‘A transfer into a bank account in the Cayman Islands. They said they would provide the details of the account but have not done so as yet.’
‘How soon before you can insert assets onto the ship?’ Ben asked, referring to his fellow GRRR operatives.
Liberty looked at Jinko, who had been leaning in close and listening to both ends of the conversation.
‘Within eight hours,’ Jinko replied.
‘You heard that, Sergeant?’ Liberty asked Ben.
‘Copy that, ma’am. Eight hours.’
‘We’re planning to insert Charlie and Caesar first to get the lay of the land and locate IEDs,’ Jinko said. He had previously checked the passenger manifest emailed by Kaiser, locating Ben’s name and cabin number. ‘Are you still in Cabin 3034?’
‘Affirmative, 3034, on Deck 3, with my son,’ Ben answered. ‘My mother and daughter are in 3036.’
‘Wait there for Charlie to make contact with you.’
‘Copy that. Unfortunately, I don’t have a charger for this phone – long story.’
‘Then switch off, please,’ Liberty said. ‘Preserve the battery. Call me again in precisely one hour.’ As she spoke she noted the time.
‘Roger that. In one hour,’ Ben echoed.
Liberty terminated the call, then turned to the group. ‘That will make our task much easier. Sergeant Fulton is now in contact from aboard the ship.’
There were nods and smiles all around.
‘Good old Ben,’ Baz said. ‘If anyone can find a way, it’s him.’
‘Captain,’ Jinko said, ‘I’ve just got an email from SOCOM.’ He opened the message on the laptop. ‘It’s an intel analysis of the Black Shark,’ he said, scanning the page. ‘They say there’s no information on them. SOCOM suspects that it is either a new terrorist group or the name has been invented as a cover for a purely criminal enterprise.’
‘The hijackers called themselves “the Seventh Company” of the Black Shark,’ Liberty said. ‘This suggests there are at least six more companies.’
Jinko shook his head. ‘If SOCOM’s right, that’s just a bluff.’
‘So, who could they be?’ Liberty said pensively.
‘SOCOM suggests there may be some link between the hijackers and the prison break in Havana a few days back,’ Jinko revealed. ‘The hijackers might just be the ex-Cuban army men who broke out of prison. Ben did say the hijackers are Hispanic and could be ex-military.’
Liberty raised her eyebrows. ‘From a prison break to the largest hijacking in history, in just a matter of days?’ she said, sceptically. ‘Such an operation would have required significant organisation over some time.’
‘Someone on the outside could have helped set it all up,’ Jinko suggested.
‘Perhaps.’ Liberty looked at Charlie Grover. ‘Sergeant, once you are aboard the Cleopatra, your first priority is the identification of the hijackers, in particular, their leader. We must know who we are dealing with.’
‘Roger to that,’ Charlie acknowledged.
‘So, Captain,’ said Tim McHenry, ‘are we good to go? And if the op is going down, what are we calling it?’
‘Operation Black Shark,’ Liberty announced, bringing nods of approval from team members. ‘Major, could you suggest some codenames for the operation?’
Jinko was thoughtful for a moment, then said, ‘How about Shark Catcher for mission control, Great White for the leader of the hijackers, Orca for Ben Fulton, and Stingray for Charlie?’
‘And for the main assault team?’ Liberty asked.
‘Barracuda.’
‘Very good. Proceed as discussed, gentlemen. Sergeant Hazard, as 2IC you are in charge of preparations for the main assault. We will continue to assess insertion options for the main team. Sergeant Grover, you’ll head down to San Juan to collect Caesar. From there, we will organise an aerial insertion for Caesar and yourself to gather intel aboard the Cleopatra, before the main phase of Operation Black Shark is launched – on the “go” of the Secretary-General.’
‘Roger to that, ma’am,’ Charlie said, rising to his feet. ‘Let’s do it.’
At the Fort Buchanan Animal Health Centre in Puerto Rico, Charlie Grover walked into the office of the US Marine Corps’ Master Gunnery Sergeant Duane B Dunblatt, who was looking absently out the window, chewing the end of a pencil. Turning in his seat, the forty-eight-year-old Dunblatt, whose bald head glowed with sweat, studied the Australian with a furrowed brow.
‘What can I do for you, soldier?’ he asked.
‘Charlie Grover, Australian Special Air Service Regiment,’ the Australian announced. He glanced at the wall on his right, where he spied scores of numbered keys hanging on hooks, with dog leashes suspended beneath each.
‘Take a wrong turn someplace, did you, son?’ Dunblatt growled, as Charlie stood in front of his desk. ‘We don’t often get visits here in Puerto Rico from the Australian SAS.’ Then he noticed the headgear that Charlie was wearing. ‘A blue beret? Since when do the Special Forces work for the UN?’
‘I’m with the UN’s Global Rapid Reaction Responders,’ Charlie replied. He had taken in the rank insignia on Dunblatt’s sleeve and knew that, as a Master Gunnery Sergeant, the American had spent a minimum of ten years in the US Marines. Probably twice that long, he told himself. Dunblatt was clearly a career soldier, living and breathing the unbending marine culture.
‘The Global Rapid Reaction Responders?’ Dunblatt’s scowl deepened. ‘Never heard of them!’
‘That’s not surprising. GRRR is top secret.’
‘Is that right?’ There was a tone of disbelief in the American’s voice. ‘And what can I do for you, Mr GRRR?’
‘You have an EDD of ours here – Caesar, EDD 556 – undergoing quarantine.’
Dunblatt folded his arms. ‘What of it?’
‘Caesar is needed on ops,’ Charlie replied evenly. ‘I’m here to collect him.’
‘You don’t say.’ Leaning forward, Dunblatt consulted the computer on his desk. ‘Says here that EDD Caesar can only be released to his handler, Sergeant Benjamin Fulton of the Australian Army’s Special Operations Engineer Regiment. What do you have to say about that?’
Charlie nodded. ‘That is correct – or, rather, was correct. The thing is, Master Gunnery Sergeant Dunblatt, Ben is in no position to personally collect Caesar. That’s why I’m here, deputising for him. I have an authorisation from Major Alex Jinko of the SAS.’ He took out a folded slip of paper from his top pocket and held it out to Dunblatt.
‘Son, it don’t matter if you got a letter from the President of the United States himself. I got my orders and they are to only hand that mutt over to Sergeant Benjamin Fulton. End of story.’ Rattling the pencil between his teeth, he sat back. ‘And you can forget that “authorisation”. A US Marine only takes orders from a US Marine.’
‘Okay.’ Charlie slipped the note back into his pocket. ‘Understood. Sorry I troubled you.’
Dunblatt nodded. ‘You know how things are in the military. Orders are orders.’
‘Oh, sure,’ Charlie responded. ‘What can I say? You have your orders. Listen, this facility is a bit of a maze. What’s the best route to take to find my way out of here?’
Chuckling to himself, Dunblatt came to his feet. ‘Here, I’ll show you.’ He walked to the far window, where Charlie joined him. ‘You’re Special Forces and you need directions from a jarhead?’ Dunblatt jibed. ‘It takes all sorts to make a world, I guess. Here …’ He pointed out the window. ‘Follow that path until …’
The marine NCO stopped midsentence. Charlie, standing beside him, had two fingers to Dunblatt’s neck. Applying the tips of his fingers to a pressure point in the neck, a technique used by Special Forces in unarmed combat, Charlie immobilised Dunblatt, who stood frozen, his eyes bulging in fear. With his free hand, Charlie steered the American back to his chair, all the time keeping the pressure on his neck. Dunblatt sank into the chair. There, his eyes fluttered before he passed out.
‘Sorry, Gunny,’ Charlie said, ‘but I don’t have time to waste.’
Working quickly, Charlie scoured the office and found a ten-metre length of golden ceremonial cord in a cabinet. In a frame on the wall he saw a faded olive-green US Marines bandana covered with signatures. Charlie guessed this was a keepsake of Dunblatt’s from his service during the invasion of Iraq or some similar conflict. Out of its frame it came. Using the cord, Charlie roped Dunblatt’s still form tightly to the chair, before he tied the bandana around the marine’s head as a gag. Then, taking out his mobile phone, Charlie made a call.
‘Captain,’ he said, when Liberty Lee answered, ‘I need a US Marine Corps general to tell the leatherneck NCO here in San Juan that he authorises the discharge of Caesar into my custody.’
‘Give me a few minutes, Sergeant,’ Liberty responded.
Charlie terminated the call and, sitting on the corner of Dunblatt’s desk, waited. After several minutes, Dunblatt regained consciousness. Trying to move, the master gunnery sergeant found himself bound to the chair. His eyes blazing with anger, he tried to talk, cursing Charlie in muffled expletives through the gag.
‘Now, now, Gunny, no need for language like that,’ Charlie said. ‘I have my orders, too, mate, and they are to collect Caesar. You know how things are in the military. Orders are orders.’
Dunblatt cursed Charlie some more and struggled to free himself, but neither act achieved anything. Charlie’s phone rang. He answered.
‘Is that Sergeant Charles Grover?’ came an American voice.
‘Roger to that,’ Charlie replied.
‘This is Major General Brandon Burch, US Marine Corps. I believe you need me to pass on a command to an NCO of mine.’
‘Yes, sir. Master Gunnery Sergeant Dunblatt is a little tied up right now. I’ll put the phone to his ear. Go ahead, sir.’
‘Gunny, Major General Brandon Burch here. I want you to give Sergeant Grover whatever he asks for. You got that, marine? Whatever he wants, you give it to him. If he wants a dog, you give him the dog. If he wants an elephant, you get him one! And if I hear you gave him any trouble, you’re on the next ship out of San Juan to a posting at the remotest weather station in the Arctic we can find for you. Are we clear, Gunny?’ He paused. ‘That all you need, Sergeant Grover?’
Charlie put the phone back to his own ear. ‘Roger to that, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘You’re welcome. Good luck with the Cleopatra mission.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Ben ended the call and sat looking at Dunblatt, who glared at him in return. ‘Now, Gunny, you might be trying to convince yourself that the person who just gave you an order was not General Burch. Even if you accept that it was General Burch, I’m prepared to bet you’d say that you’d need an order in writing from the general and original release forms signed in triplicate before you’d let me take Caesar. Well, you know what? I don’t have time to play those sorts of games. Thousands of lives are on the line here. Just to be on the safe side, I’m not going to untie you.’
Dunblatt snarled an incomprehensible response, but that didn’t bother Charlie. Plenty of people had snarled at him over the years.
‘To give me time to do what I have to do,’ Charlie went on, ‘let’s put your staff here at Fort Buchanan to a little test. Let’s see how long it takes for them to come in here looking for you. I’ll leave them to untie you.’
Turning the computer to face him, Charlie took in Caesar’s details that Dunblatt had referred to earlier. There on the screen was Caesar’s cage number in the facility: 22. Walking to the wall of keys, Charlie plucked key number twenty-two from its hook, followed by the stainless-steel leash that hung beneath it. He slipped them into his trouser pocket and headed to the door. ‘A pleasure doing business with you, Gunny. See you around.’ With that, Charlie ducked out of the office, silently closing the door behind him.
Charlie quickly found the building containing the dog quarters and let himself in. Moving along the cages with a light, noiseless tread, he followed the numbers on each barred door. Several German shepherds barked at him as he passed, but he ignored them. Coming to Cage 22, he looked in through the bars. Caesar was lying inside the cage, looking despondent with his jaw resting on his front legs. His eyebrows twitched as he saw the figure at the cage door, silhouetted by the lights behind.
‘Come on, Caesar,’ Charlie said, putting the key in the lock. ‘We’re getting out of here, mate!’
Caesar recognised Charlie’s voice immediately. He sprung to his feet and bounded to the door. Putting his feet up on the bars, he tried unsuccessfully to poke his head through a gap to give Charlie a lick. He whined in his frustration and excitement, then barked three times.
‘Shhhh!’ Charlie cautioned. ‘Get back down from the gate while I open it.’ He pointed to the interior of the cage. ‘Go on, get back. Quick!’
Caesar promptly dropped down and retreated from the door, which Charlie then unlocked.
‘Come on now!’ Charlie urged when the gate stood open, tossing the key aside. ‘What are you waiting for?’
Caesar was so well disciplined that, even though the doorway was open, he’d waited for the instruction to pass through it. Now he came bounding out and proceeded to jump up at Charlie, licking him on the face.
‘Yeah, yeah, I love you, too,’ Charlie said, embracing his old friend. ‘But we haven’t time to muck about. Let’s go!’
With Charlie jogging, an action which had a slightly mechanical look about it with his Zoomers propelling him along, Caesar trotted at his side, his tail wagging vigorously. As Charlie headed for the door to the quarantine section, more dogs began to bark, as if to say, Take me with you!
Once they were through the unlocked quarantine facility door, Charlie paused. The path to the left, he knew, led to Fort Buchanan’s front gate, through which he had arrived. Contrary to what he had told Master Gunnery Sergeant Dunblatt, Charlie had noted exactly how to find his way out of the fort complex. But there was an armed marine sentry posted at the front gate, and Charlie knew that if that sentry asked him for paperwork to permit him to take Caesar out the gate, he would be in trouble.
‘This way, mate!’ he said, darting off to the right.
Caesar did the same. To him, this was the best game he’d played in ages. Together, they ran along the side of the quarantine building. When they came to the old Spanish sandstone wall at the rear, Charlie stopped to gain his bearings. The yard where Caesar had exercised every day was to their right. A motor pool garage stood to the left; Charlie could hear a truck’s engine revving in there. Charlie walked straight ahead, to the wall, and Caesar followed. Looking over the wall, Charlie could see down to the ground, twenty metres below.
‘Too far to jump without injuring one or both of us, mate,’ he said.
Caesar cocked his head to one side, his expression seeming to say, Did you say ‘jump’, Charlie? Caesar would happily have made a parachute jump there and then. But they didn’t have a parachute.
Charlie looked right and left. On the outer back wall of the motor pool building there was a rusty metal fire-escape, with a platform projecting a little way out over the top of the wall. An extendable metal fire-ladder sat folded up on the platform. It was designed so that, should there be a fire in the building, people inside could come out a door in the back of the building and down metal steps to the platform. From there, to complete their escape, they would unfold the ladder all the way down the wall to the ground outside. Charlie smiled to himself. He and Caesar would use the very same method of escape. Although, there would be no fire – except for the fire in the eyes of the very angry, very trussed-up Master Gunnery Sergeant Dunblatt back in his office.
To get to the fire-escape’s metal platform, Charlie would have to walk along the top of the sandstone wall. And so would Caesar. Fortunately, the wall was two metres thick, so there was plenty of room up there. ‘Caesar, sit,’ Charlie instructed. Caesar obeyed without hesitation. Using his powerful arms, Charlie hauled himse
lf up onto the top of the wall. He heaved himself to his feet. Both acts required great strength, for he couldn’t get any spring from his prosthetic feet.
Caesar wore an anxious look that seemed to say, You’re not leaving me here, are you, Charlie?
Charlie smiled down at him. ‘Up you come.’ He pointed to the top of the wall behind him. ‘Up here.’
Caesar came to his feet, then sprang up onto the wall.
‘Okay. Follow me,’ Charlie said, turning to walk along the top of the wall.
In his office, the perspiring Master Gunnery Sergeant was wrestling with his bonds. It took a monumental effort, but he eventually succeeded in dragging his right arm up and free of the yellow cord. It was an easier task to free his left arm once he’d done that. With both his arms free, he pulled the bandana down from his mouth. Still bound to the chair, he manoeuvred it closer to the desk with his feet, then picked up the phone on his desk, dialling a short number.
‘Front gate, this is Corporal Alvaro,’ came a voice in his ear.
‘Alvaro, this is Dunblatt. A smart-ass Aussie soldier will be coming your way any minute with a brown labrador.’
‘Yes, Master Gunnery Sergeant. I remember the Aussie coming in not long ago.’
‘Stop him at the gate! You got that, Alvaro? That man and that dog are not to leave this base.’
‘I’m on my own here, Master Gunnery Sergeant.’
‘Then call out the guard detail,’ Dunblatt barked. ‘Just make sure that man and that dog don’t get by you. Got it?’
‘Got it, Master Gunnery Sergeant.’
‘I’ll be there myself, soon as I can.’
Dunblatt was too embarrassed by his predicament to ask Alvaro for help. As soon as he’d hung up, he struggled to free himself from the bonds that still kept him in the chair. Tossing himself around, he overbalanced and, chair and all, collapsed onto the floor. By freeing his arms, he’d created a little wriggle room around his torso, but it still wasn’t easy to slip free.
‘Gunny, what’s going on?’ came a voice from the door.
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