by Jack Terral
Mike followed Mulvaney and Wheatfall out of the apartment and downstairs to the rear parking area. Before they got into the van, the good side of the handcuff was attached to his wrist. When all was ready, Mulvaney drove them out of the embassy grounds and turned onto the highway for the fifteen-kilometer drive to Rawalpindi.
Within a half hour they rolled into the city and reached the park. The demonstration was going full blast with signs and the loud rhythmic chanting of anti-West political slogans. A couple of dozen nervous policemen stood on the perimeter of the activity, showing no inclination to get any closer.
"Okay, guys," Mike said. "I'm ready."
"Good luck, buddy," Mulvaney said.
Mike leaped from the car and raced across the street past two startled cops. In an instant he had plunged into the crowd. Mulvaney waited until the SEAL had completely disappeared, then turned the van around and headed back toward Islamabad. "I wonder what his chances are."
Wheatfall sadly shook his head. "He's got three hundred kilometers of unknown and hostile territory to travel through. I'd say slim to none."
.
MANILA, THE PHILIPPINES
2 OCTOBER
1730 HOURS LOCAL
THE traffic was heavy and the going slow, but Commander Carlos Batanza was in a good mood behind the wheel of his two-year-old Honda Accord. The CD player emitted the sounds of Dolly Parton--his favorite female vocalist; he admired her as much for her physical attributes as her musical talent--while the air conditioner fanned out a steady stream of cold air from each outlet.
Patrol Boat 22 had been in port for the previous couple of days undergoing routine maintenance and a minor overhaul of her engines. Mechanics from the base did all the work, so there wasn't much for the crew to do other than stand round-the-clock deck watches. Most of them had taken the week off to stay with their families or in the case of the bachelors, blow off some steam in bars and bordellos after a long period of intense patrolling. Batanza himself hadn't reported for duty that day until noon, and that was only to put his signature on the work authorizations. After that quick and easy task, he had gone to the officers club to play cards and have a few beers with his friends. He had hoped to see Ferdinand Aguilando, but the executive officer had gone to play golf at the exclusive Estrella Country Club outside Quezon City.
The traffic thinned out as Batanza approached the suburbs, and by the time he turned onto MacArthur Boulevard he was able to move along at a steady pace. The only thing that slowed him down was a stoplight, and he came to a halt when it turned red. A Vespa motor scooter came up beside him and halted. Batanza glanced disinterestedly at the two young men sitting on it, then turned his attention back to the light. He didn't see the guy on the backseat pull the MAC-10 from a gym bag.
The bullets streamed out in one long burst as the thirty-two 9-millimeter bullets in the magazine were fired into Batanza's car window. The naval officer was buffeted across the front seat as his flesh and bones were pulverized in the hail of heavy steel slugs. His foot slipped off the brake, and the Accord rolled into the intersection, where an oncoming bus slammed into it.
The Vespa made a quick U-turn, and sped away.
.
RAWALPINDI, PAKISTAN
2330 HOURS LOCAL
MIKE Assad wasn't sure where he was. He knew he was in Rawalpindi, but he had gotten turned around in futile attempts to find a way out of the city. He ended up in a rundown area where the locals were obviously hostile toward outsiders. These definitely were not the city's leading citizens. Many of the women were unveiled, and the men glared at Mike as if daring him to start something. He noted a few unfortunate individuals with notches cut in their ears. This was the police method of not only punishing petty criminals, but marking them for easy identification when making roundups of suspicious persons.
Now, instead of concentrating on getting out of the city, Mike was more concerned about getting out of that slum neighborhood to a safer area. He moved uneasily in the dim lights cast from windows onto the dirt street as he tried to find a route that would take him back to lighted surroundings. He caught himself passing a couple of places twice, which meant he had begun to wander in circles. Even the best orienteer in the world would start getting sloppy when in dark urban environs that had a sameness about them.
The four goons seemed to materialize in front of him out of the gloom.
He quickly sized them up as the local tough guys; a quartet of miserable buffoons who shared the same qualities and quantities of stupidity and meanness. They would happily kill him to strip his corpse to get a few rupees for his clothing. They had picked the spot for the murder and robbery with some skill. The street was narrow and long with no side outlets for at least fifty meters. Mike began walking slowly backward so that none could get behind him. They pulled knives from beneath their chadors, and grinned.
"Ap khairiyat se hait?" Mike greeted them in the only words he knew in the Urdu language. Next he tried Arabic. "Kayfa halik?"
They didn't waste time in launching their attack. The leader, a long stringbean, with lean whipping arms, led his buddies into the fray. Mike sidestepped, and the guy was sent sprawling with a wicked wakite karate punch to the kidneys as he went by. A quick yubi punch to the second dropped him straight down to the dirt, while a vicious marui kick knocked the third over on his back. The fourth, who had been bringing up the rear, wisely kept charging, jumping over his prostrate buddies and going down the street to disappear into the darkness.
Mike stopped long enough to take a long, calming breath, then gathered up the three knives. He chose the best to keep, then threw the others up on the top of the nearby mud huts.
He quickly left the scene in case there were backup robbers or the fourth guy returned with the rest of the gang. He walked rapidly and quietly away until discovering a street that led out into an open area that smelled like a garbage dump. He found the remnants of a mud wall to hide behind, and settled down to wait for daylight.
.
KUPANG, TIMOR ISLAND
3 OCTOBER
0315 HOURS LOCAL
THE car pulled off the main street and rolled into the ambulance entrance of the City Hospital. The man in the passenger seat quickly got out and opened the back door. He reached in and pulled Abduruddin Suhanto from the automobile, and shoved him toward the emergency room. The shipping line owner staggered backward a few steps as the man returned to the vehicle, which quickly sped back to the streets.
A tourniquet had been applied to Suhanto's right wrist where the hand had been severed. He sobbed aloud in shock and pain, almost fainting, but he gathered enough strength to lurch toward the medical help available in the building.
.
In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful: If a man or a woman steals, cut off their hands as a punishment for what they have done. They deserve this exemplary punishment from Allah, and Allah is Mighty and Wise.
--as it is written in the Holy Qu'ran
.
Suhanto, like Batanza, had now paid for his part in the robbery of al-Mimkhalif's weapons. From that time on, he would have to eat with the same hand he wiped his rectum with after defecating. A supreme embarrassment in the Islamic world.
Chapter 7.
ACV BATTLECRAFT
INDIAN OCEAN
VICINITY OF 5deg NORTH AND 60deg EAST
4 OCTOBER
0730 HOURS LOCAL
THE Battlecraft skimmed over the placid surface of the ocean at a steady clip of forty-five miles an hour with the throttle set at half speed. Petty Officer First Class Paul Watkins had an easy time maintaining a course of zero-four-five, while to his right Lieutenant (JG) Veronica Rivers kept a constant vigil on her radar instrumentation, eagerly scanning the scope for contacts.
Lieutenant Bill Brannigan had now grown completely disenchanted with this assignment. Every day was the same. Get up early for chow, launch the ACV from the USS Dan Daly's docking well, and spend some empty hours cruising the
Indian Ocean finding absolutely nothing. Then return to the ship, pull any necessary maintenance, fill out the logs, report in to Commander Tom Carey, and end another dreary tour of duty that had accomplished absolutely nothing. Higher command echelons could not provide any leads on terrorist activities to investigate. Brannigan wished that some staff weenie would get at least an inkling of information to give them the impression there was something out there on the Indian Ocean or the Arabian Sea worth finding. Whatever the bad guys were doing was either out of sight or not happening on the Battlecraft9s watch.
The entire Second Assault Section was topside, taking in the sun and reading field and technical manuals in anticipation of MOS proficiency tests. Sometimes they broke the monotony by doing push-ups and deep knee bends to keep their muscles supple for any potential boarding of suspicious ships.
Down in the office, Veronica Rivers broke the silence. "I have a contact. Zero-one-niner at ten miles."
The announcement did not cause any excitement since there were always plenty of contacts during the reconnaissance tours. Merchant ships, oil tankers, and miscellaneous naval vessels of nearby nations constantly cruised to and fro as they went about their business in the area.
"Course zero-one-niner," Brannigan said to Watkins. He leaned toward Veronica. "What's it look like?"
"It's a weak contact, sir," Veronica answered. "Something out there is constructed of a minimum amount of metal."
"Great!" Brannigan said sarcastically. "From all indications it's probably a rowboat."
"It's under power," Veronica said. "Moving approximately seven to eight knots on an easterly course."
"Maybe it's the Pakistani rowing team going so fast they sped out into the open ocean," Watkins said, grinning.
"In that case," Veronica said, "they're a cinch to win a gold medal in the next Olympics."
Senior Chief Buford Dawkins had alerted his SAW gunner and two fire teams about the contact, and was using binoculars to scan the horizon in the direction of the target.
After a few moments, he climbed down the ladder to the office. "It's one of them towel-head dhows," Dawkins informed Brannigan. "A real antique, but obviously under power. The sails are furled."
Now Brannigan could see the antique vessel through his own binoculars. He retrieved the ensign-identification pamphlet and quickly scanned the contents, finding a green and white banner with a crescent moon and star. "She's flying the Pakistani flag. We'll check her out. The latest intelligence--such as it is--indicates the bad guys may be using a dhow in their operations." He took his pistol belt with the 9-millimeter Sig Sauer and strapped it around his waist. "Let's go topside, Senior Chief."
The skipper and Dawkins went up the ladder and the senior chief gestured to his two fire team leaders, Milly Mills and Gutsy Olson. "We're going to check out a dhow. Charlie Fire Team, stay here to cover us if things get hairy. That means you special, Miskoski. Keep that SAW ready. Delta Team will go aboard with me and the skipper."
"What the hell is a dhow, sir?" Gutsy asked as he and his men got to their feet.
"A traditional Arabian boat," Brannigan said. "Wooden. They go back centuries." The disappointment on the SEALs' faces was evident. This didn't seem to offer much potential in the way of meaningful excitement. Brannigan added, "There's an outside chance it's a terrorist craft."
"Now you're talking, sir!" Guy Devereaux, one of Delta's riflemen, remarked.
The Battlecraft closed in tight as Veronica attempted to contact the boat by radio to order them to heave to. It was a useless effort. "I don't think they speak English. All I get is that Arab gibberish in response to my command for them to break their voyage."
"They must get the drift of what you're saying," Watkins said, maneuvering the ACV into position to close in on the old ship. "The captain is slowing down."
Bobby Lee Atwill went out on the side deck to toss lines to the crewmen of the dhow. Within moments, Brannigan led Dawkins and Delta Fire Team aboard, leaping over the railing into what seemed the tenth century.
Captain Bashar Bashir of the dhow Nijm Zark showed a toothy grin to the visitors. "Asalam aleikum " he said.
The SEALs held their CAR-15 rifles ready, but the half-dozen Arab crewmen showed no unfriendly tendencies. They smiled and nodded silent greetings to the boarding party. Brannigan glanced around to make sure there were no more individuals lurking in any corners before he spoke to the captain. "Do you speak English?"
Bashir indicated a negative with a slight flip back of his head as is done in that part of the world.
"Papers?" Brannigan said. "Where are your papers?"
Bashir smiled with a blank look on his face. Brannigan turned to the SEALs. "Senior Chief, leave your men here. You come with me over to the hold." Brannigan and Dawkins walked to the hatch. Brannigan pointed to the dhow captain, then down to the hatch. Bashir said something to a couple of his crew, who walked over and pulled the entrance to the hold open. Another crewman fetched a ladder off the side of the cabin and courteously set it in position so the two Americans could go down to the cargo area.
Brannigan and Dawkins went below and found it completely empty. There was not one piece of cargo in the place. Brannigan sighed. "Here we go again. More or our time wasted."
Dawkins walked slowly around the hold. Suddenly he stopped and knelt down, touching an oily spot on the deck. "Sir."
Brannigan walked over to him. "Find something, Senior Chief?"
Dawkins raised his finger, which was soiled with some black gook. "Cosmoline, sir. The very stuff weapons are coated with for storage or shipment."
The pair searched around the hold finding other oily spots. There were enough to give ample evidence of numerous transports of weaponry on the old boat. Brannigan sank into thought for a few moments.
"Are we gonna tow her back, sir?" Dawkins asked.
"Nope," Brannigan said. "I'm going to check her papers and try to determine her name and home port. Then Til turn the information over to Commander Carey and he can arrange for some sneaky folks to keep an eye on this tub. We'll catch her when she's got a full cargo."
They ascended the ladder to the main deck. Brannigan put a friendly expression on his face and indicated that the dhow captain was to follow him. They went into the cabin, and Brannigan said, "Papers."
Once again the Arab exhibited a look of incomprehension. Brannigan made a motion with his hands like he was leafing through some documents. Bashir caught on and went to a tin box. He opened it and took out a sheaf of papers, handing them to the American.
Most of the printing and writing seemed to be in Arabic script, but some Pakistani import and export licenses were in English, the nation's quasi-official language. Brannigan was able to determine that the name of the dhow was the Nijm Zark out of Karachi, Pakistan. The man identified as the captain was Bashar Bashir. The SEAL officer looked over at the old man and pointed to him. "You Captain Bashir?"
Bashir smiled and swelled his narrow old chest proudly. "Raiyis Bashir. I captain!"
Brannigan now pointed to himself. "I Captain Brannigan."
Bashir offered his hand and they shook enthusiastically. Brannigan entered the information off the licenses into his notebook, then went out on deck. "Senior Chief Dawkins, let's go back aboard the Battlecraft" He turned to Bashir. "Thank you, Captain Bashir. Thank you. Thank you. Good-bye."
Bashir grinned widely. "Shokhran! Thank you! Goodbye! Good-bye!"
Brannigan led the SEALs off the dhow, then went into the office as the dhow's crew threw the lines back to Atwill.
"Okay, Watkins. Set a course for the Dan Daly. We've actually accomplished something today."
Veronica Rivers looked at him. "Really? Were they carrying contraband?"
"Not a single piece, Lieutenant," Brannigan said. "But what we got was much more important. We picked up enough information to confirm some very valuable intelligence."
'The course to the Dan Daly is one-eight-seven, sir," Watkins reported.
"Go to one-eight-seven then," Brannigan said.
"Course one-eight-seven, aye, sir!" Watkins responded.
The Battlecraft kicked up its speed to two-thirds, heading homeward at a steady sixty-one miles per hour.
.
RAWALPINDI, PAKISTAN
THE people of Pakistan speak two dozen languages that are further divided into three hundred dialects. Unfortunately for Mike Assad, he didn't have as much as a working knowledge of any of them. The situation put him at a serious disadvantage as he moved deeper into the country. English is used in the government and the upper reaches of the nation's society, but the SEAL was deeply imbedded in the midst of lower social types, moving among them in an unavoidably conspicuous manner.
And he was still lost.
He could not find his way out of the city and was unable to ask directions. All attempts on his part to address anyone were met with scowls and insulting gestures that he figured either meant to move along or to go fuck a she-goat. A half-dozen instances occurred when he found himself face-to-face with one of the local toughs, unable to respond appropriately to a rough street inquisition. Most of the time he managed to stare them down, but on one occasion the guy pulled a knife and waved it menacingly at him with an evil grin while onlookers ceased their normal activities to urge the local hero on. Mike sneered back, knowing that if he showed any fear at all he was a dead man since others in the crowd would want a piece of him too. He pulled the knife he'd gotten in the fight, and the potential assailant noted that his own weapon was smaller than Mike's. He backed off with a scowl, then made a quick turn and hurried away. When Mike glared at the spectators in a challenging manner, they suddenly discovered they had other things to do.
An hour later, however, the odds caught up with him, and Mike was in a situation where it looked like escape would be impossible. At least two dozen merchants and shoppers in one market place objected to his passing through their neighborhood, and an impromptu mob situation quickly developed. They advanced in a disorganized phalanx, encouraging each other through sheer weight of numbers while shouting insults and threats. Once more Mike went to the knife as he backed down the street. Several times one of them would prove to be a bit braver than the others, and move toward him. In those instances, he had little choice. If he was going to die, Mike was determined that he sure as hell was going to take a few with him, and he made ready to fight with no intention of begging for quarter or giving any. He stopped in his tracks, assumed an aggressive fighting position, then lunged forward, bringing his knife to bear. These counterattacks caused the bolder individuals' courage to fail as they stumbled back to the safety of their buddies. This gave Mike a chance to put a bit more distance between him and the crowd, albeit by walking backward. Eventually, the throng's numbers began to lessen, and the threat slowly subsided as he moved out of their turf.