Battlecraft (2006) s-3

by Jack Terral

  "Sure," Veronica said, "if that's what you want." She was surprised by her fellow officer's flash of temper. She gathered the printouts and put them in the maintenance folder. "Is there anything else? If not, I'm going up to the wardroom."

  "Suit yourself," Jim said grumpily.

  He remained seated after she left, staring out the bridge windshield at the activity in the well. They had accomplished nothing during a dozen patrols, but the lack of real achievement in the mission wasn't the biggest thing bugging Jim Cruiser. For the past couple of weeks he had begun feeling a downright boyish awkwardness when he was around Veronica. This was nothing new for the young naval officer. It was always the prelude of his developing an infatuation for a member of the opposite sex. But the last thing he wanted was to find himself in a romantic, sexual relationship with the attractive young woman.

  Jim Cruiser was a normal man with normal needs. He existed in a pattern of one-night stands dominated by the unspoken agreement that the coupling was only a temporary, ships-that-pass-in-the-night thing. He even hired call girls from time to time when the opportunity and his financial condition made it possible. All this left him physically satisfied, but emotionally pent up with normal desires for a meaningful relationship dammed like a river. He knew that a romance between him and Veronica Rivers would be a disaster for both of them. But the impelling drive of wanting someone was a hard desire to smother.

  Jim abruptly stood up and walked outside, leaping from the deck onto the walkway around the docking well. There was a bottle of Smirnoff's Vodka in his cabin, and he could hear it calling to him.

  Chapter 6.

  GREEN EMERALD RESORT AND SPA

  SINGAPORE

  30 SEPTEMBER

  1030 HOURS LOCAL

  HAFEZ Sabah, the agent for al-Mimkhalif, sat in the back of the cab paying no attention to the beautiful view as he rode across the causeway from the city to Sentora Island. The trip continued until the taxi arrived at the lobby entrance of the Green Emerald Resort and Spa. To casual observers, Sabah appeared to be a down-at-the-heels but respectable Middle Eastern businessman as he paid the fare and exited the vehicle. The doorman, a serious Malayan garbed in a gaudy uniform complete with aiguillettes, epaulets, and a high-peaked cap with a bill sporting an oak-leaf design, stepped forward looking like a comic-opera field marshal. He offered a salute, but the respectful gesture was dimmed by a glare of disapproval at the disheveled visitor.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  "I have an appointment with Mr. Harry Turpin," Sabah said. "I don't know his room number."

  "Let me take care of that, sir," the doorman said. "May I have your name, please?"

  "I am Sabah; a business associate of Mr. Turpin."

  The doorman walked to a phone at an outside counter and punched a button that alerted security. "A gentleman by the name of Sabah wishes to visit Mr. Turpin."

  "Wait," a voice responded. A few moments passed, then the man came back on the line. "You may send him over."

  Now the doorman hung up and spoke to Sabah with genuine respect. "Mr. Turpin is in one of our cabanas, sir. I'll arrange transportation for you." He signaled down to a row of canopied golf carts. A driver immediately got into one and drove up. Sabah got onto the front seat next to the driver. The little vehicle whirred as it was driven away from the main building and out to a narrow street.

  They wound around tennis courts, a golf course, driving ranges, and an Olympic-size swimming pool before arriving at a section of Siloso Beach where a long row of luxury cabanas sat along the sand. They came to a stop at the largest, which had a spacious veranda.

  Sabah quickly slid off the seat and out of the cart, going straight to the door and knocking. A Chinese houseboy, obviously expecting the caller, opened the door and invited him to enter. The Arab was led across the living room to an outside patio.

  "Mr. Turpin will be here presently, sir," the houseboy said. "May I get you a drink?"

  "An orange juice," Sabah requested. "Will Mr. Turpin be long?"

  "He should be able to join you within a half hour," the houseboy said as he went to the bar to pour a glass of the requested drink. "He sends his apologies for the delay, but an unexpected phone call of some importance has interrupted his daily schedule."

  "Quite all right," Sabah mumbled in irritation.

  "If you desire anything else of me, please press the buzzer on the bar."

  Sabah took a seat at one of the tables, appreciating the outside panorama of beach and ocean as he sipped the drink and waited for the arrival of his host.

  .

  HARRY Turpin was the type of scoundrel that only London's East End could produce. He was now close to seventy years of age, and had begun a life of petty crime while still in the knee pants of his generation. By the age of thirteen he had a rap sheet at Scotland Yard that rivaled that of many older criminals. He spent more time in juvenile confinement than on the streets, but he learned the craft of the Artful Dodger well, prospering between times in the lockup. When National Service drafted him into the British Army in the 1950s, he was running several profitable rackets and cons, and had developed a craftiness that won the respect of older gangsters.

  As could be expected, his Army career was a total disaster. If ever a young man existed who could not adapt to military discipline, it was Private Harry Turpin. Even several trips around to the back of the barracks where hard-fisted corporals and sergeants treated him to punch-ups, did not improve his attitude. After less than nine months' service, the young hood was demobbed and sent back to Civvie Street with a bad-conduct discharge.

  Unfortunately for him, Turpin's attempts to restart his former activities were seriously thwarted by upstarts who had come on the scene during his absence. They displayed an amazingly fierce dedication to territorialism. As far as they were concerned, Turpin was an outsider trying to move onto their turf, and they stopped him cold. The ex-soldier, however, looked up an old friend--a loan shark and fencer of stolen goods--who hired him as a debt collector. Unfortunately for the business arrangement, Turpin was a fellow who succumbed to temptation like a Cockney drunkard to cheap gin. After several months of making collections from his boss's debtors, temptations stimulated by the exposure to all that cash brought him to ruin. He made a clumsy attempt to abscond with a couple of thousand pounds sterling, and the end result was that a contract was issued on his life. This was a no-win situation and, ironically, Turpin had to turn to the military to escape from the threat. He fled the U. K. to join the French Foreign Legion.

  The Legion did not care about Turpin's past. In that year of 1958, they were in the midst of a guerrilla insurrection in Algeria, and needed bodies to throw into the fray. They signed him up; gave him a new name--John Morris---and sent him out to fight the insurgents. This time Turpin's attitude toward military discipline was radically changed. Ninety percent of the noncommissioned officers in the Legion during the 1950s and 1960s were World War II veterans of the German armed forces. And this included the elite and deadly Waffen SS. It didn't take Turpin long to figure out they would do much more than give him a bloody nose if he misbehaved; those Teutonic bastards would continually send him out on near-suicidal patrols and raids until a burst of submachine gun fire from a rebel ambusher would rid the Legion of the troublemaker. Consequently, the English hoodlum began to tow the line, did his duty, and even earned a promotion to caporal After three years of this enforced good soldiering, the situation turned more to his favor.

  When the politicians in Paris decided to grant independence to Algeria in spite of the French Army crushing the revolution, the victorious officers, soldiers, and Legionnaires felt they had been betrayed. In April 1961 a mutiny broke out that spawned such organizations as the murderous OAS, the French acronym for the Secret Army Organization. The resultant bombings, assassinations, and other violence created a vacuum into which Caporal John Morris--ne Harry Turpin--flourished. He joined the OAS, first as a gunman, then as a procurer of arms from military arsena
ls. Eventually, the OAS was brought to its knees through betrayals and attrition. At first this defeat looked bad for Turpin, but he figured out a way to turn the downfall into a private enterprise to benefit him personally. Wheeling and dealing his leftover weaponry wares to African revolutionaries and despots led to great profits, which eventually evolved into a full-scale, worldwide business that sold all sorts of arms to the highest bidders.

  Now, over four decades later, Mr. Harry Turpin was a billionaire, still making the big bucks with his ever-expanding enterprise.

  .

  HAFEZ Sabah lounged on the patio, languidly smoking a cigarette as he enjoyed the peace and quiet of the upscale neighborhood. It felt good to be away from the sleaziness and hurly-burly of his job. The thing he disliked the most about his assignment in al-Mimkhalif was having to deal with infidels; but as soon as Allah permitted the great Islamic victory over the nonbelievers, that unpleasantness would be permanently eliminated. Such delightful environs as these would be enjoyed by the true followers.

  "Ah! Good morning, Mr. Sabah."

  Sabah turned to see Harry Turpin stride onto the patio. The Englishman had a bouncy step in spite of his heavy weight. His face was round and rosy and what was left of the hair on top of his head was combed straight back. He went to the bar and poured a double shot of whiskey into a glass, then joined the Arab at the table.

  Sabah nodded to him. "How are you, Mr. Turpin?"

  "Bluddy great," Turpin said in his Cockney accent. "And 'ow're you keeping?" .

  "I enjoy good health, thanks to Allah."

  "I expected you to come by for a visit," Turpin said. "In fact, I've been waiting for you."

  "What made you anticipate my calling on you?"

  "A great big fucking coincidence," Turpin said, smiling. "I bought a cargo of Stingers some days back, and me warehouse man calls up and says they're the very ones I had sold to you not 'ardly a month ago. Blimey, says I, 'ow could that 'ave 'appened?"

  "We paid for them, but they were never delivered into our possession," Sabah said carefully as he prepared for some verbal sparring.

  "Sorry, mate," Turpin said. "But you see, I paid for the bluddy things again. So they're my property now, ain't they? Wot's the old saying? Possession is nine tenths of the law."

  Sabah gave up any idea of broking a deal. "Who did you buy them from?"

  "I'm afraid I can't divulge that information," Turpin said. "Business ethics and all that, wot?" He took a deep swallow of whiskey. "I take it you'll be wanting to purchase them again. Or do you 'ave some other type of weaponry in mind?"

  "We need the Stingers," Sabah said. "I hope we shall not have any unpleasantness about an increase in the price."

  "O'course not," Turpin said. "You Arabian blokes is good customers. I wouldn't want to take unfair advantage of you now, would I?"

  "I wish you would tell me who sold them to you," Sabah asked again.

  "Can't do it," Turpin said. "I keep me good name by being discreet. But you'll find out soon enough on your own, won't you?"

  "It's just a matter of time."

  Turpin laughed loudly. "Right! Just a matter o' time."

  .

  UNITED STATES EMBASSY

  ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN

  1 OCTOBER

  MIKE Assad enjoyed a special apartment in the embassy building in a secure section on the second floor. This was cut off from the rest of the structure and watched over by a twenty-four-hour interior guard. This was where the embassy staff quartered people like Mike and other incognito persons who were involved in risky and clandestine operations. At other times, contemptible but helpful scoundrels who were useful to American causes were also lodged in the area.

  The first thing Mike did when he moved into the residence was take a hot, steamy shower and give his dirty, tangled locks a vigorous shampooing. Having to wear his hair mujahideen style was one part of his undercover assignment the SEAL found particularly distasteful. Next he turned his attention to his body, building up a thick lather of soap to wash away the smell of the al-Mimkhalif camp and the Pakistani jail.

  After the grooming session, he sent down to the kitchen for a special meal: two cheeseburgers with onions, tomatoes, and lettuce; French fried potatoes; and a chocolate milk shake. After it was brought up to him, he ate slowly, savoring the taste of the American fare after months of consuming mahshi vegetables stuffed with chopped meat, lubya beans, and bamya bil moza okra.

  The next order of business was a complete debriefing from a special CIA supervisor by the name of Sam Paulsen. He and his assistant, Mort Koenig, had mysteriously appeared from some secret location especially to take advantage of having a mole pop out of his hole who had the ability to dive back in. This verbal exchange gave Mike the opportunity to make a complete report since his messages left in the dead-letter drop were by necessity short and limited in number. He began his dissertation with a question. "Who picked up those messages I was sending?"

  Paulsen only smiled. "Sorry. Now let's hear all you have to tell us."

  Mike was able to give Paulsen a good layout of Camp Talata, names of various leaders and mujahideen, information about the operational status of al-Mimkhalif, and other valuable bits of information that could be shared with the FBI and military intelligence. The only thing lacking was a hard identity of the terrorist group's leadership. These individuals were completely unknown to the West, and it would be invaluable to learn their names, then work out some devious assassinations or kidnappings.

  As Mike spoke, Koenig took notes. When the session was over, Koenig closed his notebook and gave Mike a meaningful look. "Your acceptance by al-Mimkhalif makes you one of the most important agents in the antiterrorist clandestine operations."

  Mike shrugged. "They probably figured I was killed in that fucked-up raid."

  Koenig shook his head. "You can be sure that the bad guys know exactly what happened to you and where you are. But they still don't know who you are."

  "They think you're a prisoner here about to be sent back to the States," Paulsen said.

  "Well, they're wrong, ain't they?" Mike remarked. "Except for being sent back to the States, I mean."

  Paulsen checked his watch. "Koenig and I have a meeting scheduled with Rod Barker. We'll be seeing you later. If you recall anything else, jot it down for us."

  "Will do."

  After they left, Mike called down for another cheeseburger with fries.

  .

  1600 HOURS LOCAL

  THE two embassy security men, Mulvaney and Wheatfall, took Paulsen and Koenig back to visit Mike Assad in his apartment once again. Mulvaney and Wheatfall had already made sincere apologies to Mike for their less-than-gentle treatment of him as a prisoner. He assured them he hadn't taken their conduct personally, but added that it might be unwise of them to ever show up at the Fouled Anchor Tavern in Coronado, California. Both men took the warning seriously.

  When Mike answered the knock on his door, he was surprised to see the quartet of visitors. "Come on in, guys."

  They all settled down in the living room and Paulsen gave Mike a careful look. "You seem fit and strong."

  "I'm fine," he assured him.

  "Are you ready to go back?" Koenig inquired.

  "You mean to al-Mimkhalif?" Mike asked. "I was really hoping to be returned to duty with my SEAL detachment. That's what I am, y'know, a SEAL."

  "It's understandable you would want to get back to your buddies," Koenig interjected, "and if that's what you want, it will be done. However, as I told you earlier, you're in a unique position that makes you a great asset in this operation. It would take months to replace you."

  "A lot of innocent lives could be lost during that time," Paulsen pointed out.

  Mike frowned. "I want to report back to my outfit."

  "Your country really needs you, Mike," Paulsen said. "Can we ask you to take twenty-four hours to think things over?"

  "Well," Mike said, "I suppose, but let me tell you--" He stopped speaking,
then took a deep breath. "Aw, fuck it! All right. I'll go back."

  Paulsen appreciated Mike's attitude. "You're invaluable to the antiterrorist cause, Mike. Koenig has worked out your escape with Mulvaney and Wheatfall."

  "What escape?"

  "From the embassy here," Paulsen said. He turned to the other CIA man. "Brief him."

  "Right," Koenig said, leaning toward Mike. "You're going to leave here within a half hour with Mulvaney and Wheatfall for a ride in the van."

  "I wasn't expecting to leave so soon," Mike said. "But what the hell? So brief me."

  Koenig continued. "We're going to cuff you, but one of the bracelets has been jimmied so it won't lock. The pretext of the car ride is that you're going to go in front of a lineup at central police headquarters over in Rawalpindi. As a matter of fact, we've made arrangements for just that to keep things looking realistic."

  "Understood," Mike said. "Am I to assume that is the time I'll be making an escape?"

  "Assume away, my friend," Paulsen said with a laugh.

  Wheatfall interjected, "We'll drive you to a city park. There's a political rally going on over there to protest against President Musharraf. So the people in the area are going to be anti-West. It'll be a safe place for you to make your initial run for freedom."

  "Right," Mulvaney said. "Once you've entered the crowd, even the local cops won't follow you."

  "After that," Paulsen said, "you're on your own. You'll have to make your way back to rejoin al-Mimkhalif. Do you think you can do it without a map?"

  "I haven't got much choice," Mike said. "I can work myself west until I steal one."

  "Be careful about stealing stuff," Koenig cautioned him. 'This is an Islamic country. They cut off thieves' hands."

  "I know the drill," Mike said. "I was brought up Muslim ... sort of anyhow." He stood up. "Hell! Let's get going. I don't want to sit around here and think about what I'm getting into. Okay?"

  "We're ready," Wheatfall said.

  "Go," Paulsen uttered. "And good luck."