by Jack Terral
In truth, the presence of the concubines was an open secret, but nobody dared discuss the situation or call attention to it; not even the mullah. As long as the sheikh and his entourage did not flaunt their sinful activities by partying within the walls, everyone acted as if nothing was amiss.
The Sayih was moored at the docks that ran out from the beach to the natural harbor formed where the sea bottom dropped abruptly to a depth of some ten fathoms. Mike Assad had moved from the yacht to the officers' complex within the walls, but he visited Hildegard regularly during the ample spare time he enjoyed between meetings with the sheikh. It was more than lust and her usefulness in his mission that attracted the SEAL to the beautiful German woman. During times when their sexual appetites were satiated, they sipped cognac and talked, and Mike learned to like her. She spoke English, as did anybody receiving even a basic education in Europe, though her grammar and accent were far from perfect. The SEAL especially enjoyed hearing about her former life in Germany.
Hildegard Keppler had been bom in East Germany before the wall came down. Her father had been an assembly-line worker in Dresden, employed at a washing machine factory that produced the typical shoddy products of a socialistic manufacturing system. Hildegard, like all her generation, joined the Young Communist League for activities and recreation that were punctuated with heavy political indoctrination. That part of the activities bored her, but she endured it, as she did the dreadful evening TV when government programs with such subjects as factory production records went on for hours.
It was at the local youth center that Hildegard met Franziska Diehm, a girl her age who became her best friend. Both were pretty and matured young, and when they were fourteen they caught the attention of the commissar who administered their chapter of the Young Communists. The lothario arranged to have them visit him at his retreat on Lake Ellbogen on weekends and during the vacation season.
The commissar's lakefront cabin was one of the typical places where the party elite enjoyed getting away from the pressure of administering a workers' paradise. These excursions were described as nature study to the girls' parents, who were under the impression that all the kids attended.
The first couple of visits were innocent fun with swimming, horseback riding, outdoor sports, and eating exotic foods brought in from West Germany. Eventually, the girls learned that there would be great advantages not only to themselves, but also their families, if they shared sexual favors with the commissar. They had already had some experiences with boys of their own age, and the older man seemed like a good sort, so they acquiesced to his request. At least his lovemaking was more than just a pimply faced adolescent rutting on top of them. The commissar kept his promises, and the girls's fathers were promoted to good jobs, and the families's lives improved as well as could be expected under the Communist regime.
After the Berlin Wall tumbled down, the two girls saw their personal lives spin out of kilter, but they had already learned the value of their bodies. After some futile attempts at finding well-paying jobs in the new united Germany, they decided that since using their sexual charms in a Communist country got them money and benefits, it would be even more rewarding under a capitalist system. After a few awkward months of streetwalking, the two girls met an enterprising middle-aged woman who ran an escort service. Hildegard and Franziska quickly entered her employ, eventually ending up as high-priced call girls in Berlin. As time passed, they eventually began servicing mostly wealthy Saudi Arabians in Germany on business. It was in these circumstances that they met Sheikh Omar Jambarah. He took an instant liking to the young women, and this led to the offer of more pay aboard the Royal Yacht Sayih.
Now, sure her friend had been murdered, Hildegard would go to any length to have revenge on the man who committed the crime. It seemed impossible at first, but this strange and likable Arab-American might be the answer to that great desire. He was a pleasant fellow, rather good-looking, and something about him made Hildegard feel there was some mysterious potency in Mike Assad. These qualities were clandestine but effective, and he seemed the type of man to latch on to, even if only temporarily.
.
0945 HOURS LOCAL
SHEIKH Omar Jambarah stood on the reviewing stand located atop the officers' quarters prior to a scheduled parade of the garrison mujahideen. Usually he had an entourage with him for such occasions, but this day he was accompanied by only one man, Mikael Assad.
Mike noticed that the other ranking officers and guests, including Hafez Sabah, were located farther down out of earshot. Mike had been issued several sets of uniforms that were set aside for the al-Mimkhalif elite. These were specially fitted to him in the tailor shop, and were made of high-class olive-drab material woven in German mills. Like everyone else, Mike also sported an Afghanistan pakol cap. This headgear was considered a symbol of the successful resistance to the invasion by the Soviet Union of that country in the 1980s. Even the sheikh always had on one of these peasant caps when he went outside.
The garrison's small drum-and-bugle corps, consisting of three trumpeters, three snare drummers, and a bass drummer, opened the ceremonies. Mike didn't know the military march they played, but it was obviously Arabic and touched something deep within his psyche. Goose bumps broke out on him as the small musical group marched past, the exotic and ancient call to battle sounding across the parade ground.
The fortress guard force, except for those at their posts, next made an appearance. They filed past the reviewing stand in their platoon formations, properly dressed right and covered down. The British influence showed in their style of swinging their arms up to shoulder level, as hobnailed boots stomped in an even staccato across the hard-packed desert earth.
The sheikh glanced over at Mike, smiling. "What do you think of the garrison mujahideen, Mikael?"
"They look really sharp," he replied, remembering that he was not supposed to have any military experience other than the time he'd spent in al-Mimkhalif.
"British officers and soldiers of fortune moved into the Middle East after World War One," Jambarah said. "The type of drill we employ here--or 'bashing on the square'-- is typical of the United Kingdom's armed forces. I received military training in Britain as a boy cadet in school."
"This is a smart-looking place," Mike said. As he watched the marching men, he thought they would have served their cause better up in the mountains under Kumandan's command.
"You are not aware of it," Jambarah said, "but you are in the supreme headquarters of al-Mimkhalif."
Mike forgot about the music and the marching as he saw the chance to pick up some excellent intelligence data without arousing suspicion. Any inquiries on his part now would seem no more than natural curiosity. "Does our great leader Husan stay here? I would like to meet him."
"You already have, Mikael," Jambarah said. "I am Husan. It is my nom de guerre. That is French for 'war name.'"
Mike was surprised in a way, but not completely. But he played the naive-kid role and stared openmouthed at the sheikh. "Wow!"
"My family is tied in closely with the Saudi government," Jambarah said. "I will not discuss that with you now, but you will learn more about it later. You may be sure you are destined to hobnob with some very important people on the Arabian Peninsula."
Mike's mind swirled. I gotta get the fuck out of here and back to American intelligence, he told himself. He shook his head, showing an expression of wonder and surprise. "This is really big, Sheikh Omar!"
"Indeed," Jambarah said. "And you will be able to play an important part in our counterattack. This defeat suffered by that rascal Mahamat has not stopped us, though I admit we are slowed a bit." He chuckled. "And the final phase of that unhappy event is about to be played out. Look!" He pointed to a door in the wall across the way.
Commodore Muhammad Mahamat stepped into view from the portal. He was dressed in a simple cotton tawilqamis--the long nightshirt style of peasant dress--and his hands were tied behind his back. He was flanked by two guards
and followed by a third man who carried a large sword as the group walked to a place in the middle of the parade ground.
Even from that distance Mike could see that the commodore was in a deep daze. "What's going on?"
"Mahamat is about to pay for both his defeat and lying about it," Jambarah said. "I'm sure you've never seen anything like this."
Mahamat was brought to a halt, then his guards stepped away. He swayed slightly as the man with the sword walked up beside him. Mike peered carefully at the prisoner who once commanded the all-powerful Zauba Squadron. "What's wrong with him? Is he sick or drunk?"
"I have been merciful and seen that he was administered a strong dose of afyun," Jambarah said. "He is barely aware of what is going on."
Mike had seen men killed before and had taken others' lives in battle, but what was about to happen to the drugged-up commodore had an eerie quality about it. The man with the sword raised the edged weapon and looked up at the reviewing stand. Sheikh Omar Jambarah nodded his head.
The sword whistled for no more than an instant before slicing through the commodore's neck. The head rolled backward, falling toward the ground as the body took a jerky step forward before collapsing.
"AUahu Akbarthis " Jambarah said under his breath. "If he does not deserve to die for his defeat, it matters not. Allah will forgive him and take him into Paradise."
Damn, Mike thought, wouldn't just busting the poor bastard down in rank have been enough?
.
USS DAN DALY
INDIAN OCEAN
VICINITY OF 5deg NORTH AND 65deg EAST
NOON LOCAL
PETTY Officers Paul Watkins and Bobby Lee Atwill had mixed feelings about Lieutenant Veronica Rivers's initiation as an honorary member of Brannigan's Brigands. Now, heading up to the wardroom for a briefing on an upcoming mission, Watkins expressed his resentment of the honor. "We was in that sea battle. They ought to recognize us too."
"You're forgetting one thing, Paul," Bobby Lee said. "You and me don't have to be honorary SEALs. If we want it bad enough, we can volunteer for the training and become the genuine article."
"Are you crazy?" Paul exclaimed. "Haven't you heard of that Hell Week they go through?"
"Yep," Bobby Lee said. "And that's why I'm sticking to mending and maintaining turbine engines. Anyhow, I don't think I got what it takes to make it."
"Shit," Paul said resignedly. "I guess I don't either."
.
THEY walked into the wardroom, nodding greetings to the SEALs as they went to their customary places in the back of the room. None of the officers were present at the moment, and everyone was drinking coffee and talking among themselves. Suddenly Senior Chief Buford Dawkins called the room to attention, and everyone leaped to their feet.
Commander Tom Carey led the way as he, Brannigan, Jim Cruiser, and Veronica Rivers came in through the door. The three Battlecraft officers sat down in the first row while Carey went to the head of the room. Rather than having a manila folder with an OPORD, all he had were some notes.
"Good morning, people," he said. "Another operation is laid on for you, but a final date and time hasn't been established yet. I figure it'll go down in two or three days. The mission follows the KISS principle; that is, Keep It Simple, Sweetheart. It's no more than cruising around to look for trouble, and doesn't require a lot of finesse or fancy preparation. On the day of the event, you'll leave the docking well at oh-dark-hundred."
Veronica raised her hand. "What ordnance are we packing, sir?"
"Antiship and antiaircraft missiles," Carey replied. "By the way, congratulations on becoming an honorary Brigand."
'Thank you, sir," Veronica said, now more interested in the mission than the honor bestowed on her. "I suggest our AA weaponry be both heat-seeking and laser."
"I'll leave that to Lieutenant Brannigan," Carey said. "The only antiship stuff we have for you are Penguins, but they're reliable and worked well in this last outing."
Jim Cruiser asked, "Will there be anything for the assault sections to do?"
"We don't know," Carey replied. "And because of that, both should be ready to participate. It'll be crowded on the ACV, but you're used to that now." He turned back to Veronica. "You'll set a course up to be somewhere along six degrees north latitude and begin a sweep back and forth along that azimuth. It's been reported that there's a good chance that al-Mimkhalif sea operations are on hold because of the decisive defeat you all dealt them on the twenty-second. A rumor has surfaced that al-Mimkhalif has a seaside facility somewhere, and that can mean more warships. Although that's not been confirmed yet, I advise you to expect the worst."
Brannigan was confused. "Why are we taking both assault sections, sir? If we do any boarding of terrorist vessels, one will do. On the other hand, if we become involved in another fight at sea, those guys will be in the way, not to mention exposed to deadly fire."
"There is a chance that the need for a raid may pop up," Carey said. "Since you've got forty-eight hours minimum before going out, we can't be sure of anything. I want to emphasize that the situation is in a real fluid mode at this moment, so be ready for anything. As you were! I should have said, be ready for everything. As it is, you'll be out the maximum seventy-two hours. Gas, ammo, and vittles will be on loaded accordingly by the Daly's crew." He folded up his notes and stuck them in his pocket. "That's it, folks. Consider yourselves on standby. I'll be calling you together a couple of more times before this thing goes down."
After Carey made his exit, the enlisted men were taken over by Senior Chief Dawkins, who took them out of the wardroom and down to the flight deck for a period of vigorous PT. Brannigan, Jim Cruiser, and Veronica stayed behind.
Jim looked at Veronica, then Brannigan. "Sir, we need to talk to you."
Brannigan, expecting some minor technical problem with the Battlecraft, took a sip of coffee. "What's up?"
"Veronica and I are getting married," Jim said.
"Well, I suspected--or I thought--maybe something might be going on," Brannigan said. He chuckled, "So you two have been fooling around?"
Veronica frowned. "What the hell do you mean fooling around!"
"I didn't mean that like it sounded," Brannigan said. "Sorry. I mean, I wasn't really aware of a serious romance going on among us."
"We've been real careful," Jim said. "But it's something that's bigger than both of us." He grinned and shrugged. "Isn't that what they say in the movies? Anyhow, a very sincere and lasting relationship has come out of the situation."
"Well," Brannigan said, "I'm in a service marriage, as you know. I don't want to throw cold water on your hot desires, but I have to tell you that there are times it can be rough. Lisa and I have gone through some touchy situations, and that includes coming close to breaking up."
"I'm not staying in the Navy," Veronica said. "My ETS is up just after the first of the year. I already have a job offer from an electronics firm in San Diego. Since I was going to take it anyway, it'll work out just fine for both of us. So, I'll just be a serviceman's wife."
"Okay," Brannigan said. "It seems you both have really looked into this thing." He shook hands with Jim and hugged Veronica. "Congratulations and best wishes."
"I want you to be my best man, Skipper," Jim said.
"You got it," Brannigan said. "But we're going to have to keep a lid on this until after the mission. Be careful where you ... well... where you meet, okay?"
"We understand," Veronica said.
Jim laughed. 'There's a lot of empty space around the ship since there's not a Marine battalion or a chopper squadron aboard."
Brannigan set his coffee cup down. "I'm happy for you both. Lisa and I'll have you over for dinner real soon."
"You see, darling," Veronica said to Jim. "Our social life is already starting."
.
FORTRESS MIKHBAYI
27 OCTOBER
1000 HOURS LOCAL
MIKE Assad, dressed in his al-Mimkhalif uniform complete with pakol a
nd the stolen Webley revolver in a holster on his pistol belt, strode down the dock toward the Royal Yacht Sayih. He glanced over the wharves, where various types of small craft were tied up. The area was immaculate without oil spots, trash, or debris lying about. Mike chalked that up to Sheikh Omar Jambarah's time spent in a British military academy. If there were any folks that really knew spit and polish, it was the Brits.
He went up the gangplank of the yacht where the bodyguard Taa stood watch. Mike's new preferred status with the sheikh precluded any more rude searches of his person, and the pistol on his hip didn't get as much as a second look from the thug. Mike made his way to the stem deck, then turned to go down the passageway that led to the women's quarters. A small sitting room was located just aft of the cabins, and Mike found Hildegard reading a magazine while she waited for him. She stood up and they kissed.
"I wish we could for a walk go," Hildegard said. "Or at least on the deck to relax in lounge chairs."
Mike looked around. "Where are the other women?"
"They are where we eat up forward," she said.
Mike glanced through the viewing window on the port side and could see that Taa stood at his post by the gangplank.
Mike looked beyond and got a complete view of the wharf area. "Come herehe said. He waited for Hildegard to come up close, then he whispered in her ear. "We're gonna get out of here tonight. It will be dark and nobody will be able to see you."
"Where to do we go, Mike?"
'To some people who can help you get the justice you want for your friend Franziska," he explained.
"These people, who are they?"
"Never mind," he said. "They can help you, understand?"
"Yes!" she said, excited. "I will pack my things."
"No!" he hissed angrily. "The last thing you want to do is make people think you're leaving. It is important. Just dress comfortably for a trip over the ocean. Make sure you have a long-sleeve shirt and slacks, okay? And the wide-brimmed beach hat you have in your wardrobe. You don't want to get sunburned."