“Hey, CJ. I got permission to cut short my coastal recon duty. I’ve got some news, too. The CG Cutter, Mohawk, spotted the Cigarette boat cruising southward at high speed, with a heading straight for Havana. Unfortunately, they were too far away to intercept before the fast boat reached Cuban waters.”
“Thanks for jumping on this, Hawk. I'm glad you are available. Looks like we are headed for a return to Cuba. Let’s prep the gear and load up Triple H. No telling what the Mullah will do, especially since Spirit and I surprised them by showing up unannounced. He must have lookouts that spotted us. I don’t expect him to keep our meeting date on Key West. So, we better take offensive action.”
“That’s the SEAL way, Bro. But first, let’s get you and Spirit some water. She looks thirsty.”
Spirit stood on her hind legs and gave Hawk a big hug and kisses, “Woof!”
“I guess she is thirsty. The double-time, ten-mile run did it.”
Hawk nodded, “But she doesn’t look worse for wear. She’s seven now, right? And in the best shape I’ve seen her. Even better than her last op in Afghanistan.”
I wrapped my arms around the big Malinois and looked Hawk in the eye, “I really appreciate what you did to get Spirit here after she retired. I don’t think I could have dealt with my PTSD without her. And of course, you and Katie.”
“No worries, CJ. You would have done the same for me. Now we got to get Katie back from that psycho. When we catch him this time, there won’t be a vacation at Gitmo.”
“Roger that, Hawk.”
Spirit added her two cents with a low growl.
“Spirit wants a chunk of the Mullah, I’m sure. If we opt for underwater infiltration, she’ll use the full-face mask on a Draeger rebreather unit. It’s been years since she trained with that gear.”
“Spirit is not your ordinary warrior dog, Hawk. We’ll do a dry run once we set up the sea sled.”
“I checked the forecast. We may have to deal with a hurricane, or at least the swells traveling into the Straits. Hurricane Dorian is tracking toward the Bahamas. If it continues East, we’ll have a problem.”
“It should turn northward. Katie’s life is at stake. We have no choice. Gotta move out without delay.”
Charley’s cellphone buzzed. “This might be Kareef.” He checked caller i.d. It was Vicky. “Hey, Vick, were you able to get NSA SAT eyes on the Cigarette?”
“Charley, we’re in luck. There’s a lot of spook interest in Havana lately, so I convinced the techs to filter for a fast-moving Cigarette boat. They spotted one entering Havana harbor. The time was consistent with your call.”
“Did they locate where?”
“Better than that. They got some high-resolution images of the passengers disembarking. I saw the pictures. Looks like four people. One is smaller, slender, likely a woman. Must be Katie.”
“Send me the coordinates.”
HAVANA
THE CIGARETTE FAST BOAT raced into the harbor before slowing to idle speed, dropping its wake, allowing a smooth entry through a narrow opening on the south end of Havana Harbor, guarded by Cuban military troops. Mullah Kareef had radioed ahead to his Cuban friends, so passing into the secure area was uninterrupted. Kareef shared his plan with Colonel Enrique Diaz, a veteran of jungle warfare in Commando Tropias Especiales (CTE) with orders to disrupt American activities in the area. The Colonel was particularly interested in Kareef’s history as a jihadist and his time incarcerated at Guantanamo. He wanted to launch an attack on Gitmo to oust U.S. presence in Cuba completely. The Mullah has been distracted by his quest for revenge against Charley and had primary orders from ISIS to detonate the bombs in South Florida. The Colonel is not happy about either task that made his attack on Gitmo less likely.
Colonel Diaz was waiting at the dock when Kareef stepped off his boat. “Abdul, what brings you back to Cuba so soon? You have news about the Americans?”
“Not yet, Enrique. I have a small problem to address before I can focus on your request.”
The Colonel puffed on his Cohiba Robusto and spit on the dock. “You are trying my patience, Abdul. We must move quickly. My superiors are asking for results.”
Two of Kareef’s men emerged from below deck with Katie. The Colonel’s eyes bulged, “Who is this woman?”
Kareef hemmed and hawed, “She is the solution to my small problem. Bait for a trap I will set for a Navy SEAL and his dog. An old debt I must repay for his meddling in my jihad activities.”
“What? A Navy SEAL? His dog? Who is the woman?”
“The sister of the SEAL.”
The Colonel fumed, “I am not happy, Abdul. The Americans will retaliate. What about my plan to attack Guantanamo? You owe me information that will help us time the attack.”
“My apologies, Colonel. I promise you will be rewarded for your patience.”
The Colonel rolled his eyes, “Then do what you must quickly, but not on Cuban soil. The radioactive material you want is not ready yet. I want you to leave tomorrow and do not return until you have what I need for the attack.” He flicked his cigar in the water, spun on his heels and marched off the dock.
The Mullah and his men prodded Katie along as they were escorted to a nearby building. Accommodations were sparse and there was no privacy for Katie. The toilet was a public outhouse on the side of the building.
Katie looked at the arrangements and snarled, “You expect me to stay here? Are you crazy? I’m sorry, but this will not do at all.”
Kareef unsheathed his knife, “Be still, woman. You will do as I say, or would you prefer losing your head?”
She shut her mouth, took a deep breath and thought, Charley, where are you. This guy is certifiable.
The Mullah spoke to his men in Pashto. They immediately left the building. Katie could see them headed for the dock. “Are we leaving already? I don’t think your Cuban Colonel is very happy with you.”
“That is not your concern. Be still and you might live another day.”
“I need to use the bathroom.”
Kareef groaned, opened the door and pointed to the outhouse. Don’t even think about running. There are Cuban guards surrounding us.”
Katie flipped him the bird and walked toward the outhouse. Kareef walked to the dock to see how his men were doing as they prepared to leave in the morning.
The bathroom was just a hole in the ground. The smell was stifling so Katie hurried. When she opened the door, a Cuban guard was staring at her with a big grin. He had been watching her through a knot hole and seemed quite excited based on the bulge in his camos. As Katie walked past, he grabbed her and pushed her into the outhouse.
“Get your filthy hands off me, you lout.” She screamed in his ear and raked his cheek with her sharp nails, stunning him. He recovered quickly, tearing at her blouse. Katie screamed, “Help!”
The Mullah appeared behind them in the doorway, brandishing his knife. He grabbed the soldier’s hair, yanked back his head and sliced his throat. Blood gushed onto Katie’s back. She shoved the dying man off her and ran toward the dock. Kareef looked around to see if other guards had seen what he did. A bullet whizzed over his head. No need to look further.
Kareef yelled to his men on board the fast boat, “Quickly, start the engines. We are leaving…now.” He caught up to Katie and pushed her on board, untied the dock lines and jumped on. His pilot man slammed the throttles forward. The Mullah yelled into his ear, “Did you fill the auxiliary fuel tanks, too?” The man nodded. “Good. Head for Nicholls Town, Bahamas. Our contact there will help us set a new trap for Charley Manner.”
The Cigarette’s quad 350hp Mercury Verado engines wailed, propelling the boat to a cruising speed of 75mph. Gulping a gallon of high octane fuel every mile at that speed meant the 500-gallon supply, including auxiliary tanks, would allow them to reach the Bahamas without a refueling stop. The 300-mile trip will take less than five hours, barring any head winds and easterly chop.
Katie strapped herself into a bolstered seat, t
he blood on the back of her blouse sticking to the Naugahyde. She thought about the events of the past few days and wondered if she would survive. I’m not sure if I should thank Kareef for pulling that soldier off me. I know he is keeping me alive only to lure Charley into a trap. Come on, Charley. I know you can find me, and I know you will not be fooled by this madman.
The swells grew higher as they traveled in the Florida Strait, past Cay Sal Bank into a head wind. Katie recognized the small cays that formed a ring around Cay Sal Bank, including the old lighthouse where she was held hostage by another madman, Cuban Drug Lord, Jorge Campinera. That event did not end well for the drug lord. Hopefully, the same will be true for Kareef.
A medium chop was forming as the easterly wind picked up and the water depth shallowed when they reached the Bahama Banks. The ride would get rougher, especially if they continued at this high speed. Two hours since departing Havana Harbor, the pilot motioned to Kareef in the co-pilot seat, shouting above the whine of the engines. “Mullah Kareef, I am concerned about our fuel level. With this rising chop and head wind we are using it up too fast.”
Kareef checked the gauges and GPS coordinates and said, “Turn off two engines. It may take longer but it will insure we have enough fuel.”
The pilot obeyed. Katie relaxed a little as the ride became more bearable. But not for long. Even at a slower speed the wind, waves and rolling swells increased to a level that made the balance of the trip like riding a roller coaster. Two more hours up and down the swells, spray drenched everyone on deck, meaning everyone because going below to the dry cabin also meant suffering the erratic motion and seasickness. Finally, they sighted Williams Island on the western edge of The Bahamas. Only 50 miles to Nicholls Town on the northern tip of Andros. Protection from the lee side of Andros, the largest island in the Bahamas, made the balance of the trip a little more bearable.
One hour later they cruised into Morgan’s Bluff Harbor, a tiny refuge, barely passable with the surging storm, but still a welcome sight for all on board. The pilot radioed the Commercial Harbor Dock tender for a slip. There was only one open at the end of the three-hundred-foot dock. There were several boaters tending to their yachts, lashing down with double lines.
Kareef shouted at his men, “Quickly, secure the lines while I call my contact, Omar Ahmad, in Nicholls Town. My cell phone is not working so I will use the dock master’s phone.
“The pilot asked, “Where is he staying?”
“On Reeve Street. It’s about a five-mile drive. We will need Omar to pick us up.”
Kareef entered the dockmaster’s building. It was more like a hut in this tiny harbor, best known as the last outpost of Andros, due to its extreme location on the very northeastern end of the island.
The dock master looked up, “Are you crazy? Out in this weather. Don’t you know there is a hurricane bearing down on us?”
“I had no idea, but did not have a choice either, sir. We need shelter for the night. I thank you for allowing us to use your last slip.”
“It may be more than one night. Hurricane Dorian is supposed to make landfall at Elbow Cay tomorrow. We’re lucky that is a hundred miles northeast of here, but the backside winds will be coming in from the northwest so lash your boat down well, the surge will come straight into the harbor.”
“May I use your phone?”
“Sure, while we still have service. The storm is expected to knock out lines.”
Kareef dialed Omar’s number. He answered on the first ring. “Omar, it is Mullah Kareef. We are at Morgan’s Bluff Marina.”
“I was expecting your call, Mullah Kareef. Inshallah, praise to him that you landed safely. The hurricane is expected to be a Category 5, the most powerful to strike the Bahamas ever.”
“Allah is the most powerful and he will protect us. The infidels will suffer loss, but we will prevail.”
“Inshallah, Mullah Kareef. I will pick you up in ten minutes.”
~~~
OMAR ARRIVED in a Chevy Suburban. Kareef and his crew dragged Katie from the Cigarette and shoved her into the back seat. The rain sheeting down covered their exit from the marina. No questions from anyone. All quiet, preparing for the pounding hurricane on the eastern horizon.
“Welcome to Andros, Mullah Kareef. I’m sorry the weather isn’t more pleasant.”
“That is not my concern. I must finish my personal jihad against the Navy SEAL that has caused me so much grief the past few years. Any word about the Belgian-Malinois dogs I ordered?”
“There is a freighter crossing the Atlantic with a container carrying the dogs and his handler.” They are expected to arrive in Miami today, but this hurricane is a problem, Mullah Kareef.”
“Yes, we must be patient. Allah will guide us. Bring us to your home. We are very tired and soaked from the trip.”
❖
HURRICANE DORIAN DETOUR
HAWK’S FOUNTAIN 38, TRIPLE H, named after his initials, Harold Hawk Handy, was fully prepped and ready for the non-stop run to Havana. They chose Hawk’s boat because it was an open bow version, equipped with dinghy winch to launch the sea sled the boys will use to infiltrate Havana harbor. Planned departure is around 1900 hours. They want to arrive after dark. They are unaware that Kareef has already left. It is getting overcast as Hurricane Dorian approaches from the east, so clear satellite images of Cuba are difficult to obtain. No update on Kareef’s whereabouts, but DEA agent, Vicky Borne, has joined the boys to pilot Triple H, while Hawk, Charley and Spirit use the sea sled to make the last mile into Havana Harbor underwater.
Spirit jumped into the Fountain 38, sniffed the sea sled on the bow dinghy bed. She woofed excitedly, wagging her tail. A mission. Let’s roll. We’re going after Katie and bite a Mullah.
“I don’t like the forecast, CJ. Looks like Hurricane Dorian might enter the Straits after it bowls over The Bahamas. Could be here in the next few days.”
“I know, Hawk, but we have to find Katie before the Mullah loses patience and beheads her. If I know Katie, she is showing no respect for the madman. Although it is more likely he will wait till he lures me into a trap. Haven’t heard from him since he hightailed it to Cuba. He may not know we have tracked him. Our surprise visit will give us the upper hand.”
“I agree, Bro. Let’s roll.”
Vicky sat with Spirit on the rear seat while Charley sat in the copilot seat. Hawk cruised out of Boot Key Harbor and pushed forward the throttles when they passed the Sombrero Key channel marker light.
“We should arrive about 2150; even with the rising chop. Not as bad as it must be east of here. I heard the Bahamas are going to get the full impact when Dorian makes landfall in the next few days. With this cloud cover, it will be very dark when we surface in Havana Harbor.”
Vicky chimed in, “You guys better be ready for a rough exit. And be sure Spirit’s face mask is secure. I don’t want to lose her. You know this whole mission is a little hasty. I understand your concern, but shit happens when you least expect it.”
“I agree, Vick, but you just be sure to keep the boat circling at our rendezvous point. It’s a long swim back to Marathon.”
“Come on, Charley. It’s not the first time I’ve done this for you. Remember the night-time trip to the oil platform over the Deep Strait. Spirit and I took care of business when those German mercenaries tried to board while you and Hawk were on the platform.”
Yeah, you did good, but this time Spirit will be with me and Hawk.”
“You worry too much, Charley. Thanks for your concern. I love you, too.”
~~~
THE CONTAINERSHIP, Rena, rolled in the heavy seas. The Captain was well-aware of the mammoth hurricane bearing down on them. He hoped to make port in Miami, only ten nautical miles west of their position, before Hurricane Dorian made landfall, but it didn’t look good. Wave height had reached forty feet and the eye was still a hundred miles away. The small handy-size ship did not fare well in seas of hurricane magnitude. The 600-foot length and 70-foot b
eam was about half the size of the larger modern containerships. Seas were northeasterly, sometimes breaking over the port side of the rear deck, washing against the container stacks. The awkward rolling of the ship threatened to loosen the last stack.
The chief mate entered the bridge, soaked and out of breath. “Captain, the rear stack has tilted at a dangerous angle. We might lose several containers if this storm does not let up.”
A huge wave breached the quarterdeck, pounding the tilted containers in the last row. Several snapped their straps and tumbled over the side. The darkness swallowed them up. A few split apart and immediately sank.
Anouar Hadad braced himself when he felt the container topple from the top of the stack. His two Belgian-Malinois attack dogs howled in their cages as the storm raged outside. Hadad thought about the crazy plan Mullah Kareef had devised, to sneak the dogs into the United States. A special, watertight container was purchased and outfitted to carry the dogs and their handler for the weeklong journey. Bribes were made to allow the illegal transport of live animals on a container ship. Illegal, that is, if the animals were not sheep, goats or cows headed to market for slaughter. And the Rena was not a livestock carrier.
Food, water and a short dog run in the forty-foot container provided enough to maintain the dog’s health. They were two-year-old pups, a male and a female, that completed a six-month training program with Hadad. Kareef’s specific instructions were to train them to attack military men and even other Belgian-Malinois dogs.
Hadad was talking to himself, half-crazed by the extremely difficult week he had spent locked in the container with the dogs. “He is a maniac, with no concern for the wellbeing of my dogs. I told him the breed needs constant exercise and room to run. His answer was to buy a 40-foot container instead of the 20-foot version.”
Charley Manner series Box Set Page 25