Battlecraft (2006) s-3

by Jack Terral

  The sea was calm and the maneuvering to bring the vessels close enough for the transfer of goods went smoothly and quickly. Batanza went out on the signal bridge with a bullhorn, waving to Muharno.

  "Ahoy, the Jakarta!" the commander said, speaking through the device. "How are you this afternoon, Captain?"

  Muharno, using his own bullhorn, waved back. "It is a beautiful day, is it not, Commander?"

  "Indeed! What have you brought us?"

  "An excellent shipment!" Muharno answered. "Stinger antiaircraft missile launchers. Sixty to be exact, along with one hundred missiles. That is two tons worth of cargo. Can your ship handle that much?"

  "Easily! What we can't get in the hold, we can stack on the deck," Batanza assured him. "We have taken much larger loads in the past."

  "I should have remembered," Muharno replied with a laugh. "This is not the first time cargo has been lifted from the Jakarta to your boat."

  By then the cargo nets bearing crates of Stingers were being hoisted up from the hold of the civilian vessel. They were swung over the portion of the deck just aft of the patrol boat's bridge, and then gently lowered to the waiting Philippine sailors. These men quickly picked up the weapons to pass them to other hands formed up in a line that led down to the hold of the patrol vessel.

  In less than a half hour the entire shipment was aboard Batanza's boat. Batanza waved the all-clear signal to Muharno that everything was aboard.

  "See you next trip, my friend!" he said through the bullhorn.

  "I shall look forward to it!" Muharno replied.

  Connecting lines were cast off and the two craft carefully worked their way apart, before turning onto the proper courses that led to their next destinations.

  .

  POLICE HEADQUARTERS

  BALBANDIN, PAKISTAN

  27 SEPTEMBER

  1045 HOURS LOCAL

  MIKE Assad had lost track of how much time had passed since he was thrown into the solitary confinement cell. It was hard to tell if it was day or night since the only light came from a wall lamp in the corridor that shone through the small viewing port in the door. This provided a weak illumination, but it eventually improved somewhat as Mike's eyes got used to the dimness. There was nothing but a small straw mat on the floor, and his toilet consisted of a rusty bucket that leaked. But at least he had been provided with water and a glutinous meal of mutton and rice.

  It was obvious the fact that he was an American had put him in a special category. It seemed his companions from al-Mimkhalif were going to suffer more deprivation and mistreatment. A lot of information would be given up on the terrorist organization before their ordeal ended. To make it worse for them, their future in the Pakistani penal system seemed to offer nothing but the bleakest of prospects.

  Mike lay on the mat with his eyes closed, doing deep-breathing exercises to dispel the tension and nervousness that threatened his self-control. He missed Brannigan's Brigands and the comradeship he shared with them. He wasn't used to being off on his own. The company of those great guys gave him confidence and courage in the most dangerous of situations. He wondered what his best buddy, Dave Leibowitz, was doing. Mike and Dave were called the "Odd Couple" by the other SEALs. They were the closest of friends even though one was Jewish-American and the other Arab-American. Both were Americans first, and fiercely loyal to the U. S. A. The fact they served together in the U. S. Navy's most elite unit reinforced that friendship and patriotism.

  Mike turned his thoughts from Brannigan's Brigands to his life before enlistment. He remembered prom nights, winning the district wrestling championship in his junior year of high school, kissing Kathy Mubarak the first time, and eating his mother's specialty, kabab samak, a grilled-fish dish with tomatoes and green peppers.

  "American!"

  The sound of the jailer's voice out in the corridor jolted Mike out of his reverie. He sat up just as the door opened. The jailer motioned him to step out of the cell. Mike complied and was taken by the arm and walked down to the egress. From there they crossed a small exercise yard and went into another building. The enforced stroll ended up in an office, where he was unceremoniously pushed down onto a chair. Then he was left alone. Since he hadn't been tied up, Mike hoped it meant no more beatings.

  Almost a half hour passed before the door to the room opened again. This time a Pakistani police lieutenant and two men in sports shirts and slacks came in. The casually dressed pair walked to the front of the prisoner and stared down at him. They were a real Mutt-and-Jeff pair. The white guy was a short, blond man with a stocky build, while the black guy was a tall, willowy African-American who looked like he should have been in the NBA.

  'This isn't a Johnny Jihad," the white guy said. "He's a fucking towel-head."

  "Yeah," the black guy agreed. He glared at Mike. "We figured you were one of those poor little Anglo rich boys who turned to Islam because you've lost your fucking faith in the local Episcopal church in Beverly Hills where you were born. Or maybe you're from the Hamptons in Long Island and grew disillusioned by your wealthy father's greed in making money. But you don't fit into those molds at all. So where are you from, ass-face?"

  "Buffalo," Mike replied.

  "Were you born in the States?" the white guy asked.

  "Yeah," Mike replied. "Who are you guys?"

  "Shut your fucking mouth, ass-face," the black guy said. "Where's your American passport?"

  "My name ain't ass-face," Mike said defiantly.

  The white guy leaned down, glaring straight into Mike's eyes. "Listen up good, ass-face. From this point on, you're in the gentle custody of the United States fucking Government. Got it? You're either going home for a trial where your rights will be observed, or you'll be on your fucking way to Guantanamo Bay in Cuba where your fucking rights won't be observed. It all depends on how cooperative and courteous you are."

  "I'm an American citizen," Mike said, feigning fear and anger since he didn't feel it proper to reveal his true identification at that point in the proceedings. "You can't send me down to Cuba."

  "Oh, ass-face, you're such a bad boy," the black guy said in pseudo-disappointment. "I guess we'll just hold you incognito since there'll be no records of your arrest. That will give us plenty of time to sweat what we want out of you."

  "Yeah," the white guy said. "You're up that ol' shit creek without a paddle at this point. I personally hope you keep shooting off your mouth about your Constitutional rights. We've got some boys who'll give you a great big fucking attitude adjustment."

  The Pakistani policeman laid a document down on the desk. "Please to sign here, gentlemen. Then you may take this scum and do what you wish with him."

  The paperwork was quickly taken care of; then Mike was stood up and cuffed with his hands behind his back. They walked him from the building out to the street, where a van waited. The side door was opened and the prisoner was pushed inside. The rear area was bare, and Mike had to sit on the floor with his back up against the side of the vehicle. Within moments his escorts were in the front seat, ready to go.

  They remained silent as they drove out of town, and turned onto a macadam highway, heading east. After a few minutes, the black guy, who sat in the passenger seat, turned to look at Mike. "How're you doing, ass-face?"

  Mike declined to answer.

  The black guy swung his hand up, holding a Beretta 9-millimeter automatic. He pointed it straight at Mike's head, saying, "Give me just one fucking excuse and I'll put a bullet straight into that thick traitorous skull of yours."

  The white guy chuckled. "Let's stop somewhere along the way and shoot the son of a bitch. We can say he tried to escape."

  Mike turned his face away to stare at the back door. This situation was something he'd never expected when he volunteered for the SEALs.

  .

  KUPANE, TIMOR ISLAND

  29 SEPTEMBER

  0900 HOURS LOCAL

  ABDURUDDIN Suhanto sat in his office, smoking a cigar and taking nips from a poc
ket flask containing Johnny Walker Black scotch whiskey. His swollen feet were up on a padded stool as he gazed unseeing out of the window at the usual waterfront activity. One of his tubs, the SS Surabaya, sat in rusty squalor at a dock where its cargo of Taiwanese sewing machines was being offloaded. They were destined for a sweatshop in Bandung where a line of clothing bearing the name of a famous English actress was manufactured. It seemed that even Suhanto's occasional legitimate shipping activities were destined to be tainted by some sort of controversy.

  The old clerk Bachaman rapped lightly on the door in his usual timid style.

  "Come in!" Suhanto said loudly, irritated by the interruption.

  The skinny little old man stepped into the office, his eyes opened wide in worry. "Mr. Sabah has arrived as per your invitation, sir."

  "Send the gentleman in," Suhanto said. He quickly assumed what he considered a sad, regretful expression on his round face and waited for his guest to appear.

  When Sabah entered, he walked directly to the front of the desk and glared down at the shipping company owner. "What is the bad news you have for me?"

  "Oh, Mr. Sabah," Suhanto said, looking as if he were about to break out in cries of incalculable lamentation. "Thasart k'tir--I regret it very much! But your last shipment was stolen from us at sea."

  "Do not tell me that!"

  "Alas! I have no choice!" Suhanto wailed.

  "How did such a thing happen? And who did it?"

  "It was a warship," Suhanto said. "And my captain, Muharno, said it flew no flag. They simply came alongside and threatened to sink the Jakarta if they did not obey the order to heave to."

  Sabah sat down in a nearby chair, looking suspiciously at Suhanto. "What language was this warship crew speaking?"

  "Unfortunately, it was one Captain Muharno did not know," Suhanto said. 'To my own thinking it might have been a Singaporean naval vessel. They speak many languages in that country. Malay, Chinese--"

  "I know what languages are spoken in Singapore!" Sabah interrupted in a furious tone of voice. 'There must be some way of identifying the thief!"

  "Oh, I was very stern with Captain Muharno," Suhanto said. "I spoke to him in great anger, demanding that he remember more." He shrugged. "But I am afraid all he knows is that it was a warship "

  "What sorts of uniforms and insignia was the crew wearing?" Sabah demanded to know.

  'That is what is so strange," Suhanto said. 'They were dressed in civilian clothing as is typical of merchant seamen. But their vessel was armed and well equipped as are those of navies."

  Sabah's teeth were bared like those of a growling dog. "How did they know the Jakarta carried an arms shipment?"

  Suhanto shrugged. "They probably did not know. They were after whatever cargo was aboard."

  Sabah got angrily to his feet. "We shall look into this. Our organization has contacts in many places." He walked toward the door, jerking it open. Before leaving, he turned back toward Suhanto. "The loss of those weapons has been a hard blow to our antiaircraft capabilities. This is not the end of this incident!" Then he made an abrupt exit.

  Suhanto smiled, speaking to himself under his breath. "That is right, you arrogant Arab bastard! This is just the beginning!" He reached for his flask and took another slug of the excellent scotch.

  .

  UNITED STATES EMBASSY

  ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN

  1030 HOURS LOCAL

  THE Marine guards on gate duty recognized the van as it turned off Embassy Road and onto Second Road. They waited alertly for the subtle all-clear signal to be flashed to them by the white driver, Mulvaney. He held the steering wheel with one hand at the top center. If there was a problem, both hands would have been in that position. If the situation was serious enough, such as being held hostage by a potential assassin or suicide bomber, the driver's hands would have been at ten o'clock and two o'clock. That would be the gesture to signal the sentries to stop the vehicle at all costs. Either way, the black guy, Wheatfall, in the passenger seat would have his arms crossed over his chest to indicate he concurred with the signal.

  The vehicle slowed as the gate was opened, then sped through the opening and across the parking lot to continue around the building to an area that was blocked from view by a thick grove of chestnut trees. The van came to a stop at the same time that another pair of Marines stepped from the embassy building to meet them. Mulvaney and Wheatfall got out of the vehicle and walked around to open the sliding door on the side. They reached in and grabbed Mike Assad, dragging him bodily from the interior.

  Mulvaney pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs, removing them from Mike's wrists. He grabbed the prisoner by the collar and shoved him toward the Marines, who each took an arm. Mulvaney laughed. "Why don't you guys turn him loose? I've been wanting to kill the turncoat son of a bitch ever since we picked him up over in Delbandin."

  One of the Marines grinned. "We'd love to, Mr. Mulvaney. But we've got orders to lock him up in the detention cell all safe and secure."

  Mulvaney and Wheatfall waited until Mike was taken into the building before they entered through another door. The pair went down a corridor and upstairs to the office of their boss, the embassy's chief intelligence officer, Rod Barker. They rapped on the door and stepped inside.

  Barker was a slim, clean-shaven man with longish hair. He looked up from the SITREP he was reading. "I take it you've brought in the prisoner as arranged."

  "Right," Wheatfall replied. "And he's an American all right."

  "The son of a bitch!" Mulvaney exclaimed. "God! I wanted to--"

  "Never mind," Barker said. "What kind of shape was he in?"

  "He'd gotten a few knocks from the Pakos " Wheatfall said. "But he's in fine fettle "

  "Yeah " Mulvaney said. "When do we start interrogating him? This guy should be able to cough up some great intel."

  "I'm going to start with a friendly introduction" Barker said. "Y'know what I mean. Where's he from. What's his family like. All that kind of shit. I'll make friends with him."

  "If you want to play good cop and bad cop, I'm volunteering for bad cop," Mulvaney said.

  Wheatfall laughed. "And I'm volunteering for worst cop!"

  "We'll get serious with him tomorrow," Barker said. "But, like I said, I'm going to be nice at first. I'll even let him have some lunch. I want to start with the impression that I'm more or less welcoming him home. Y'know what I mean? The old interrogation scam that the prodigal son returneth to understanding and forgiveness."

  "Don't be too nice," Mulvaney said. "We can violate the hell out of his Constitutional rights over here. Once the bastard's back in the States, he'll have an attorney."

  "Don't worry," Barker said. "I'm not going to be his butt boy."

  .

  1315 HOURS LOCAL

  THE Marine guards walked Mike Assad ahead of them as they escorted him to Rod Barker's office. The prisoner was handcuffed and both men carried regulation billy clubs that any veteran of a Navy brig would have recognized. The pair of highly disciplined Marines displayed no animosity toward the prisoner other than a properly stern attitude. When they arrived at the door, one took Mike's arm while the other knocked.

  "Come in."

  Mike was taken inside to a spot in front of Barker's desk. "Here's the pris'ner as ordered, Mr. Barker," the senior Marine reported.

  "Fine," Barker said. "You can leave us. We're just going to have a little chat." He smiled at Mike, then nodded to the Marines. "Let's take off those handcuffs. What do you say?"

  "Yes, sir!" the Marine responded. He quickly removed the restraints. "Anything else, Mr. Barker?"

  "I don't think so, guys," Barker said. He waited for the guards to exit the office before speaking to his unusual guest. "Sit down."

  Instead of sitting, Mike smiled. "I'll stand, if you don't mind."

  "Certainly. Suit yourself."

  "What do you do around here?" Mike asked.

  "I'm the embassy intelligence officer."


  "All right then," Mike said. "I'm an operative in Operation Deep Thrust."

  "Really?" Barker asked. "What's the weather like?"

  "It's a cold day in Hell."

  The words of the recognition phrase were so unexpected that Barker stood up. He started to speak, then went to his safe. It took him a few moments to open the security container, and he withdrew a red folder. He pulled a sheet of paper from it, giving the document a careful read for several moments. When he finished, he turned his attention back to Mike. "You're inserted into al-Mimkhalif?"

  "Yep," Mike said, now feeling he was very close to getting back to the Brigands. "The name is Mikael Assad." Then he added, "United States Navy SEALs."

  "Good God! This is a hell of a situation, isn't it?"

  "Hey, no shit," Mike commented.

  .

  ACV BATTLECRAFT

  USS DAN DALY DOCKING WELL

  1500 HOURS LOCAL

  LIEUTENANT Jim Cruiser sat in the skipper's chair watching Lieutenant Veronica Rivers run diagnostic tests on the Battlecraft's communication, navigation, and weapons systems. She had been at it for over two hours, using various instruments that read impulses and other evidential data on the condition of each piece of equipment. Although Lieutenant Bill Brannigan had assigned his 2IC additional duties of maintaining the ACV's technical logs, he didn't really have to be there since the results would be printed out. But he was antsy on this day off from patrolling and didn't feel like sitting around in his cabin.

  "That1 s it," Veronica said, stepping back from the instruments. "It all checks out A-okay as the astronauts say."

  "All right," Jim said.

  "I'll tell you one thing for sure," Veronica said cheerfully. "Those DuBose brothers put together one bad-ass machine when they built this baby."

  "I suppose so," Jim replied.

  "Do you want to read the printouts?"

  "Hell, no!" Jim snapped. "Put the info in the maintenance log and I'll check it out when I sign off on all this shit."