by Jack Terral
Things came to a head early one morning when both overslept. Their first duty of the day was to be up at four a. M. to get the oven fires going so that when the master appeared at five, things would-be ready to begin the day's demanding work. But that particular dawn began with the master's furious bellowing when he walked into a cold kitchen. The two apprentices sat straight up in their bed, looked at each other, and grimaced as they realized that this was the worst disaster of their short bungling careers. A prolonged brutal beating loomed in their immediate future.
Without exchanging a single word, they knew what they must do. The boys gathered up their few miserable belongings and went through the rear window of the bakery, and ran like hell toward the highway two kilometers away. This road led to the city of Sadah.
Luck was with them that day, and they were able to catch a ride on a truck that took them to the safety of the city where the brutal master would never be able to find them. Unfortunately, the pair of bunglers had no idea what they were going to do in the unknown metropolis, and after nearly starving for a week, they found a charity kitchen at one of the city's mosques located in the slums. More than physical sustenance was available in the dining hall. Clever clerics, looking for disenfranchised and frustrated youths to recruit into al-Mimkhalif, were waiting to preach to the boys prior to the serving of meals.
After several recruitment sermons--replete with messages of hate for the Great Satan America--Imran and Ayyub volunteered in the same unthinking manner they'd used when running away. It was a quick exit from a bad situation; better a dead martyr than be caught by the police and hauled back to face the master baker's rage and beatings.
.
1215 HOURS LOCAL
NOW Imran and Ayyub stood serious guard duty for the first time. They had been posted above the mountain pass that offered ingress to the camp. It was a narrow trail far below the bluffs that towered above it. A lot of their old careless ways had been driven out of them by hard-ass combat training along with cuffs and kicks in the military environment of al-Mimkhalif. They were also well indoctrinated, and they now tended to their assigned duty with discipline and determination.
"Look!" Ayyub exclaimed. "Someone is coming up the trail."
Imran looked in the direction his friend was pointing. "A lone man, hey?"
"Let's make sure he is alone," Ayyub said. "Remember what we were taught. Sometimes the enemy sends scouts ahead to draw fire to discover the locations of our positions. We must be patient. This could be an attack." After ten minutes passed, the rookie stood up. "The stranger is alone."
Imran cranked the field telephone kept at the lookout position, and raised the chief of the guard. "There is a solitary man approaching the camp through the pass. We have watched him for a quarter of an hour. He is by himself."
The chief of the guard put the receiver-transmitter back in its cradle, standing up and gesturing to the three riflemen relaxing at the midday cook fire. "Let's go, brothers. Someone is approaching the camp."
The chief took the trio with him as they hurried down to the spot among the boulders where they could safely intercept the interloper. Everyone was nervous since none of the camp's mujahideen was out on an operation. Somehow a stranger must have inadvertently wandered toward their camp. They took up their positions among the rocks and waited. When the stranger appeared, the chief called out.
"Wakkiff!"
The man obediently came to an instant halt, raising his hands.
"Walk slowly forward," the chief commanded. "Keep your hands raised high or we will shoot you." He watched carefully as the man approached deliberately and carefully. Suddenly the chief jumped up and joyfully shouted, "Mikael! It is you!"
Mike Assad grinned and lowered his hands, speaking in his crude Arabic. "I come home."
The chief and the riflemen ran out to exchange hugs and kisses with their comrade. This was another Middle Eastern custom that Mike had never gotten used to. Kissing a man did not measure up to making out with an affectionate girl.
The group hurried back through the camp as one of the riflemen ran ahead shouting the good news aloud. Others joined in the impromptu celebration, happy to see that a popular comrade they thought to be a prisoner had returned to them. By the time they reached the commander's tent, all the mujahideen not on duty had gathered around the canvas structure, chanting and clapping a welcome to Mikael. The chief went inside where the camp leader Kumandan, and Hafez Sabah sat consuming wheat loaves and rice.
"What is the disturbance outside?" Kumandan demanded to know.
"Mikael Assad has come back," the chief announced. "He is returned to us."
"Bring him in," Kumandan said.
Mike stepped into the tent. "Marhaba--greetings!"
Kumandan stood up and studied the man before him. "My God! We had heard you had been turned over to the Americans."
"I was," Mike said. "They take me to their embassy in Islamabad."
Sabah gave him a suspicious look. "You are armed, I see. It appears you have a government-issue Webley revolver and pistol belt."
"I steal it all in police station," Mike said. "It is a very old British weapon."
"Sit down," Kumandan invited. "Fill up a plate for yourself. You must be hungry."
"Aywa!" Mike said, going down into a cross-legged sitting position next to the food. "And tired. I come a long way."
Sabah was still not convinced. "Did you say they took you to the American Embassy, Brother Mikael?"
"Yes," Mike replied, reaching for the rice. "But I escape. They want take me someplace from there. I do not know where. I am in car and handcuff is loose on one hand. I take out my hand and open door and jump in street. Then I run like gazelle and get away in big crowd of peoples."
"Haida taiyib!" Kumandan said, congratulating him.
Sabah lost all interest in his food. He leaned forward, looking straight into Mike's face, speaking in the British English he'd perfected during his days at Oxford. "Let's you and I speak in your language for a while, Brother Assad. I am going to ask you some rather important questions about your adventurous escape."
"That will be fine, Brother Sabah," Mike replied. He wished he wasn't so damn tired, knowing he would have to be careful and not trip himself up under the questioning.
The interrogation was unfriendly at first, but after an hour Sabah was convinced of the truth in Mike's cover story. The episodes in the Rawalpindi slums, the mosque, the bus trip, and all the rest fell into place with some scattered incomplete intelligence they had received from the interior of Pakistan. The end of the session evolved into a friendly conversation between Sabah and Mike.
"You have been badly misjudged here in camp," Sabah said. "Many of your brother fighters think you are a bit on the slow side. I can see now that is because of your crude Arabic. This gives a mistaken impression of your intelligence."
"I was getting better," Mike said. "But since my capture I've been exposed more to Urdu than Arabic. I'll get back on track quick enough."
"Actually, I have a different assignment for you," Sabah said. "Our supply operations are going through some changes.
It has been quite difficult actually, and I could use a good chap to lend me a hand. Are you interested?"
Mike couldn't believe the opportunity that was being put before him. Any information gleaned on the supply methods and routes would be invaluable. He smiled and nodded. "I'm your man, Brother Sabah."
.
ACV BATTLECRAFT
INDIAN OCEAN
VICINITY OF THE EQUATOR AND 90deg EAST
12 OCTOBER
1400 HOURS LOCAL
THE ACV had gone farther east than usual as Lieutenant Veronica Rivers monitored her radar screen. She was getting only the regular and easily identified signals of cargo ships that normally passed through the area. After directing Watkins to make a couple of changes of course, she noted spotty readings that had appeared in a corner of the tube.
"There's some stuff at zero-four-eight
," she said. "About twenty miles out. I can't quite figure out what it is."
Lieutenant Bill Brannigan ordered Paul Watkins to steer to the azimuth, and walked over to check out what had gotten Veronica's attention. "It's not moving," Brannigan remarked.
"At this point I'm guessing it's debris," Veronica said. "I wonder if an airliner has gone down in that area."
"Negative," Brannigan said. "We would have been notified and changed over to a rescue mode. We'll check it out." He went back to his chair. "Watkins, maintain course and increase speed to two thirds."
"Maintain course and increase speed to two thirds, aye, sir."
The Battlecraft quickly attained the velocity, and the spray around her increased markedly as she continued toward the source of the signals. Lieutenant Jim Cruiser and his First Assault Section prepared for whatever situation awaited them in that part of the ocean. Bobby Lee Atwill took advantage of the increased RPM to run some quick diagnostics. When the power plant instrumentation indicated all was in order, he left the cramped engine room and joined the rest of the crew to see what Veronica had discovered.
Twenty minutes later the ACV arrived on the scene and the speed was cut to all stop. Brannigan and Veronica went out on the bow and visually inspected the area. "Something crashed here," Veronica said. "Christ! Look at the mess."
Floating debris littered the area as it rolled with the waves. Pieces of wood, mattresses, and a fuel tank were easily identified. Then the first corpse came into view. Brannigan directed Watkins to move toward the body as Dave Leibowitz came down on deck with a bow hook. He snagged the clothing of the dead man, and pulled him out of the water and deposited him on the deck. Brannigan knelt down and rolled him over.
"A Philippine sailor," he said, examining the features. "From the blood coming out his eyes, ears, and nose, I'd say he was killed by a combination of concussion and drowning." He went through the pockets and pulled out a wallet. A Philippine naval ID card identified the man as a petty officer artificer.
"There's more that way," Leibowitz said, pointing.
Another three quarters of an hour was spent hauling dead crew members up on the Battlecraft's deck. A total of eight were discovered for examination. Veronica took pictures with the digital camera while Leibowitz and the other SEALs pulled the available documents and personal affects from the bodies. After each corpse was searched, it was gently rolled back into the water since there were no accommodations to transfer them to another location. The best that could be done would be to radio the position to the Philippine government from the Daly so they could come out and retrieve their dead; hopefully, before the sharks discovered the feast awaiting them.
When the grisly task was completed, Brannigan went back inside the cabin with Veronica following. "Okay, Rivers, set a course back to the Dan Daly. It appears we have a report to make. Too bad it has nothing to do with terrorists."
.
USS DAN DALY
1630 HOURS LOCAL
COMMANDER Tom Carey had the damp documents spread out on his desk along with the photographs of the dead crewmen. Bill Brannigan, Jim Cruiser, and Veronica Rivers sat in silence, watching him as he carefully perused the information they had brought back with them. Carey turned to his stand-alone computer and typed in some of the information he was able to glean from the paperwork.
"Okay," he said. "It's all substantiated here and crosschecked by the system. The vessel you discovered was from the Philippine Navy. That's pretty obvious from the dead guys. It is Patrol Boat 22, captained by a Commander Carlos Batanza until his murder. At that point, it was taken over by the exec, a Lieutenant Commander Ferdinand Aguilando."
"The captain was murdered?" Brannigan asked. "Does this have anything to do with our mission out here?"
"Batanza was known to be corrupt," Carey said. "His mission was interdiction of smugglers. For a couple of years he was a real straight arrow, but like many an underpaid public servant, the chance for bribes and outright thievery brought him to ruin. It is thought that his death was a payback for some drug deal gone bad."
"What about an arms deal gone bad?" Cruiser asked.
"Not likely," Carey remarked. "His exec, Aguilando, was also on the take, so he could have been also held responsible for whatever it was the pissed off the bad guys."
"That patrol boat was obviously destroyed by powerfully weaponry," Brannigan said. "I wouldn't think some drug smuggler would be carrying that sort of ordnance. It appears to me that only a terrorist group transporting a cargo of arms would have the capability of delivering that much punishment."
"We know of no terrorist group using warships, Lieutenant Brannigan," Carey said.
"Well," Brannigan conceded, "this probably doesn't have anything to do with us." He stood up and glanced at Cruiser and Veronica. "Going to chow?"
"Yeah," Cruiser said.
"Not me," Veronica replied. "I think dealing with those corpses took away my appetite."
"I'll go with you and Cruiser," Carey said. "I missed lunch."
"Enjoy you chow, guys," Veronica said. "I'm going to my cabin for a snooze."
.
LIEUTENANT Veronica Rivers's lack of appetite wasn't from the Philippine corpses. It was a much more personal condition that took away her desire for food. She was in love again. The object of her affections, Jim Cruiser, hadn't shown any interest in her. They had exchanged smiles when he left the ACV for the raid on the coastline, but he hadn't given any outward signs of interest in her since returning.
She lay down on her rack, staring at the overhead as she endured the sweet misery in silent thought. Most of the time it was futile for a female naval officer to expect a normal romance with a man on her ship. She wouldn't be the kind of woman male naval officers would seek out for romance or sexual pleasure. Too many official and unpleasant consequences could come out of such affairs. When it came to the opposite sex, those guys wanted to get as far away from women in uniform as possible. They'd pass up some attractive, intelligent young female officer to pick up a large-breasted, empty-headed floozy in the officers' club or a bar ashore for whatever sort of romantic or sexual adventure they were looking for. And it didn't do servicewomen much good to pursue civilian males either. Those guys might like to take a military woman to bed once out of curiosity, but they were too intimidated by females who held military rank to seek a long-term relationship.
Petty Officer Frank Gomez had noticed her interest in Jim Cruiser and made a couple of remarks on the ACV to her. She wondered if Jim had become aware of her feelings toward him. If he had, and wasn't responding, then she was in for a long period of enduring unrequited love.
"If I were an aviator," Veronica said aloud to herself, "my call sign would be 'Frustrated Female.'"
.
DHOW NIJM ZARK
15 OCTOBER
1100 HOURS LOCAL
CAPTAIN Bashar Bashir turned to Mike Assad and Hafez Sabah standing on the small quarterdeck with him. Down below, staying close to the railing, were the two ex-baker apprentices Imran and Ayyub, who were in the final agonies of a shared bout of seasickness that was beginning to ebb away.
"See how the American planes only take a quick look at us and fly away?" Bashir said.
Mike Assad felt homesick at the sight of the United States Navy aircraft. "They do not seem interested."
Sabah nodded his agreement. "Not long ago an American boat crew came aboard to inspect the dhow. They examined Captain Bashir's papers and his cargo hold. They found nothing."
Bashir laughed. "It was a good thing we were coming back from delivering arms instead of carrying a cargo. At any rate, they are under the impression we are no more than an innocent merchant vessel."
"Most fortunate," Mike said.
"But our leadership is not going to take any chances," Sabah said. "Even at this moment a plan is being formed to lure the American boat into a trap and sink it."
"It was a strange boat," Bashir said. "It flew over the water at a very fast speed.
"
"No amount of speed will save it from the wrath Allah will impart on its infidel crew," Sabah said confidently.
"Attamam--excellent!" Mike said, thinking he had to get the word out on this very real danger to a U. S. Navy vessel. His first order of business when they returned to Camp Talata would be to get to his dead-letter drop.
.
MIKE Assad had become a celebrity of the al-Mimkhalif terrorist band after his escape from a supposed period of captivity at the American Embassy in Pakistan. The exploits of his cross-country adventures had been systematically exaggerated with each telling and retelling among the mujahideen. He was no longer thought of as the simple American with more bravado than good sense. Mikael Assad was now regarded as a cunning, clever fighter.
Kumandan, as al-Mimkhalif's field commander, had pulled him from the operational detachment and placed him directly under Hafez Sabah's authority. The American was to work closely with the agent in coordinating the finer details of the group's maritime and smuggling activities. The leader even assigned them the two former apprentice bakers Imran and Ayyub as their personal bodyguards. The two youngsters had been wild with happiness over the honor. When Imran and Ayyub reported to take up their new duties, they swore a solemn mukaddas oath on the Koran that they would willingly give up their lives for Mikael and Sabah.
.
NOW Mike and his companions continued the voyage aboard the old wooden vessel. This was an orientation trip for the American so that he could see firsthand how the arms were passed over to the dhow for delivery to the seer -rendezvous point off the Pakistani coast.
.
1345 HOURS LOCAL
THE lookout clinging to the top of the main mast suddenly shouted out, "Hai hi ahi! The Jakarta dead ahead!"
Mike looked in the direction everyone else did and could see nothing for several moments. Then the shadowy figure of a ship could be sighted on the horizon. As the two vessels drew closer, Mike saw that the stranger was a small freighter. After a few more minutes, he could see the ship was not a particularly smart one. Streaks of rust coursed down from the deck to the waterline and the paint on the hull was faded and peeling.