WHATEVER THE COST: A Mark Cole Thriller

by J. T. Brannan

  The innocent blood on his hands would be cleansed, and Allah would forgive him.

  Quraishi opened a window to breathe in the air of his homeland, and the thick heat washed into the room immediately, smothering the overworked air conditioning and clawing its way over his body, sweat rising instantaneously from his pores, soaking his shirt.

  He stood there looking out at Riyadh, thinking about the other reason people tried to ignore the building – it was hideous.

  A gigantic upside-down concrete step-pyramid capped by a huge concrete dome, it was too modern by far for Quraishi’s traditional tastes, and merely another example of the regime’s Western perversions. The architecture of the various ministry buildings had been lauded across much of the world as bringing Saudi Arabia out of the dark ages, but to Quraishi they looked as if they had been designed by an unimaginative American kindergarten child with a box of broken crayons and a sight impediment.

  Quraishi looked again at the people in the streets below him and was surprised to find a tear in his eye. He didn’t know whether it was caused by the memories of his horrifying past working in the Mabahith’s dark dungeons, or simply by his passion to release these people from their chains of slavery, bound as they were to a house of corruption and evil; but whatever the reason, he wiped the tear away, his face hard.

  Now was not the time for emotion; not when there was still serious work to be done.

  He could release all the tears he had when America was destroyed and Arabia had reestablished its true position as a holy land, and a paradise for true believers.

  3

  Cole’s head emerged from the dark waters, scanning the river ahead of him with his waterproof night-vision goggles, an unknowing gift from the dead arms dealer Wong Xiang.

  Cole had managed to access Wong’s computer files through the cellphone’s internet connection, and had soon found reference to several storage warehouses rented in Wong’s name throughout western Java.

  One had been not too far from Serang, a secure lock-up in the small coastal town of Cilegon, and Cole had headed straight there, wanting to beat the authorities before they accessed Wong’s records and made their own way there.

  He had been delighted by what he had found; an arms cache far more impressive than the one underneath Boom’s garden shack. And it wasn’t just weapons; there was military-grade equipment of every type, and Cole realized that Khat had probably only been one of a handful of dealers who supplied Wong’s business.

  He had quickly decided what he needed, packed it all up in a huge military rucksack and a couple of canvas kit bags, and headed for the local ferry port where he’d boarded the last boat of the day across the narrow strait which separated Java from Sumatra.

  Arriving in Bandar Lampung later that same evening, and with nobody showing any sign of interest in the contents of his heavy bags, Cole had rented a 4x4 and immediately set off on the long journey north to Dumai.

  Cole had driven the eight hundred miles to Dumai in one go, stopping only for food and gas, and arrived in the city within twenty hours of getting to the Sumatran mainland. Exhausted, he had rented a cheap motel room to get some much needed rest. Despite his desire to get on with the operation, he nevertheless made sure he slept long enough to fully recharge his batteries, not knowing when his next chance to rest might be; and being alert would be an absolute necessity over the hours and days ahead.

  The long journey through the contrasting jungles, rice paddies and sudden urban sprawl of Sumatra had given him time to reflect on who he was; what he was.

  He was a weapon, and that was all; a weapon as finely honed as any before him.

  He had already killed – how many since leaving Thailand? He had tried to count, but hadn’t managed to get past Cambodia. Who knew how many had died during the chase through that dark jungle, the battle at the temple?

  And did it even matter anymore how many there had been? How many more there would be to come?

  Because Cole knew that there would be more; had always known, ever since his first kill in Iran as a young twenty-year old SEAL sailor just out of training. He had felt it then, and he felt it now; it wasn’t a compunction to kill, just an acceptance of its inevitability.

  Would a Michelin-starred chef ever stop cooking? Would a world champion boxer ever completely get over the urge to hit the bag, just a little?

  Mark Cole; it wasn’t even his real name.

  He had tried family life, and had even loved it, loved those whose lives he had been blessed with.

  But somewhere – somewhere deep down – he had known it would not last. Could not last. That sort of life was simply not a long-term option for a man like him, and as he piloted the heavy 4x4 along the broken, unpaved roads of Sumatra’s rural heartlands, eyes bleary with exhaustion, the realization had hit him like a slap to the face.

  Had he willingly endangered his own family? Had he wanted them to die, so that he could get back to the life he knew and – yes, he could admit it now – loved?

  He simply didn’t know; all he did know was that Sarah, Ben and Amy were not the only family he had lost.

  When he had agreed to leave the life of Mark Kowalski behind, in order to become Mark Cole, a deep-cover contract laborer for Charles Hansard and the American government, he had accepted that he would have to leave his family behind, all believing that he had been Killed In Action on a mission to Pakistan.

  His mother, his father, his two brothers, his sister; grandparents and cousins, nieces and nephews; he had left them all behind in the frozen trailer parks of Hamtramck, Michigan.

  What would they think if they knew?

  And so the hours had passed, one after the other, on the long journey to Dumai; until Cole had fallen into bed with one final thought.

  If he was a killer, he would use his skills – his nature – for a just cause, to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

  He was a guard dog, and he fell asleep to the sounds of howling.

  Upon waking, Cole had then driven further north to a more remote location on the coast, and had used his stolen SCUBA gear to swim to an adjacent island just one mile to the west of the suspected pirate’s lair. He had laid up there and scoured the opposite coastline with his high-powered binoculars for signs of a river or other ingress into the island.

  He had spotted what he thought might be a channel, although it was hard to tell at that distance even with the binoculars; and had then bypassed the island at a safe distance and swam across to the larger island of Pulau Rupat, where he had repeated the procedure for the islet’s eastern coast. On that side he had spotted no sign of a water-based entrance inland, the coast overgrown with vegetation.

  Cole wasn’t able to observe the northern and southern coasts, but they were so narrow that there wasn’t much that he would have missed; and he therefore decided that his best course of action would be a covert infiltration of the small island via the channel he’d identified on the west coast.

  The miles of swimming weren’t a problem to Cole – his years in the Navy SEALs had prepared him in exquisitely demanding fashion for tasks exactly like this, and with fins on, the job was even easier. What was a problem now, as he made his way down the riverine channel which cut a swath through the dense jungle, was being seen.

  He’d chosen to carry out the recon mission at night-time. He’d been confident enough to observe the islet from more remote locations during the day, but when it came time to access the little island itself, Cole knew it had to be under the cover of darkness.

  But he still worried about the pirate gang’s own night-vision devices; if they sourced their equipment from Wong, then it stood to reason that they would probably have the same gear as him. Possibly radar too, although Cole knew it was unlikely that they would have anything sophisticated enough to pinpoint a single human body.

  He didn’t want to swim on the surface of the river – which was, he’d already noted, just about big enough for a vessel the size of the Fu Yu Sha
n to float down – due to the threat of being seen by alert sentries; and so he was forced to swim a certain distance underwater and then emerge at regular intervals to observe the riverbanks around him. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.

  Treading the warm water beneath him, Cole scanned the northern bank first, before something caught his attention and drew his gaze southwards. It was at the extent of the goggle’s perception, but Cole was sure he’d seen movement further down the river, on the south bank.

  Knowing he would have to get closer, Cole reentered the water and kicked steadily upstream.

  Two minutes later he raised his head again, looking south.

  Yes.

  There was something here, and Cole looked across the river and tried to discern the green and black images fed to him through the night-vision goggles.

  There was a dark shape, and Cole soon identified it as a cave which cut into the side of the jungle, a tributary from the main river feeding into it.

  Swimming in closer, Cole could soon make out what appeared to be a dock hidden inside the cave, armed men standing guard along a wooden jetty. They seemed alert, switched on; none of them smoked or did anything else to compromise night discipline, but Cole was relieved to see that they weren’t using night-vision devices. Perhaps they were confident that the hideout would never be found, or else never considered the fact that a lone swimmer could prove a danger. Security would probably only be really boosted when radar, or lookouts posted further out, at the entrances to the main channel between the mainland and Pulau Rupat, alerted them to the presence of a suspicious boat in their waters.

  But Cole was sure of one thing; he had found the pirates’ hideout, the lair of Liang Kebangkitan.

  Now all he had to do was find out if the Fu Yu Shan and its crew were still inside.

  The cave itself was illuminated by high-wattage floodlights which ran on huge portable generators, and Cole knew that he wouldn’t be able to surface without being seen. After ditching his SCUBA gear on the far bank – fearful it would leave a tell-tale stream of bubbles rising to the surface as he entered the cave – Cole swam back across the river with just his fins, submerging as he neared the entrance.

  He knew he didn’t have a lot of time, but slowed down as he entered anyway, careful to check for underwater booby-traps or surveillance devices. He swam over some steel netting which was designed to trap a submersible, but otherwise passed into the lair without a problem.

  He tried to keep to the darkest, most shadowed parts of the water, knowing that if he was seen, he would be dead – and the pirates would be able to carry on keeping their hideout undiscovered.

  Cole paused, his powerful lungs allowing him to stay submerged for minutes at a time, and slowly let his waterproof portable periscope break the surface of the still waters of the inner dock. He fitted his eye to the rubberized seal of the eyepiece and had his first real look at the base of operations for Liang Kebangkitan.

  The cave was immense, a vast cavern in the hillside; Cole could see a variety of portacabins across the far side of the dock, leading deeper into the cave. In front of them was a row of marine craft including several fast RIBs, and what looked like a fairly large sailing yacht.

  But on the other side – its vast bulk covering the inner channel in the shadow in which Cole was hiding – was the immense cargo ship, the Fu Yu Shan.

  As the periscope tracked across the docking bay, Cole depressed a switch which activated an internal camera in the viewfinder, taking shot after shot after shot of the pirate’s lair.

  Finally he let the periscope come back under and propelled himself silently further inland, until he could feel the rough steel hull of the ship under his hands. He slipped around the ship until he was between the hull and the wooden dock, and – covered in shadow – finally allowed himself to come to the surface.

  He took in a sweet lungful of tropical air, careful not to make any noise as he did so, knowing that a sharp gasp would soon bring people running, and assessed the situation. He had found the ship, but he still didn’t know whether the hostages were here too, or had been shipped out to some other location. Before he contacted the US government, he had to be sure that the crew was here too.

  There was only one thing for it; he would have to go ashore.

  Just over two hours later, Cole was back on the far side of the river, wearing dry clothes and watching the cave entrance through military-grade night-vision binoculars.

  His time in the cave had been short but adrenalin-fuelled, as he crept through the shadows, securing his special equipment in several hard-to-detect places.

  Since slipping back into the warm river waters and swimming back to his observation post on the opposite bank, Cole had already learned a great deal more about the lair, and was ready to make his call.

  He pulled the encrypted satellite phone towards him, and dialed the number for the White House.

  ‘I need to talk to the president,’ he said when the call was answered, careful to keep his voice low.

  He was rewarded by a laugh at the other end of the line. ‘Take a number pal,’ a young man’s voice said with heavy sarcasm. ‘Everybody wants to speak to the president.’

  ‘Tell her it’s about the Fu Yu Shan,’ Cole said as calmly as he could, impatience building within him; here he was opposite the pirate hideout that the entire world was looking for, and he was being dicked around by a kid with a chip on his shoulder.

  ‘The what?’ the voice asked.

  Cole’s patience snapped suddenly; he didn’t have time for this. ‘The fucking cargo ship that was hijacked and everyone in the entire world is looking for!’ he whispered violently. ‘Now get me the fucking president on the phone, now!’

  The authority in Cole’s voice caused hesitation on the other end of the line, and Cole knew the man was weighing his options.

  ‘The president is busy,’ he said eventually. ‘She can’t take unsolicited calls. Who is this? I’ll make an appointment for you to call back when she’s free.’

  ‘Trust me, she’ll take my call,’ Cole assured him, not wanting to play this card, not wanting anyone to know that he was still alive. But what other choice did he have?

  ‘Tell her that it’s the Asset.’

  Ellen Abrams’ blood ran cold as she heard the words –

  I’ve got a call here from someone calling himself the Asset, claims to have information on that hijacked ship, the Fu Yu Shan.

  The Asset.

  Mark Cole.

  A man from the past, a man who had saved her twice; recently, when her own bodyguard had tried to assassinate her, and once a long time before, back when she’d been a senator visiting Iraq on a fact-finding mission for the Senate Intelligence Committee, and Mark Cole had still been known by his real name.

  Mark Kowalski – a SEAL team member from Hamtramck, Michigan; before that treacherous bastard Charles Hansard had got his claws into him and destroyed his life.

  Kowalski had been recruited by Hansard directly from SEAL Team Six into a new group that was being formed, based on the unit known as the Intelligence Support Activity but with an even lower profile, and an even broader remit.

  Only two years into active operations for Hansard’s coyly-named Systems Research Group, Kowalski had been caught on a mission in Pakistan and imprisoned for over a year in a hellish jail in the remote Northern provinces. He had eventually been found – entirely by chance – by Hansard, who’d been visiting the prison on other business entirely.

  Kowalski had already been declared KIA – Abrams herself had spoken at his funeral – and Hansard had made him an offer a patriot like Kowalski found impossible to refuse; become an off-the-books ‘contract laborer’, unconnected to the US government but entrusted with the most dangerous, the most secretive, and the most vital missions in existence; jobs that nobody else was capable of.

  Abrams didn’t know the exact details, but much of the work involved assassinations; apparently Kowalski had learned some f
orm of method while in prison that allowed him to kill without detection.

  But to be completely unconnected to the US government, military, and intelligence services, Kowalski had to be reborn; and so Mark Cole had come into existence, his appearance altered through plastic surgery and a completely new life created for him to fill.

  ‘Mark Cole’ was a diving instructor from Phoenix, Arizona, who lived with his newly-wedded wife Sarah at a beach house in the Cayman Islands; a man whose real job as America’s spearhead covert operative meant that he could be called into action at anytime, anywhere in the world.

  Nobody in the US government who used his services knew who he was; they just knew that if they needed a job doing, they went to Charles Hansard and asked for use of the Asset.

  The Asset.

  A man who had lost his wife and two children and had then disappeared, assumed dead in an inferno that engulfed a house in the Austrian village of Kreith.

  A man she owed her life to.

  She smiled. So she had been right all these months; he was still alive.

  When all those people, part of Hansard’s violently reactionary group known as the Alumni, had perished in that ‘accidental’ fire at the hotel in Mexico, Abrams had wondered if Cole had somehow managed to survive, and had gone on to exact his revenge.

  But he hadn’t reemerged, and she had eventually all but forgotten about him as the months passed.

  But now he was calling about the location of the Fu Yu Shan, and Abrams felt her pulse quicken as she allowed herself to wonder what he had managed to find out.

  ‘Put him on,’ she ordered the secretary. ‘Immediately.’

  4

  An emergency meeting of the National Security Council had been convened, and there were hushed whispers all around the huge conference table as people wondered what was going on; but all conversation died down when President Abrams swept into the room and took her place at the head of the table.