka and his closest associates are dead, including Akumu. Nobody is running the show — at least not yet. If you stumble into any difficulty, there’s a man on board the ship named Sadashi who will help you.”
The brothers appeared stunned by the news of Tanaka’s death. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because the drugs you help the yakuza sell do a lot of damage.”
“But we need the money,” said the younger Camacho. “There are no jobs in Saipan. How will we live?”
“As far as I’m concerned, your days of drug smuggling are over. But to sweeten our agreement, you can keep whatever illegal profits you’ve already earned. Otherwise I’ll bring in a team to dig up every inch of your property until we find out where your stash is buried.”
The Camacho brothers agreed and Mashima moved toward the front door, never letting go the pistol. He gave them a satisfied smile. “Now you may use your knives. I believe this woman would appreciate being cut loose.”
Hannah couldn’t ignore the worry she felt after Mashima told them what he’d done, but she had to admit it was a better plan than relying solely on the Limpet mines, which would be magnetically-attached to the steel hull exterior below the water line. The Limpets would blast small holes into the hull but were not powerful enough to sink the ship.
Once the bundled bricks of C-4 were co-mingled with the heroin, the fishermen would tape triangle-shaped C-4 charges onto the ship’s primary seawater intake pipes. The 12-inch-diameter pipes were deep in the ship’s hold, located in the sea chest, an indentation in the hull where valves control the intake of seawater for firefighting or other purposes.
Before leaving the ship, the fishermen would uncoil the thin strand of antenna wire already attached to detonators in the shaped C-4 charges and leave it on deck or hanging over the side, wherever it would be least noticed.
Early the next morning, Hannah watched as the Camacho brothers chugged out of the harbor, their fishing boat running a bit heavy in the water. She ached from squatting and kneeling in the church tower from where she could watch the 260-foot cargo ship.
It was humid in the tower, forcing her to wear a kerchief headband to keep the sweat beads from running down her face. Reb smiled when he saw her.
“Hey, Rambo. Love the look.”
“Wait until you’ve been here for a couple of hours before you start poking fun.”
Reb was carrying a small tray on which two clear glasses filled to the brim were balanced. “Sorry. I’m just used to 110 in the shade,” he said. “These are from Father Garcia. It’s called Tuba. Some sort of traditional Filipino coconut wine made from the sap of a palm tree.”
It had taken two hours for Reb, Mashima and the Camachos to load the C-4 bricks into the fishing boat. Reb explained how to attach the shaped charges on both sides of the seawater intake pipes.
It was nearly nightfall when the brothers returned from Tinian and began offloading their cargo onto the freighter. The yakuza guards paid scant attention, choosing to smoke on the foredeck while discussing the death of Tanaka and how it might affect their future in the organization.
Even through night-vision binoculars, Hannah couldn’t tell whether the Comachos were following the plan. She merely hoped the explosives had made it aboard. When the Camachos’ boat pulled away from the cargo ship, its waterline rode high, indicating it carried no unusual extra weight.
56
The Best Made Plans
Saipan
Northern Mariana Islands
April 1990
With the mission only hours away, Reb suggested they give their equipment a final check and get some much-needed sleep. Father Garcia promised to wake them an hour before dawn. The priest proved good to his word. He had two cups of steaming hot coffee waiting in the white church van. He dropped off Hannah and Reb with their dive gear and explosives along a palm-shaded stretch of beach approximately a half mile from Sugar Dock. He wished them luck, made the Sign of the Cross, and returned to the church to finish digging a hole at the rear of the property where the ground was softer.
At daybreak, a slight breeze rippled the surface of the water. Hannah and Reb made their way toward the freighter. The water was barely thirty feet deep. Reb was the stronger and more experienced swimmer, comfortable in the ocean day or night. He strapped on two Limpet mines with a special harness. Hannah forced herself to keep up, burdened by a single Limpet that created drag as she swam. But she was determined. Concentrating solely on swimming toward the ship, she momentarily lost sight of Reb and panicked. Reb swam to where she could easily see him. He gave the diver-OK sign, patting the top of his head, and Hannah returned it.
The tide was incoming and schools of fish raced in all directions. Hannah briefly marveled at the underwater wonders. The parrotfish looked like miniature moving rainbows. A giant green moray eel swirled along the sand bottom and hid behind an outcropping of boulder coral. Hannah was trying her hardest to relax and stamp out the nervousness pulsing through her body. She was about to point out a huge hawksbill turtle when the tiger shark appeared and began to circle.
Reb gulped. He hadn’t brought along the bang stick. It didn’t seem necessary and he was already carrying plenty of equipment. Now he wished he had.
Hannah stopped swimming. Her heart was pounding as she floated, arms and legs straight out like a big X, as though moving less might make her invisible. The shark came closer, brushing her wetsuit. Hannah felt the hard tail as it muscled against her ribs.
Reb had heard about tiger sharks but never encountered one. They were a dangerous species known to attack humans. This one was about ten feet long.
The shark made another pass at Hannah. Reb kicked his fins and put himself between Hannah and the shark. He held out his dive knife, but it felt like fighting an Abrams tank with a BB gun. The shark opened its mouth. The rows of teeth were frightening. They spelled death.
Reb grabbed hold of Hannah’s left arm and together they began swimming. The shark seemed puzzled by the prey’s change in shape. It circled behind them and darted ahead, as if playing a game. Reb braced for the worst just as a plump grouper swam into view. The shark struck it with ferocity, blood clouding the turquoise water. Hannah thought her heart would explode.
Reb swam faster, forcing Hannah to do the same. He needed to put some distance between them and the bleeding grouper. The ship lay dead ahead. Once beneath the hull, although it was daybreak, the sea was dark and they switched on their spotlights.
Just as they’d practiced at the hotel, they magnetically attached the Limpet mines to the hull below the waterline where the devices could not be seen from the ship deck. Reb double-checked his two mines on the starboard side. Both were secure. He set the mechanical fuse timers for ninety minutes, giving them plenty of time to escape to the beach. He swam beneath the hull to the port
side where Hannah was struggling to affix the Limpet.
Reb could tell she was exhausted. He helped her press the mine against the metal hull until the magnets engaged. He set the timer and touched a finger to his wristwatch, giving a thumbs-up while extending his arm to show the route to the beach.
Hannah nodded. Time to go. Her legs ached with every kick of her fins, but she was filled with joy at not having been eaten by a tiger shark. And more so, that they had completed the most difficult part of the mission and were headed back to shore. She thought she might kiss the sand when they reached the beach.
On the deck of the cargo ship, one of the lookouts spotted a school of mahi mahi off the bow. He called to another guard, excitedly pointing out the dozens of fish swimming together.
“Dinner,” he said in Japanese. “I’ll be right back.”
The man returned in less than two minutes, an unbridled smile on his face and a casting net in his hands. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a concussion grenade, an anti-swimmer weapon used by lookouts should they spot bubbles released by a diver or other suspicious activity.
Without hesitation he yanked the pin and hurled the grenade into the school of mahi mahi. The explosion rocked the surface, sending up a spray of saltwater and dead fish. He clapped wildly and tossed the net.
Below the surface, the grenade produced a large blast but little fragmentation. The sound — traveling about four times faster in water than in air — quickly reached Hannah and Reb. It hammered their sinuses and lungs, leaving them disoriented and gasping.
Reb recovered first, but sensed his ears and nose were bleeding. He feared Hannah was unconscious. She was no longer swimming. The inside of her mask was awash in blood. He detached the integrated weights on her rebreather and guided her to the surface, less than twenty feet above.
The tide was still incoming, the peak current pulsing through a break in the reef so that Reb and Hannah were carried toward the beach. Hannah was gasping for breath, her eyes wide with fear. She coughed mouthfuls of seawater as Reb towed her.
Father Garcia was pacing nervously when they reached the shore. He waded into the knee-deep water to assist because the divers were having trouble standing. “I heard the explosion. I thought maybe one of the mines went off accidentally. I feared the worst,” he said, bending to pull off Hannah’s fins.
Both Reb and Hannah were dazed. The sight of blood oozing from their ears and noses shocked the priest, who quickly helped remove their dive gear and lugged it to the van.
At the church he handed them blankets and dry clothing. Hannah collapsed on the bed. Father Garcia dabbed her nose and ears with gauze until the bleeding stopped.
Reb sat in a hardback chair and closed his eyes. He had an intense headache. His eardrums felt like they’d been punctured, but he did his best to ignore the pain. The mission wasn’t over. He watched as Father Garcia flung the dive equipment into the deep hole behind the church and began covering it with loose soil and palm fronds
Reb stood shakily. “Father, we need to go back to the beach.”
“You need to rest.”
Hannah appeared in the bedroom doorway, her hands braced against the frame. “I’m going with you.”
Reb rushed to her side and put his arms around her. “You’re in no shape to do anything right now.”
“I’m fine. We don’t have much time.”
It was still early morning when the three Limpet mines detonated, sending birds squawking and flying in all directions. Hannah was standing behind a flame tree on the beach from where she could look across the water at the ship. She pressed the button on the radio transmitter, a toy-like device often used by hobbyists to fly model airplanes, setting off a daisy chain of powerful explosions. The rusting freighter heaved and buckled, its innards shredded by the blasts. With the seawater intake pipes severed, the hull slowly began to sink into the warm turquoise water, bubbles gushing from the sea chest and holes made by the Limpet mines.
Police and emergency vehicle sirens sounded along the waterfront. Hannah and Reb watched the chaos unfold as the local fire department arrived, but the ship, though still afloat, was already fully engulfed in flames.
“If my calculations were correct, it’ll take about an hour, maybe a bit longer, before she goes to the bottom,” Reb said. “With the fires burning on board, I doubt anybody will be rushing in to stop the leaks. If anything, the fire department will add more water.”
Upon returning to the Chalan Kanoa Beach Hotel, Hannah sent Carrington a terse mission update via the ARPANET. Carrington responded that a Navy helicopter would extract Reb from Tinian within the next twenty-four hours and fly him to a support ship. He instructed Hannah to reserve a seat on the next commercial flight leaving Saipan because it was risky to stay longer.
Reb hid in the church basement for the rest of the day while Hannah began packing her bags. The red light on the room phone was blinking. It was a message from Continental Airlines that her requested flight change had been approved and her seat upgraded to first class. Hannah sensed Carrington had made a few calls to the airline.
Hannah jotted down the flight information and continued packing. She found it odd that a pair of her lacy underwear was missing along with a designer bra and her new Manolo Blahnik pumps. She had been about to leave the chambermaid a twenty-dollar tip, but after discovering the theft decided against it.
Mashima showed up at the hotel an hour before Hannah’s flight was scheduled to depart. “I’ll accompany you to the airport. If anyone has questions, I’ll be there to answer them, Miss Becker.”
57
Another Day in Paradise
Saipan
Northern Mariana Islands
April 1990
Mashima escorted Hannah through Customs so nobody asked any questions when she showed her Argentine passport. He was worried it might not go smoothly since many of the CNMI police officers viewed him as a traitor in some respects for cooperating with the U.S. Anti-Drug Task Force.
Once at the gate, Mashima awkwardly hugged Hannah. “Maybe I’ll see you in America, but under a different identity.”
“That would be nice,” she said politely, not certain whether the seemingly innocuous comment contained any hidden meaning. “I’ll make sure my boss knows how much help you’ve provided. We couldn’t have done it without you.”
Mashima headed for the Blue Pacific Aviation office. Whirly Man was sober for a change, standing at a workbench with tools in both greasy hands, working on what looked like parts from a helicopter engine.
“What do you want now, Mashima?”
“Is your bird ready to fly?”
“Who’s asking?”
“The same people who can return your suitcase with the $50,000 inside.”
“What do they want this time?”
“A quick flight to Tinian tomorrow.”
“And how do I get the money?”
“Cash. All $50,000 in the suitcase, delivered in advance. I can bring it here if you wish shortly before the flight.”
“Who am I flying?”
“One of the men you brought here.”
“Just one passenger?”
“Just one. Early morning. Six o’clock.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Mashima drove to the church to make one last pitch to Reb, knowing full well it was Carrington whose opinion would make the real difference in his immediate future.
“I’m sure you’re eager to leave our little island,” he said.
Reb grinned. “I wouldn’t say that. It has kind of grown on me.”
“I have some information regarding the two CIA agents who were last seen in Tokyo shortly after Christmas. My sources tell me new physical evidence has been uncovered.”
“What sort of evidence?”
“I will gladly share everything, but first I need assurance that I will be placed in the witness-protection program.”
“You know that’s not something I can promise. The hi
gher-ups at Langley make those decisions. I’m not even sure Carrington has the authority.”
Mashima looked as though he was about to cry.
“I’m sorry, Mashima. Technically, since you were born in Saipan, you’re a U.S. citizen. You can move to any of the fifty states permanently if you wish. But putting you into witness protection is a different matter. It takes a lot of resources and requires a ton of paperwork.”
“If I choose to live in Milwaukee or Los Angeles or New York, but I’m still Hideyo Mashima, the yakuza will find me. I need protection.”
“It might help if you told me about this new evidence.”
“That would require trust, and I’ve lost mine for the CIA. And by the way, I didn’t just stop by to beg for my life. Your flight with Blue Pacific has been arranged for tomorrow. Whirly Man can fly you to Tinian, no questions asked, where I assume other forms of transportation will await you. He only asks that the suitcase containing his payment from Tanaka be delivered beforehand.”
“I’ll make sure to bring it. And thanks, Mashima. I wish things had worked out differently for you.”
“Me too.”
58
The Langley Way
South China Sea
April 1990
Stu Ashwood was elated to learn the freighter at Sugar Dock was now underwater, its cargo of heroin all but dissolved by the salty sea. He immediately requested the Navy locate the second cargo ship, which was somewhere along the 1,300-mile smuggling route between Bangkok and Manila.
The analysts studying the floppy disk were convinced the rogue freighter was carrying one of the largest yakuza-controlled shipments of heroin in the criminal organization’s history.