Operation Black Shark

by Stephen Dando-Collins

  The young copilot turned to him and grinned. ‘Say hi to the hijackers for us.’

  Charlie returned to the main cabin to find Caesar curled up waiting for him. ‘Time to get our gear on, mate,’ he said, and Caesar’s tail began to thump on the metal floor.

  With the loadmaster’s help, Charlie strapped on a special black parachute harness that had an attachment at the front. Calling Caesar to his feet, Charlie bent and strapped a dog-sized harness around the labrador’s body. Caesar’s tail was wagging; he knew what this harness was for. The loadmaster handed Charlie a pair of doggles, which he slipped over Caesar’s eyes. Caesar didn’t as much as flinch.

  ‘What about these?’ the loadmaster asked, holding up a pair of special earmuffs for dogs. ‘They were in the special operations container SOCOM sent us.’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘Not necessary. They’re puppy Peltors. They’re only needed when heelos are involved. Dogs don’t like the sound of helicopter rotors and engines.’

  ‘The noise hurts their ears, huh?’

  ‘Canine hearing is much more acute than ours,’ Charlie explained. ‘They hear high-frequency noise that we don’t.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ The loadmaster stowed the Peltors back in the container.

  Charlie then got the loadmaster to lift up the labrador so that he could attach his harness to Caesar’s. Caesar was left hanging at Charlie’s waist. After strapping on a black jumping helmet and goggles, Charlie pulled on skin-tight leather combat gloves that would give him extra grip. Fully kitted out, Charlie followed the loadmaster towards the rear of the cabin, waddling awkwardly with Caesar suspended in front of him. The loadmaster pressed a button, and the ramp came down to the horizontal. They stared out into the black night. The outside air was cold and goose-bumps soon formed on Charlie’s exposed arms. Caesar wriggled uncomfortably in his harness for a moment, but settled down after Charlie gave him a comforting stroke. After speaking to the cockpit via the aircraft’s intercom, the loadmaster raised three fingers – three minutes to go.

  Charlie stood looking at the red light glowing on the fuselage wall. The minutes before a jump always dragged. Two minutes. Charlie’s eyes were glued to the red light. One minute. When the light changed to green, the loadmaster patted Charlie on the head. Charlie walked out along the ramp, then fell forward, launching Caesar and himself into the air. He did it as casually as taking a walk down the street. Without fear or apprehension, he trusted his and Caesar’s fate to their training and their equipment. In seconds they were alone, falling through the night towards the Caribbean Sea.

  Captain Liberty Lee led Major Jinko, Captain Valenti, Duke Hazard and the rest of the GRRR operatives down the rear ramp of a US Navy MH-53E Sea Dragon helicopter and onto the broad flight deck of the 40,000-tonne USS Wasp as it steamed across the Caribbean.

  A US Navy lieutenant commander was waiting for them on the deck. ‘Welcome aboard, Major, Captain,’ he yelled above the engine noise. ‘The captain’s compliments. Follow me, please.’

  With the black-clad GRRR men lugging their assault equipment, they were all led to the Wasp’s island, a massive piece of superstructure jutting from the ship’s starboard side, which contained the bridge, air command centre and operations centre. While Hazard and his men were escorted below to temporary quarters and a meal in the mess, Liberty, Jinko and Valenti were taken to meet the ship’s commander. American sailors they passed eyed the trio with curiosity – the attractive female captain in her Republic of Korea Army uniform, the tall, bony major in his Australian Army uniform, and Valenti in his crisp cruise ship captain’s uniform. Jinko had managed special ops from aboard amphibious landing ships similar to the Wasp in the past, most recently on the Royal Australian Navy’s HMAS Canberra in East African waters, although the Wasp was a little larger, if considerably older, than the Canberra.

  Captain Ralph Waddell, commander of the Wasp, was waiting for the pair in the operations room. Here, lit by dull red background lighting, navy operators sat at banks of screens flickering with images and information. After introductions, Waddell, who was not as old as his white hair suggested, pointed to a radar screen. ‘There’s your target,’ he said. ‘The Cleopatra. We’re still eighty nautical miles from her. She’s now at a dead stop.’

  ‘The Cleopatra has stopped?’ Liberty responded with surprise.

  Waddell nodded. ‘Just outside Cuba’s twelve-mile territorial limit, but she’s still in international waters.’

  They could see a solid blip on the green screen, surrounded by a number of smaller blips representing various other ships in the Western Caribbean.

  ‘And what you can’t see,’ Waddell went on, ‘is the USS Jimmy Carter, a Seawolf-class nuclear-powered fast attack submarine, which is fifty nautical miles to the west of the Cleopatra. She’s currently underwater, proceeding towards the cruise ship.’

  ‘You are not planning for the submarine to torpedo the Cleopatra, are you?’ asked a horrified Captain Valenti.

  ‘No, Captain, of course not,’ Waddell said. ‘The Jimmy Carter is equipped with a multi-mission platform, or MMP, which permits her to launch submersibles from underwater for special operations. You folks were lucky that the Carter was in the Western Caribbean on her way south for exercises with the Columbian Navy and could be diverted to assist with this mission.’

  ‘So, if we were to get our GRRR team aboard the Jimmy Carter,’ Jinko mused, ‘the sub could get them to the Cleopatra, underwater, without being spotted?’

  ‘Sure. The Carter could launch them in its submersible, six men at a time.’

  ‘That would require two trips,’ Jinko said. ‘We have ten men to insert.’

  ‘Have your men operated from submersibles before?’ Waddell asked.

  ‘Of course, Captain,’ Liberty said. ‘Most recently in Afghanistan.’

  Waddell smiled. ‘Afghanistan? Last time I looked, that country was landlocked. No oceans there.’

  ‘It was an operation in a lake,’ Jinko explained.

  Waddell raised his eyebrows. ‘Interesting. So, before this mission goes down, you want to tell me which one of your people is the operational commander?’

  ‘That would be Major Jinko,’ Liberty replied. ‘I am here as a UN liaison, and Captain Valenti is our technical adviser from the Kaiser Line.’

  ‘Understood. Over here we have an operational desk for you folks. Make yourselves at home and just tell my people what you need. Good luck.’ With that, Waddell departed.

  Jinko took a seat at the operational desk, which was simply a bench fronting more screens. As Liberty and Valenti stood behind him, watching, he pulled on a set of headphones and plugged in. Before long, the operations-room crew had patched through radar images to his screens, and an image from the EITS circling high above the Cleopatra. The well-lit cruise ship was aglow in the night, as seen from 20,000 feet. The night was practically cloudless, promising unobstructed vision from the EITS.

  The communications department gave Jinko a piece of information through his earpiece. Turning to Liberty and Valenti, he relayed the message: ‘The US Air Force reports that Stingray and EDD have hit the silk.’

  Liberty Lee turned towards Valenti. ‘Sergeant Grover and the war dog Caesar have commenced their parachute drop,’ she explained. ‘All is going to plan.’

  In his darkened cabin, sitting on his bed, Ben watched Josh’s chest rise and fall as he slept. The excitement and tension of the day had exhausted Josh, and he’d dropped off despite protests that he wanted to stay awake to see what happened. It was after midnight and, all over the ship, passengers and crew had gone to their beds not knowing what the next day would bring.

  Earlier, Ben had called Nan and Maddie in the cabin next door and told them to go to bed as normal, without letting them know that he had stolen a mobile phone, was in touch with GRRR and rescue was on the way. That was a secret that only he and Josh would share for now. Ben had also called Liberty Lee and had learned that his best mates Charlie and Caesar w
ere on their way and that the rest of the GRRR team would not be far behind.

  From beyond the cabin window there was a sudden flash of light. Ben pulled back the curtains a fraction and peered out into the night. He could see that the Cleopatra was riding at anchor, and a small boat lying alongside was shining a searchlight along the ship’s hull. He frowned, knowing this wasn’t part of the rescue plan. ‘Who or what is this complication?’ he wondered with concern.

  ‘What is going on?’ Ricardo demanded, still doing up his trousers and casting his eyes around the darkened bridge. He had been urgently summoned by Consuela. Ana-Maria, yawning, hurried on his heels with her AK-47 in hand.

  Apart from Consuela, the only people on the bridge at this hour were Pedro and Volcán, whose eye-patch was flipped up. Captain Gustarv and his senior officers had been locked in a storage room behind the guest relations desk down on Deck 4.

  ‘There is a small boat down there,’ Consuela said, pointing to the port side.

  ‘It cannot be the Yankee Blade,’ Ricardo said, thinking aloud. ‘It is not due here for several hours.’

  ‘They are hailing us in Spanish,’ Pedro said worriedly.

  Scowling, Ricardo walked out onto the port-side flying bridge. The others crowded around him. From there, they looked down at the source of the light – a grey boat, no more than ten metres long, with a small cabin forward. With its motor idling, it had a Cuban flag hanging limply from a flagstaff in the stern.

  ‘Why are you anchored here?’ came a voice in Spanish through a loudhailer. ‘What are your intentions? This is the Cuban Customs Service. I repeat, why are you anchored here? What are your intentions?’

  ‘Cuban Customs Service?’ Ricardo said with surprise, half to himself.

  ‘Tell them to go away!’ Ana-Maria snarled. ‘We are doing nothing wrong.’

  The searchlight beam swung up, sweeping the big ship’s superstructure until it caught all five of them on the flying bridge.

  Ricardo noted a metal box labelled ‘Hailer’ below the bridge rail. Opening this, he found a microphone on a curling cord. Taking out the microphone, he flicked the ‘on’ switch and put it to his lips. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he spoke into the microphone. His voice emitted from a loudspeaker below the bridge. ‘We are experiencing engine problems,’ he said. ‘We are fixing them and expect to be underway again when daylight arrives.’

  ‘You are in Cuban territorial waters,’ the voice returned. ‘You cannot anchor here. You must leave.’

  ‘That is not right,’ Consuela muttered. ‘I checked the radar. We are outside Cuban waters. I am sure of it.’

  ‘Either they are wrong,’ Ricardo said, ‘or they are just being difficult.’

  ‘You must leave at once!’ the customs official insisted.

  And then the quiet of the night was broken by the rattle of an automatic weapon. There were bright flashes down on the deck of the Cuban customs vessel.

  ‘They are shooting!’ Volcán declared. ‘Firing into the air!’

  ‘You are warned!’ came the voice from the customs boat. ‘You must raise your anchor and depart.’

  ‘Are they crazy?’ Ana-Maria said. ‘How can they threaten a ship of this size? It is like David and Goliath.’

  ‘Maybe they want us to pay them a bribe to go away,’ Consuela suggested.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ Ricardo returned. ‘How many of them are there on that boat?’

  ‘Three that I can see,’ Volcán replied, peering down at the craft as it idled at the ship’s side.

  ‘They aren’t going away, Ricardo,’ Consuela observed. ‘You must act. Give them something to get rid of them.’

  ‘Very well, we will give them something,’ he conceded. ‘Volcán, get your big toy. Go down to the Boat Deck and give the Cuban Customs Service our reply to their warning.’

  A grin broke out on Volcán’s face. ‘A pleasure, my capitán,’ he said before heading away.

  Ricardo, Ana-Maria, Consuela and Pedro waited on the flying bridge. After a while, the voice on the loudhailer started up again. ‘Do as we say or your vessel will be fired upon,’ the man ordered. ‘We cannot be held responsible for the consequences! What is your response?’

  ‘Here is our response, amigos!’ Volcán shouted. He was now on the Boat Deck with a loaded RPG launcher on his shoulder. He pulled the trigger. Flame shot out the back and a rocket-propelled grenade blasted out the front. In a ball of orange flame, the grenade detonated on the stern of the customs boat. Volcán let out an exultant cry. ‘Yee-ha!’

  The explosion completely blew off the boat’s stern, shredding the Cuban flag. Within seconds, the vessel began to sink, stern first. Volcán calmly loaded a second RPG and fired again. The second grenade hit the boat’s hull amidships and, once more, there was a loud explosion, although with less flame this time. Again, Volcán yelled with glee. The boat went down quickly, still with its searchlight glowing even as it slid under the water. The three crew members were left struggling and spluttering in the water.

  ‘Now swim to shore!’ Volcán called down to them.

  ‘Help!’ one of the customs men called. ‘Please! I am not a strong swimmer.’

  On the flying bridge, Pedro was appalled. ‘They will drown!’ he cried.

  ‘Good,’ Ana-Maria responded. ‘Serves them right!’

  ‘No, we must help them,’ Pedro argued. ‘They don’t even have lifejackets.’

  ‘We are not taking them aboard,’ Ricardo said firmly. ‘We have enough people to control as it is.’

  ‘Give them one of the ship’s inflatable life rafts,’ Consuela suggested. ‘There are many on a ship of this size. We have nothing to lose.’

  Ricardo thought for a moment. ‘Okay,’ he said, and took up his walkie-talkie. ‘Volcán, do you hear me?’

  ‘Sí, I hear you, Ricky,’ Volcán replied over the crackling radio.

  ‘Drop the customs men one of the life rafts from down there on the Boat Deck. The three amigos can think about their foolishness while floating around the Caribbean Sea for a few days.’

  Towards the stern on the Boat Deck, scores of white canisters lined the Cleopatra’s rail. Each contained a twenty-five-man Viking inflatable raft. Coming to the first canister, Volcán read the simple launch instructions, then pulled a lever. Whoosh! The canister slid over the side. By the time it hit the water, compressed air had created a circular orange rubber raft with a thin plastic roof. Unlike the ship’s lifeboats, the raft had no motor. Occupants were expected to row or to float with wind and current. Seeing the raft, the trio of Cuban customs men swam to it and pulled themselves aboard. Before long, the current had carried the orange raft and its occupants away into the night and out of sight.

  Charlie pulled his ripcord at 1500 feet. Once the black canopy had unfolded above, slowing their fall, he steered Caesar and himself towards the Cleopatra below. A slight breeze behind them pushed the pair in the direction of their target. The ocean liner was well lit up, with lamps glowing on every deck and with its funnel brightly illuminated. Charlie was coming at it from astern and a little to the ship’s starboard side.

  He could make out the two large swimming pools on Deck 10 – the larger main pool amidships with water slides and a spa, all open to the sky, and the smaller enclosed pool towards the stern. The entire Pool Deck was deserted. Sure enough, the smaller pool was roofed over with flat glass panels. Lights in the pool area beneath glowed golden through the thick glass. The ship wasn’t moving, which would make their landing less hazardous. Charlie had spotted a light in the water beside the ship’s hull. As he pondered what it was, Caesar and himself were roughly five hundred feet above the ship, with their height rapidly decreasing. At that point Charlie saw an explosion, followed by a second blast, alongside the ship. Charlie wondered what that was all about. He hadn’t been informed of any other special ops activity involving an early assault on the Cleopatra.

  He didn’t have time to worry about that for the moment. Dropp
ing ever closer to the ship, he had to focus on a safe landing on the glass roof of the stern pool. Sliding his goggles up and away for better all-round vision, he steered the parachute to avoid colliding with the funnel. As he and Caesar came down on the right, Charlie dragged on his left shrouds. The parachute dipped to the left and turned the pair in towards the shining glass roof. Seconds later, Charlie’s feet were touching glass. He tottered forward several paces before punching the ‘quick release’ button. The chute fell away from him, slid over the pool roof and fell over the far side. Dropping to his knees on the rooftop so that Caesar’s paws were on the glass, Charlie slipped the doggles from Caesar’s head, clipped on his metal leash, then unfastened the dog’s jumping harness. Caesar was free. He immediately turned and licked Charlie on the cheek, thanking him.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ Charlie whispered. He led Caesar to the edge of the glass roof, which was separated by a handrail from a broad open-air exercise track running around the outside of Deck 11. Charlie slipped over the rail, then clicked his fingers. Caesar promptly vaulted the handrail with ease. Into an on-deck garbage container went Charlie’s helmet and goggles, followed by Caesar’s doggles. Charlie then paused to remove a Hi Power and a silencer from the pouches on his waist. After screwing the silencer onto the end of the pistol’s barrel, Charlie set off with the Hi Power in his right hand and Caesar’s leash in the other. Tail wagging, Caesar padded along at his side.

  Down a metal stairway from the walking track they went, to the main pool on Deck 10. Passing the pool, the pair headed forward, with Charlie taking care not to make a sound with his footsteps. Caesar, meanwhile, was naturally light of foot. Double glass doors opened automatically as they approached, admitting them to the interior of the ship. Here, there were broad carpeted stairs. Man and dog warily proceeded, passing deck after deck. They made it all the way down to Deck 1 without encountering anyone. On the wall in front of them there was a sign pointing towards the infirmary. This, Charlie knew, referred to the ship’s medical facility – its sick bay.