I like your thinking.
But . . .
There was the fact that officially at least neither the U.S. nor Panama was at war with China, though that wouldn’t have stopped me. Sinking the submarine near the canal would potentially create the sort of traffic jam we were trying to avoid.
There was also the fact that submarine hulls are a bit harder to dissect than the outer covering of your average warship. Which doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been done, but the difficulty—and the pucker factor—would have been considerably higher. We’re talking a lot more explosives, a lot more strategically placed. I couldn’t get that big a charge on short notice if I tried.35
None of which should give you the idea that the charge I attached was insignificant. Which made the fact that Mr. Murphy had tangled one of the weighted lines around my leg and made it impossible for me to get away more than a little annoying.
( II )
While I was having fun in the water, Junior was entertaining the troops with impersonations.
As directed, Crusty, Shotgun, and Junior had located the police station where Trace was being held. They’d also done some general spade work to determine where the Canadian embassy was, just so they knew where Trace was likely to be taken once (if) she got sprung by the Canadians. It was while they were doing the latter that an “opportunity” to rescue Trace presented itself, and they took advantage of it.
No, I don’t buy that version either.
I think Crusty, Shotgun, and Junior located Trace and decided they were going to get her out ASAP. I think they then went to the embassy intending to do what they ended up doing, which was following a young Canadian diplomat as he left work. The diplomat headed for a bar that catered to rich foreigners not too far from the embassy. While the diplomat was getting hammered, one or more of the boys brushed up against him in some manner . . . and the diplomat just happened to drop his ID badge and all of his identifying papers, passport and wallet, into his/their hands.
Sixty seconds later, Crusty, Junior, and Shotgun were on their way back to the police station.
The police report filed the next morning in Havana indicating that the same diplomat had been found passed out and robbed behind the bar is surely a coincidence.
It’s not hard for an American to impersonate a Canadian. All you have to do is move your voice a little farther into your nose, say “eh” a lot, and adopt the air of a goofy but charming younger brother. Junior had no trouble doing all three.
The detective in charge of the station was a bit nonplussed to find that the Canadian embassy had sent over a diplomat to retrieve his “guest witness,” as Trace was being called. His first line of defense was to tell Junior—in his guise as the French-speaking Canadian ambassador’s aide, Monsieur Depoise—that he had no idea whom he might be talking about.
Junior dealt with that problem with a quick two-step—he produced a photocopy of Trace’s Canadian passport, and then suggested that a call to the Interior Ministry would jolt the detective’s memory.
“If this is an internal matter, then I am sure I cannot deal with it myself,” insisted the detective.
“Perhaps you should call your superior,” suggested Junior. “Then you will find that I am not lying.”
“I know you are not lying,” insisted the detective, who knew better than to insult a foreign official without being told by his superiors that he could do so. “There is no need for verification.”
Suggesting that the detective call his boss wasn’t a bluff on Junior’s part. Outside, Crusty had tapped into the telephone lines. Crusty planned to tell the police officer to do whatever the idiotic Canadian wanted. But the detective never picked up the phone. He just simply played the role of all good career officers everywhere, first feigning ignorance, and then simply refusing, as agreeably as possible, to act.
“You can at least let me see her,” said Junior. “Give me a few moments with her, eh.”
“I can’t do that. No.” The detective shook his head. “If she were here, which she is not, I couldn’t.”
“Well if she’s not here, then I wouldn’t be seeing her if I saw her, would I?”
The police officer smiled. “Now I am confused. My English . . . not very good.”
“I am new at the embassy,” said Junior, trying another tact. “I don’t want to do the wrong thing.”
“No, no, of course not.” The detective, sensing that his pest would soon be gone, became polite and even accommodating.
“I don’t really have much experience,” added Junior. “Sometimes there is a fee involved, eh?”
The detective squinted slightly.
“A user fee?” added Junior.
“Are you suggesting a bribe?”
“No, of course not. As I said, I don’t know the protocol. There would be a bill for the prisoner’s food, maybe your time —”
“Senor, the Cuban police are not corrupt.”
“Of course not.”
“I will show you where she is. You may not speak to her,” said the detective abruptly. “This way, you can tell your boss that she is all right and in good spirits.”
“Thank you,” said Junior.
He started around the counter. The detective headed him off.
“There are substantial fees for any guest we detain,” said the Cuban. “There is a great cost to the state.”
Junior nodded. The detective suggested that a hundred dollars Canadian would be a good down payment. Junior—with the hint of a wince—said he would make sure the government paid as soon as he saw the prisoner.
“The fee is generally paid in cash,” said the detective.
“Eh? Once I see the prisoner, I’m sure it could be arranged.”
“You have the fee on you?”
Junior retrieved his wallet. As it happened, Monsieur Depoise had had 103 Canadian dollars when he misplaced his wallet.
“Only just,” said Junior.
The detective smiled and held out his hand. Junior put the wallet back in his pocket.
“I think this sort of fee is payable on the other end of the transaction,” he told the detective.
The detective sighed, but after a moment led Junior through the back to a staircase leading upstairs.
Outside, Crusty and Shotgun followed Junior’s progress with the help of a bug Junior had smuggled into the country and had activated in his pocket. From watching the building as well as listening in, they calculated that there were no more than five, and probably only two or three, policemen on duty. Getting Trace out would be easier than any of the PT routines she typically started the day with.
Shotgun went to arrange the vehicles for their escape while Crusty stayed near the telephone pole near the rear of the building, monitoring the bug and waiting in case there was a phone call. Crusty heard Junior go up the steps, admiring the large—and empty—room just off the landing that served as a common office for the detectives. He heard Junior greet another officer, who was in a smaller room to the right as he went down the hall.
“Love the paint scheme in that little room,” said Junior.
“It’s gray,” said the policeman.
“We Canadians love gray,” said Junior. “Reminds us of winter. That room’s about the size of a bathroom back home. You only have the one guy assigned there?”
And finally, he heard Junior ask his guide if he was sure that the “guest” couldn’t see or hear them through the two-way glass.
“Impossible,” said the detective.
“You think you need the chains?”
“Standard procedure, senor.”
“What if there’s a fire? Where do you keep the keys?”
The detective patted his pocket.
“Now you see she is alive and in good health,” he said. “You can tell your superiors.”
“I would like to talk to her.”
“No. No.”
Junior didn’t bother arguing anymore. Not only did he know that there were only two men in the
entire building, but he also realized that the detective was not carrying anything larger than a hideaway pistol, if at that.
He looked for a chance as the detective led him back downstairs. But the Cuban had suddenly become wary, and rather than drawing close when he took out his wallet, he went back behind the counter to the desk where he’d been when Junior arrived.
“The fee should be left in the tray,” he said, almost as an afterthought.
“Almost” being the key word.
“Are you sure you don’t want to count it?” asked Junior.
“I trust the Canadian government.”
There was no sense making the man more suspicious. Junior left the money in the basket. He also left the bug, attaching it below the counter, figuring that it might provide useful intelligence for his return.
Outside, Crusty peered around the corner of the building as he heard a car drive up. It was a Toyota Landcruiser, less than a year old. As soon as he spotted it, a familiar sense of déjà-fucking-vu flooded into his gut.
Mr. Murphy had just arrived in the guise of the Canadian special affairs attaché.
( III )
Untying a tangle of knots requires two things one rarely finds while topside on a rapidly submerging submarine—time and patience.
The timer on the explosives was preset to sixty seconds; I’d already used about fifteen of them setting it, pushing away, and dangling like a cooked goose from a Chinese butcher’s display. My only option was to cut the line and float free.
I took out my Panamanian diving knife—my custom Strider was back in Jamaica—and started hacking through the line.
It didn’t want to give. On TV, lines always snap at the sight of the blade. In real life, the strands hang together like glue paper sticking to the back of a rat scurrying through an alley.
I had a lot of sympathy for the rat until the blade finally made it through the last of the nylon-titanium thread. I shot backward so quickly that at first I thought the bomb had exploded. When I realized it hadn’t, I pushed down toward the hull of the sub, hoping to find a handhold or something to grab on to so I’d be sure to be on top of the submarine when it surfaced.
I didn’t hear the explosion, or even feel it. I did notice a sudden surge of bubbles from the bow area as I grabbed one of the protrusions36 that ran along the stern hull near the openings for the missiles. I assumed that was the bang, and I held on tight, expecting that we’d surface any moment.
We didn’t. As a matter of fact, nothing happened for what seemed like an eternity. I was considering jumping up and down on the goddamn sub when it finally began moving.
Downward.
Damn Chinese. I should have known you can always count on them to do things ass backward.
I pounded on the hull of the sub, though I doubt they heard much of the sound, since it was covered with acoustic tiles.
What they undoubtedly did hear was the detonation of a backup charge my Panamanian friend had been carrying in his rubberized ruck. As soon as the sub started downward, he pulled himself up the line to the conning tower, set the timer, and then worked himself back out. Damn smart kid. If he ever decides to come to El Norte, there’ll be a job waiting for him at Red Cell.
This bang did the trick. The Chinese captain, his career no doubt flashing in front of his eyes, decided to stop screwing around and ordered an immediate emergency blow—your basic crash dive in reverse. The submarine did a kind of a U-turn in the water, and shot up toward and through the surface like a bronco busting out of the chute at a Friday night rodeo.
I went flying as well, tumbling off the hull like a flea off a dog that’s just jumped into a bathtub. I shot into the air, then hit the water on my back so hard I thought I’d landed on a sidewalk. But I’ll say one thing for Murphy: he gives as well as takes. He popped me up about ten yards from the raft with Aznar, the leader of the Panamanian assault team.
There was a full moon that night, or they might have run over me rather than picking me up. As it was, the Panamanians barely stopped to get me aboard before racing to join the rest of the team on the hull of the Chinese submarine.
Mongoose was already there. In fact, he and two Panamanian friends were standing right over the hatchway as the Chinese broke the lock and came up for a breath of fresh air.
Zap-boom-pop—Chinaman number one over the side.
Zap-boom-pop—Chinaman number two over the side.
Zap-boom – rip-pop—I think Mongoose broke Chinaman number three’s neck.
By the time I reached the submarine, Mongoose had already taken out the topside security team, eliminating the initial resistance. He and his two shadows, along with three other Panamanians from the first raft to hit the sub, then descended through the sail into the control room, where they effectively took over the ship.
Did I mention the tear gas?
Following the general principle of better-safe-than-sorry, the Panamanians dropped a few tear-gas canisters down the open hatch. That made things easy inside, adding to the utter chaos the Chinese had to deal with. The boarding team wore gas masks, but those of us topside generally chose not to don them.
Mistake. Almost instantaneously, the gas began to waft upward. So there were quite a few red eyes on deck when the first of the Chinese prisoners, including the submarine’s executive officer, came up.
The executive officer was pulled unceremoniously and placed, not too gently, against the side of the conning tower.
“You speak Spanish?” I asked in my best impression of a Panamanian.
He replied in Chinese, asking for a towel for his eyes. I understood it, but not very well.
“How about English?” I said. “You speak that.”
“English—yes. Towel for eyes.”
I whistled for Aznar, who found the officer a hankie. By this time, several other sailors had been sent up the ladder, including a young junior lieutenant—the equivalent of an ensign in our navy—who was having a hard time breathing because of the gas. He coughed and bent over, hands clutched to his chest.
Who says we don’t take humanitarian concerns into account during wartime?
“Search the bastard,” I barked after I kicked him in the gut.
Why’d I hit him? Because the junior lieutenant had a pistol under his shirt, which he was trying to pull out. Obviously he was bucking for the fast track to commodore.
He got a bath for his trouble. The pistol went in after him. I would have kept it as a souvenir but it was a Type 77 and I’ve already got a couple.
Downstairs, the submarine’s captain and Mongoose were having a bit of a language problem: the captain didn’t understand that none of the languages Mongoose understands, including English, include the word “no.”
“You’re going the hell up the ladder.” Mongoose was using Spanish—we were all Panamanians, remember. He’d had to take his gas mask off to make himself heard. The submarine’s environmental system had filtered some of the fumes away by now, but there was still more than enough gas to irritate his eyes.
“Up. Up. Up.” Mongoose gestured when the captain didn’t respond. “You go up.”
“I stay with my crew,” said the captain.
Actually, I’m only guessing at what the sub commander said, because he was speaking in Chinese, a language that Mongoose has only the most theoretical understanding of. The captain continued, probably pointing out that they were in international waters and this takeover violated about fifty international laws. He also seemed to strongly suspect that Mongoose and the Panamanians, despite their Spanish and nondescript uniforms,37 were American. Finally, he said something along the lines of “Shoot me here.”
Or at least that’s what Mongoose thought.
“I will shoot you here.” Mongoose demonstrated his willingness to do so by holding a pistol to the captain’s head.
Give the submarine commander credit—he blinked, but probably only because tears were still streaming out of his eyes from the gas. He wouldn’t budge.
“What the hell is the hold up down there?” I yelled down. “Bring the captain up. Now! Breathing. Not too many bruises.”
Best to be specific, especially where Mongoose is concerned.
Mongoose snapped to, grabbing the captain in a bear hug and then shoving him up the ladder. One of the Panamanians took him and passed him along. In short order the captain was deposited on the deck like a mail sack filled with overdue bills.
I helped him to his feet and told him in Mandarin that he was in a world of trouble.
He replied with a few choice naval terms.
“You’re going to cooperate,” I told him in pigeon Chinese. “Or your submarine is going to be sunk.”
My translation of his response was imperfect, but it did involve a reference to my ancestors, none of whom he seemed to consider honorable. I grabbed him by the front of his uniform and pressed him against the side of the tower.
“You speak Spanish?” I asked.
He said in Chinese that he didn’t understand me.
“Then I’ll use English.” I gave it my best south of the border spin. “I want the Venezuelans. They come with me. Or I sink your submarine. Which is it?”
He blinked, then nodded.
Eighteen Venezuelans, stripped to the waist, hands high, filed up the ladder a short time later. One by one we searched them, then passed them down to the rafts.
It took us about a half hour to get all of the Venezuelans off. By that time, the Chinese crew was starting to rally from their surprise, and even though I had their captain with me, I didn’t trust that they’d remain passive for very much longer.
But I couldn’t resist the temptation of having a look around the control room before shoving off. Taking the rungs by two, I went down and had a good look. Mongoose had taken pictures of everything he could see in the control room, the sonar station nearby, and a space that turned out to be the com area though it didn’t seem manned. It was a real Kodak moment—even if the camera he was using was a Chinese-made model.
RW15 - Seize the Day Page 31