“How are you going to blow us up?” I asked Scarface.
He raised his right hand, showing me the spare radio unit.
“Why do you want to die?” I asked, spotting Larry near the doorway.
“You think of death as an end. It is only a beginning.”
He may have been a fanatical terrorist, but Scarface had a (relatively) rational explanation of why death would not be a bad thing, and how Paradise awaited him. I suspect, though, that he was willing to expound on it at length because he didn’t truly believe it—if he did, he’d surely have put his finger to the button immediately. He was talking to gin up his courage. But his diatribe had another effect—Larry snuck in and began taking down the bombs. By the time Scarface ended his lecture on the afterlife, Larry had finished dismantling the fourth and last bomb on the port side of the GalleyPlex.
Two more to go.
As Larry disappeared, I worked my way toward the center of the atrium, using the small garden in the middle for cover. Peering from between the fronds of the ferns and fake rocks, I faced Scarface and his two prisoners head-on. The windows were dark behind them, but every so often lightning slashed across the sky. It was a real Dr. Frankenstein effect, very ominous.
I looked to starboard, expecting Larry to duck into the forward doorway. Instead, he appeared at the one closer to the stern. He had his hands up. Two tangos were behind him. One had an AK47; the other an RPG launcher.
They started walking him into the atrium. I began to retreat, but Scarface yelled down.
“Join your friend,” he said. “Or I blow the ship now.”
I dropped back to my knee and took out the radio, pressing down the talk button.
“How can you blow up the ship from the GalleyPlex?” I yelled.
“Drop the radio,” answered Scarface. “That’s quite enough.”
I had the AK in my other hand. I thought I could nail Scarface before he could detonate the bombs. But his goons would kill Larry.
“Drop the radio and the rifle,” said Scarface, moving around on the balcony for a better view. “Come.”
“Do all your men know you’re killing them as well?”
“They are committed Muslims.”
“Nice. Ready to die?” I looked at the two men holding their guns on Larry. They didn’t look either devout or resigned to death; they looked stoned on khat or something stronger.
“Drop the radio and the gun!” yelled Scarface.
I rose, then let the radio fall to the deck. Doc would have heard all he needed to hear by now.
“The gun,” said Scarface.
“I think I’ll hold on to that for a bit. It seems to me we have a standoff.”
“You have nothing I want, old man.”
“If I shoot you, you won’t get to blow anything up.” I held the gun about half mast, pointing downward but ready. I walked slowly toward Larry. The two tangos holding him stopped and looked up at Scarface.
“Stop where you are, or I’ll kill my hostages,” shouted Scarface.
“You’re going to kill us all anyway,” I said. “What difference does it make?”
Scarface pointed the gun at the head of one of the women. Then he pointed it at me. I couldn’t have prayed for a better opportunity.
I threw myself at Larry and the two men behind him. Larry, seeing the glint in my eyes, ducked, and the man on his right stepped back out of the way. I managed to get the one with the grenade launcher square in the midsection, and we both rolled to the deck. Larry grabbed the other and flipped him over his shoulder, wrestling him to the deck. I kicked my gunman in the head, then scrambled to the grenade launcher as two gunshots echoed through the large space.
Scarface was pointing the gun directly at me.
“I will see you in Paradise,” he yelled, reaching into his pocket for the detonator.
The RPG launcher in my hands was primed and ready to launch. So I fired.
I wish I could say I was a better shot. I aimed for the head. I missed.
But not by that much. The head of the grenade caught Scarface full in the chest, and the force took him, his gun, and the detonator through the glass window directly behind him.
The glass shattered with a roar. Rain began pouring in. I swear a bolt of lightning shot through the window as the thunder pealed. I glanced over at Larry. He looked at me.
Larry started to laugh. So did I.
“A close one,” he yelled, walking toward the bomb nearest us. “Damn, Sharkman, you always make it tight. I’ve forgotten how much fun this is.”
“Only when we win,” I said.
“So? You gonna put this in one of your books?”
“Maybe.”
“Spell my name right,” he laughed, taking hold of the bomb pack. This was a smaller one, about the shape and weight of a day pack. He yanked it from its girder and examined the trigger mechanism.
“Holy shit!” he yelled. “It’s armed—and counting down!”
(VI)
There were two bombs in the GalleyPlex. Larry had one in his hands. The other was about ten feet from me, taped to a thick post that ran to the ceiling of the space.
Did I run to it? Did I pull it from the pier?
I must have, though I have no memory of doing that. Nor do I remember, except very, very vaguely, dodging through the open door into the corridor that surrounded the atrium.
I do remember, vividly, the wind as it hit me, howling from an unsecured door far behind me and pushing me toward the stern and its glass panels. And, while I can’t honestly swear that I saw this, when I think back the digits “0-2” flash in my brain.
The timer, telling me it was time to let go.
One step, two—I wasn’t going to make it. I ran anyway, tucking the bomb under my arm like a college halfback anxious to score. There was a door dead ahead. I hit the crash bar with my left hand, and with my right launched the bomb out into the storm.
A second later, I found myself propelled backward, sailing back into the passageway. My skull slammed against a partition at the bend in the corridor. I blacked out, this time for real.
EPILOGUE
ALL IN THE FAMILY
You must be able to underwrite the honest mistakes of your subordinates if you wish to develop their initiative and experience.
—GENERAL BRUCE C. CLARKE
Encourage and listen well to the words of your subordinates. It is well-known that gold lies hidden underground.
—NABESHIMA NAOSHIGE (1538–1618) IN WILSON, IDEALS OF THE SAMURAI, 1982
Given the same amount of intelligence, timidity will do a thousand times more damage in war than audacity.
—MAJOR GENERAL CARL VON CLAUSEWITZ, ON WAR
(I)
I came to some hours later, in one of the ship’s bars. Doc had turned it into an overflow sick bay, moving mattresses in and helping the ship’s doctor and regular medical staff tend to the several dozen50 people who’d been injured in the takeover or the subsequent liberation. Doc claimed that the location of the bar made it the safest and most stable place on the ship. I suspect he chose it because it was convenient to one of the best medical cures known to man, namely Bombay Sapphire.
By that time, the worst of the storm had passed, and the sun was poking out between the last of the clouds. We were firmly in control of the Bon Voyage. Not only had all of the bombs been recovered and disarmed, but we had also found nineteen passengers who’d been blackmailed as I was into carrying prescription drugs back to America. Together we could have put Rite Aid out of business inside a month.
A navy team was en route to help secure the ship and make sure all the bad guys had been eliminated. The advance members were arriving just as I was getting my butt out of bed.
Yes, they were SEALs. And yes, they were members of that unit whose name we are not allowed to say, but which the entire world knows as SEAL Team Six. Doc, Larry, and Chalker were on deck to greet them as they fast-roped aboard. Rumor has it that they were disappointed that the
y didn’t get to execute their takedown plan, but if so, they were too professional to let on. They went to work clearing the ship—no new hijackers or bombs were found—then, relaxing just a bit, began conversing and comparing notes with some of their predecessors.
I would have enjoyed the fun myself, but alas, I had work to do, catching up with Danny, Shunt, and Karen before calling in old favors to get a ride back to the States.
This is the boring part of the story, where I talk about hoisting myself up into helicopters, transferring to ships, and finally riding with the air farce, which is good for some great put-downs—though as the narrator’s prerogative I only print the ones I make, not their comebacks. So we’ll skip the fourteen or sixteen hours’ worth of travel, the three naps I took, and even the fine shape of the female air farce sergeant who got me onto the right plane and even fluffed my pillow for me on the flight.
Instead, we’ll head out to New York’s Kennedy Airport, where Danny has arrived to pick me up.
“No Junior?” I asked, following him and the limo driver to the car.
Danny shook his head. Both he and Karen had already filled me in on his flight from the parking deck, as well as everything that had led up to it.
“You hear from him at all?” I asked.
“Not a word. Part of me wants to find him and kick him in the ass,” added Danny. “And the other slap him on the back and buy him a beer.”
“He probably could use both.”
“What are you going to do to him?” Danny asked.
“I don’t know.”
I honestly wasn’t sure. We could definitely use him in the organization—clearly he had skills we needed and spirit we prized. But we also needed people with level heads under all circumstances. And Junior had demonstrated that he wasn’t always able to control his temper. Maybe I was too hard on him because he was my son, but that didn’t excuse his going AWOL. Or the rest.
I followed Danny across the parking area toward a black limo. The trunk opened as we approached. Danny took my small bag, plopped it in, and then removed a briefcase from the trunk. “Here you go. Everything’s set.”
“How are we on time?”
“Tight, but we’ll make it. Assuming the traffic cooperates.”
“Since when has that ever happened in New York?”
“We’ll call the cavalry if necessary.”
Actually, Danny had something better than cavalry—a little electronic device used by certain police officials to automatically change traffic lights. It didn’t help us much on the Van Wyck Expressway (the name is the definition of an oxymoron), but once in Manhattan the device shaved a good ten minutes off our travel time. That put us ahead of schedule, allowing me and Danny to be standing in front of the elevator when Veep arrived at his office.
“How long have you known Magoo?” were the first words out of my mouth.
He blinked. The rest of the people in the elevator moved past, trying not to make their stares too obvious.
“Actually, I know the answer,” I said when Veep didn’t answer. “He was first appointed to the task force in May 2010, but it wasn’t until the summer that he started focusing on Allah’s Rule. He learned about the impending power struggle a little later. By that time, he had already sketched out the drug smuggling network. The thing I don’t know is at what point he decided to set up his own. That’s when he got you involved. Was it legit at first? Did he tell you you’d be doing your patriotic duty, helping the government watch terrorists by setting up and monitoring their accounts? At some point soon, though, you must have figured out what Magoo really had in mind, because you didn’t tell anyone else at the bank. So maybe you were skimming those accounts yourself from the get-go.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Marcinko,” said Veep. “What are you doing here?”
“It took a while for Shunt to figure out how the money was being routed. The donations came through the local bank branch. Which you authorized. That was why those records had to be destroyed in Berlin.”
“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” he said, finally starting to move. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do today.”
Danny and I followed him into the office suite. The guard there nodded at Danny so subtly that Veep missed it.
“What are you doing in here?” thundered Veep as we followed him inside. “This is my office. Get out. Make an appointment.”
“I just came in to admire the view.”
It was quite impressive—half of Wall Street lay at my feet. And if I turned my head just right, I could see the top of WT1—also known as Freedom Tower—rising over the site of the World Trade Center.
I looked at Veep. “The amazing thing to me is how someone with this kind of view could encourage terrorists.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Veep’s voice choked as he finished the sentence—evidently he did have a bit of a conscience somewhere.
But just a bit.
“I have nothing to do with terrorists,” he added.
“Not Allah’s Rule on Earth? Not al Qaeda?”
“Al Qaeda doesn’t exist anymore,” said Veep quickly. “It’s like the boogeyman the government throws up to justify whatever it feels like doing. And your implication that I am somehow associated with terrorists is reprehensible.”
“That’s right.” I turned from the window. “What I really should be doing is accusing you of associating with the CIA. A renegade member of the CIA who’s even greedier and more ruthless than you. But you did know about Scorched Earth. Or what it would mean. Because you’re the one that kicked it off when you realized how close we were to you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I turned to Danny. He opened the briefcase he’d brought in with him and took out an eight-by-ten glossy of the photo Junior had snapped in the New York restaurant of the meeting between Magoo and Veep.
Veep frowned at it.
“The transfers are what’s really interesting, since they’re the money trail. We don’t have all of them,” I admitted as Danny took a thick ream of paper from the briefcase and put them on Veep’s desk, “but we have the important ones. Shunt managed to track down three of your accounts in the Austrian bank, but I’m sure you have a lot more. All of this would have hardly been worth it if you only cleared a few million dollars.”
Veep’s face had started to blanch. There was a slight commotion behind us. I turned and saw Barbara Freemason, one of the FBI’s supervisory agents, entering the room. About a dozen people were lined up behind her, including a member of the CIA internal affairs unit, a few bank examiners, a deputy U.S. attorney, and a lawyer representing the bank.
The U.S. marshals and the local NYPD liaisons and uniformed cops were out in the hall. The office was big, but not that big.
“Before you say anything else, Mr. Veep,” started Freemason, “I am going to read you your rights.”
* * *
I would have loved to have stuck around, but Danny and I had a plane to catch.
Magoo’s.
You know and I know that he planted that gun on the terrorist to make it look like he was justified in killing him. Junior knew that as well. But Junior wasn’t around to press the case, and even if he had been, few people would have been inclined to believe him. After all, Habib was definitely part of a plot to blow up the Supreme Court Building, and but for Junior’s pigheaded insubordination, he would have succeeded. So in a lot of minds, Magoo—a CIA officer on the fast track—had done the People a favor, sparing them the expense of a trial and, at least in his version of events, preventing the conspiracy from succeeding, since Magoo’s information implied that Habib was the one who was going to detonate the bombs.
That of course was Magoo’s interpretation of events. Mine was somewhat different.
Magoo’s plane for Europe was about ten minutes to boarding when Danny and I strolled up to him. He was sitting near the wall, reading a book.
Not one of mine, alas.
“Marcinko,” he said disgustedly as I approached. “Don’t tell me you’re on this flight.”
“Not this one,” I said. “Don’t you think it’s a little tacky for you to be going to France so soon after Scarface’s death?”
“What?” He made a face. I will give Magoo this: he makes very good shows of disgust; he’s practically a connoisseur of disdain. “Don’t talk in your usual riddles.”
“How long had you been grooming Scarface?” I asked. “Who was your cutout with the mosque? Is that who you’re going to meet?”
“Who’s Scarface?”
“Come on, Magoo. Tell me you didn’t celebrate when you heard I blew him through the window at the stern of Bon Voyage. Did you know he was going to blow that up? You must have, right?”
“You’re talking about Abdul Gharba, the terrorist? Okay, now I know who you’re talking about. Sure, I’d celebrate his death—even if you killed him.”
“Who are you going to get to run your drugs now?” I asked. “Is he already waiting, like Scarface was, for the bust on Allah’s Rule? You had your network completely in place, moved in on Shire Jama and al-Yasur, and the network never lost a beat. Taking over the operation from al Qaeda was clever, and having Scarface think that he was getting instructions from al Qaeda was genius. I assume that’s how you set it up.”
“What’s al Qaeda have to do with anything?”
“Nothing. You pushed them out so you could run the drug operation yourself. You set up the attack on the Supreme Court Building to divert attention from your operation as we closed in. I assume that was the deal with the Bon Voyage as well, though we haven’t found the messages yet. Maybe Scarface double-crossed you.”
Magoo gave me one of his nearsighted blinks. I assumed that he had primed Scarface for the operation through surrogates, then sent a message telling him to carry out the takeover of the ship, but Shunt hadn’t found the evidence yet. Truthfully, it could have played as a straight double-cross, with Scarface acting on his own.
[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel Page 38