Using the knife, Ricardo slit open one of the black packages to reveal an AKM assault rifle, an updated version of the AK-47. He handed the knife back to Zapata, then, taking the rifle from its wrapping, he lifted it to his nose and sniffed. ‘I smell grease.’
‘That’s because it’s never been used,’ the blond man said. ‘It’s brand new. The entire consignment was lifted from a shipment being sent from Russia to a South American country that will remain nameless.’
Nodding, Ricardo opened one of the ammunition cases. It was full of neatly stacked curved AK magazines. He took one and slid it into the AKM. It clicked into place beneath the barrel. Lifting the rifle to his shoulder, he closed one eye and squinted along the sights. In a flash, he swung the weapon around, pointing it at the head of the American.
‘Hey!’ the man protested. He raised his hands in fear. ‘Be careful with that thing, buddy! Someone’s liable to get hurt.’
Smiling, Ricardo lowered the weapon. ‘Relax, no one will get hurt.’ He handed the weapon back to Zapata. ‘Start transferring the goods,’ he instructed.
‘Sí,’ Zapata acknowledged. ‘Don’t forget the explosives, chief.’
‘I won’t. Americano, show me the rest of what you have,’ Ricardo growled.
He was taken to the next cabin, which was smaller with double bunks. There were more stacks of ammunition boxes, and plastic-wrapped weapons lay on both beds. Several full garbage bags sat on the floor. Ricardo ripped one open, to find it stuffed with khaki ammunition belts. He took up one of the larger weapons packages and felt it.
‘RPG-7 rocket launcher,’ the blond man said. ‘You did ask for one of those, right? The ammo is there in one of the cases on the floor. Ten rounds.’
Ricardo nodded. ‘And grenades?’ he asked.
The American pointed to one of the ammunition boxes, which, in addition to Russian Cyrillic lettering, had ‘RGD-5’ stencilled on the side, indicating they contained RGD-5 Russian hand grenades.
‘Good.’
‘Why did you specifically ask for Russian hardware?’ the blond asked out of curiosity. ‘We could have got you a load of American weaponry way cheaper.’
‘The Russian equipment is what we are used to,’ Ricardo replied. ‘We trained with it, we used it in action.’
The American looked surprised. ‘In action?’
‘Most of us are ex-Cuban military,’ Ricardo said. ‘Besides, this equipment is superior to anything the Yankees can produce. Why do you think Yankee cops use guns that are made in Austria, Germany and Italy? The Russian equipment is basic, but you can bury it in mud for a week, and when you take it out again, it fires first time. Perfecto! This is equipment that will not let us down.’
The American shrugged. ‘Whatever floats your boat, buddy.’
‘Where are the explosives?’ Ricardo asked.
The blond man pointed to a square package wrapped in black plastic. ‘Just like you asked for, it’s got the works – C-4, detonators, alarm clocks. Why old-fashioned alarm clocks? I thought mobile phones were the way to go for remotely setting off charges these days.’
‘Old solutions are sometimes the best solutions,’ Ricardo replied. ‘Mobile phone signals cannot be relied upon at sea. What of the other items? The women’s clothing, the wigs, the red bandanas?’
‘Sure thing.’ Stooping, the blond man lifted two full black rubbish bags from behind the door. ‘It’s all here. You want to tell me what you want with dresses and wigs?’
Ricardo’s characteristic faint smile appeared, tugging at the corner of his mouth. ‘Maybe we are going to a dance.’
‘Oh, yeah, sure,’ the American scoffed.
‘What about the walkie-talkies?’ one of Ricardo’s men asked.
‘Sí, Chuppa,’ Ricardo acknowledged. ‘You heard him,’ he said to the blond man. ‘You have walkie-talkies for us?’
‘They’re in the first cabin,’ the American replied. ‘Four teen of them, as requested. So, are we good to go?’
Ricardo nodded and shook the man’s hand. ‘We are good to go.’ He turned to Chuppa and the other man behind him. ‘Get this all aboard the fishing boat. Rapido!’
‘I’m Carter, by the way,’ the American said.
‘And your compadre?’ Ricardo asked, gesturing to the man at the wheel.
‘Leroy,’ Carter responded. ‘What do we call you?’
‘You can call me Ricky.’
‘Okay, Ricky. Good to be doing business with you.’
It didn’t take long to move the cargo. Once Ricardo and his men were back aboard the fishing boat, the cruiser cast off, dropping anchor close by. As the two boats lay there in the deserted cove, rocking gently, Carter and Leroy brought out tins of white paint and brushes. Squatting on the boarding platform jutting from the cruiser’s stern, they slapped on the paint, obliterating the vessel’s name and home port: Yankee Blade, Miami. The swift paint job would make the stolen craft impossible to identify from the air or from reasonably close by.
Aboard the Victoria, Ricardo’s men were cleaning protective grease from weapons and filling AKM magazines with bullets. When they were done they stuffed the magazines into pouches on ammunition belts. Volcán had removed the RPG launcher from its plastic wrapping and he sat on the deck, cradling the weapon as if it were a pet.
‘You have a new toy, amigo,’ Ricardo said.
A grin creased Volcán’s face. ‘Sí, a very nice toy, Ricky. With this, I could do much damage. Now that we have weapons, I am a happier man.’ He laughed. ‘Now we are truly pirates!’
That evening, aboard the Cleopatra, Josh and Maddie were with Nan, Ben and eight hundred other passengers in the glitzy Luxor Theatre, enjoying a stage show. An eight-piece band pounded out a hard-rocking number, singers let rip with lusty vocals, dancers in exotic costumes twirled across the stage, acrobats spun from wires high above them all. It was as if they were on New York City’s Broadway.
The Fultons had spent another fabulous day in Jamaica and had come back to the ship with suntans after spending hours on the beach and carrying bag-loads of souvenirs from Montego Bay’s market stalls. In order to re-embark, the Fultons and all the other passengers who’d been ashore had to walk up the gangway from the dock to a large Deck 4 doorway on the ship’s starboard side. Inside the doorway, the ship’s security men were waiting. They all wore blue uniforms with ‘SECURITY’ inscribed in white on their backs and thick black equipment belts around their waists.
Josh had noticed that they had handcuffs in pouches on those belts, and walkie-talkies, but no weapons. ‘Do the security guys have guns, Dad?’ he’d asked Ben. ‘Locked away somewhere, maybe?’
His father had shaken his head. ‘No need for guns on a ship like this, Josh,’ he’d replied.
Every passenger, even young ones like Josh and Maddie, had been issued with a plastic Ocean Pass the size of a credit card. As they came back on board, each handed their pass to a security man, who slotted it into a computer, which brought up the passenger’s photo. If photo and passenger didn’t match, the person wouldn’t be allowed to board. This prevented anyone who wasn’t a passenger from sneaking onto the big ship. Every passenger would then have to put whatever they were carrying through a metal detector and then walk through another metal detector that looked like a doorway. Just like at airports, the purpose of the metal detectors was to locate weapons. No one complained about all these checks; the ship’s security procedures were tight and made both passengers and crew feel safe.
After they had dinner with their regular dinner companions at Table 122, the Fulton family had hurried to grab the best seats for the theatre show, front and centre. There were just occasional reminders that the theatre, like the ship that housed it, was heading west at a steady eighteen knots across the Caribbean Sea, with the theatre, and the stage, swaying a little every now and then. Occasionally there would be a dull thud as the big ship’s bow came down on top of a wave, but the performers were so experienced they didn’t even flinch.
The c
ruise was passing the halfway mark, with the Cleopatra heading for the Cayman Islands. After that, it was due to sail for Cancun in Mexico, then turn around and head east, bound for Nassau in the Bahamas, before finally making for the cruise’s final port of call, Fort Lauderdale, Florida. From there, Nan, Maddie and Josh would fly back to Australia, while Ben resumed duty.
As they were filing out of the theatre at show’s end, they bumped into their dinner companions Oscar and Lindy Lindoni.
‘Did you folks enjoy the show?’ Oscar asked.
Nan beamed. ‘It was wonderful!’ she declared.
‘What was your favourite part, kids?’ Lindy asked.
‘I liked the people who did the acrobatics hanging from wires,’ Josh said. ‘That was awesome.’
‘They flew like fairies,’ Maddie said, yawning as she clung to her father.
‘And there’s still much more fun to come,’ Oscar said.
Happy but exhausted, the Fulton family fell into their beds. When Ben was sure that Josh was fast asleep, he slid silently out of his bed and did the back exercises that the doctor in Puerto Rico had given him, starting with the Astronaut. For this, he lay on the cabin’s carpeted floor and put his feet and bottom half of his legs up on the sofa, lying in the same position that astronauts adopt to be blasted into space. With ten minutes of lying in the Astronaut position, the pain in Ben’s lower back began to seep away.
After getting back to his feet and doing the other exercises, Ben pulled the bedclothes up around his son’s neck, then slipped back into his own bed. Closing his eyes, he lay there for a time, congratulating himself on masterminding this great family holiday.
Ricardo Ramos was lying beside Ana-Maria, who, with her arm around him, was already asleep. As Ricardo lay there, Consuela came to him. In her hand was a piece of paper on which she had scribbled several lines.
‘I have the weather forecast for our region, from Radio Havana,’ she said in a hushed voice, squatting down beside him.
Ricardo didn’t bother to look at the piece of paper. ‘Tell me what it says,’ he responded.
‘Strong winds in the Western Caribbean tomorrow morning, easing in the afternoon, followed by calm conditions on Friday.’
Ricardo was happy with this. ‘Perfecto. The Cleopatra will be on its way to Grand Cayman. We will hit it as planned, off the Mexican coast.’
At the US Marine Corps’ Animal Health Facility at Fort Buchanan in San Juan, Puerto Rico, Caesar sat in his cage. The facility housed a veterinary hospital and quarantine section for marine dogs. The marines provide security at American embassies around the world. As a result, their ranks included hundreds of guard dogs for embassies and Marine Corps posts as well as EDDs for field operations. Occasionally, the facility took in dogs from other arms of the US military and foreign military services. So, the colonel in charge considered it a rare honour to be looking after the famous Caesar.
Caesar’s cage was one of scores in a large concrete building. He could see across the wide walkway outside the bars of his cage to cages on the far side, most occupied by other large dogs: labradors like himself, Belgian Malinois sheepdogs and German shepherds. As far as the Marine Corps was concerned, this was a clean and healthy environment in which military dogs could see out their quarantine before being returned to their handlers. As far as Caesar was concerned, it was a prison.
Corporal Barry Sullivan, a red-headed marine in his twenties, came to the cage’s low door. In surrounding cages, other dogs, especially noisy German shepherds, began to bark. Caesar was instantly on his feet, his tail wagging slowly and an expectant look on his face.
‘Hey there, Caesar,’ Sullivan said, betraying a southern drawl. He unlocked the door to the cage and, ducking his head, entered, taking care to close the door behind him. ‘There you go, buddy.’ He placed a plastic bowl filled with chopped beef in front of the labrador. ‘Suppertime.’
Caesar advanced on the bowl at once and began to wolf down the beef, taking no notice of Sullivan as he ate.
Sullivan smiled to himself. ‘I have yet to meet the dog that wouldn’t eat until it exploded.’ He waited until the bowl had been emptied, then muttered, ‘Okay, Caesar, let’s take a look at you, pal.’ He dropped to one knee beside the dog.
Caesar, licking his chops, sat down, knowing from experience what was to follow. Sullivan looked at his moist nose, then into his eyes. He opened the labrador’s jaws and looked in his mouth, then ran a hand over his coat.
‘Healthy as a horse,’ the corporal concluded. ‘And you got the appetite of a horse to match. That’s all good. You ain’t sick and you ain’t pining away for your handler, Sergeant Ben Fulton, right?’
At the mention of Ben’s name, Caesar cocked his head to one side. His tail began to thump on the ground, while his expression seemed to say, Is Ben here?
‘You miss him, I bet,’ Sullivan said, giving him a hearty pat. ‘I hear you two make a great team.’ Taking a leash from a trouser pocket, he clipped it onto Caesar’s collar. ‘Exercise time.’
Caesar quickly came to his feet, his tail wagging furiously. The leash signalled a welcome escape from his cage. Sullivan guided Caesar out into the warm evening air. Outside, there was a sandstone wall built into the hill where the fort stood. On the inside, the wall rose less than two metres high, but on the seaward side the ground dropped away twenty metres. Inside the wall there was a walking track, like a prison exercise yard, onto which the corporal led the Australian EDD.
Seeing no sign of Ben here, Caesar’s tail wagged less enthusiastically. Still, as the marine corporal led him around the track at the jog, he enjoyed the fresh air and the exercise. How long he would have to wait until he saw Ben again he could neither know nor calculate.
In the darkness of Thursday evening, the Victoria was underway, bucking through a low swell on an easterly course. On board, Ricardo’s men had all armed themselves. Each had strapped an ammunition belt around his waist, filling it with spare magazines, then selected an automatic weapon from their cache. Every one of the men had also attached a walkie-talkie to his belt. They now waited with growing anticipation, steadying themselves with hands on the rail as the old craft ploughed along on a course to intercept their prey. The fishing boat had left the Island of Pines far behind. Carter and Leroy were still back there and would remain in place until they were called upon to play their next part in the plan.
On the wheelhouse roof, the Victoria’s small radar antenna was slowly but incessantly sweeping the horizon. Ricardo and Ana-Maria were in the wheelhouse with Consuela and her son, looking at the radar screen.
‘There it is!’ Consuela said, pointing to a large green blip on the screen.
Ricardo studied the screen and frowned. It was showing a number of smaller blips in addition to the large one. ‘Should the Cleopatra not be farther east?’
‘But this blip represents a large ship, heading towards Cancun,’ Consuela countered. ‘It must be the Cleopatra.’
Ricardo shook his head. ‘I am not so sure. It is many kilometres ahead of where I was expecting it to be at this time, and our contact didn’t call to tell us the ship had increased speed. What if it is another big ship?’
Consuela shrugged. ‘Only one way to find out, but I will have to put on maximum speed to catch it. Otherwise it will pass west of us.’
Ricardo looked worried. ‘Maximum speed? Will this old crate take it?’
‘Sure,’ Consuela replied. ‘The Victoria is up to it. Besides, you told me that she only has to get us to the cruise ship. If the engine dies then, what does it matter?’
Ricardo was unconvinced. ‘What if that is not the Cleopatra?’
‘What if it is and you let it escape?’ she countered. ‘What of your grand plan then?’
Ricardo looked at Consuela, weighing up the options.
‘We have no choice,’ Ana-Maria said. ‘It is all or nothing. I didn’t become a fugitive just to go for an ocean ride on this stinking old barge. We cannot miss the intercep
tion.’
‘You are right,’ Ricardo conceded with a sigh. ‘Very well, Consuela, get all the speed you can out of this boat. Put us in the path of that ship.’
‘As you command,’ Consuela said, pushing the throttle forward until it would go no further.
A black shape loomed ahead. Ricardo came out of the wheelhouse and walked to the bow of the chugging fishing boat. Ana-Maria followed him. Bringing the binoculars to his eyes, Ricardo tried to study the distant shape as the deck beneath him rose and fell. Spray came flying over the prow, soaking him. ‘We should have brought night glasses,’ he complained, wiping the binoculars dry with his shirt, then adjusting the focus. ‘These things are almost useless in the dark.’ He studied the shape for a long time.
‘What do you think?’ Ana-Maria said impatiently. ‘Is it the Cleopatra?’
Ricardo lowered the binoculars and shook his head. ‘It is a container ship.’
‘Let me take a look.’ She grabbed the binoculars from him and surveyed the ship in the distance. The shipping line that owned the ship had its name lit up in huge white letters on the side of the vessel’s long black hull. As the Victoria rose on a wave, Ana-Maria was able to make out the words: HAMBURG–AMERICAN LINE. She cursed in disgust and handed the binoculars back to him. ‘What now?’
‘The Cleopatra is still somewhere to the east,’ Ricardo surmised, as more spray doused them. ‘We are still in a position to intercept it when it does come this way.’ Holding onto the rail as they went, the pair returned to the wheelhouse. ‘It’s not the Cleopatra,’ Ricardo announced. ‘Decrease speed, Consuela. We do not need to be in such a hurry any longer.’
Consuela pulled the throttle back. Moments later there came a loud bang from below, and the boat’s engine died. As the boat slowed to a halt, those in the wheelhouse looked at each other.
‘That is not good,’ Consuela muttered. ‘Pedro, get down there and see what the problem is.’
‘Sí, Mama.’ Pedro opened a small hatchway at the back of the wheelhouse and disappeared below.
Operation Black Shark Page 6