Pirate ah-3

by Ted Bell

  A grinning Ahmed hopped off the desk and withdrew a long, curved sword from the folds of his hooded black djellaba cloak. He said, “A new reality show.”

  “Riveting,” Hawke said, edging closer to the sultan.

  “Isn’t it? It’s called ‘Invitation to a Beheading,’” Ahmed said, flashing the sword before Hawke’s eyes, taunting him, disappointed when he got no reaction from the cold eyes at all. He spun and whipped the hood off the man on the floor. It was indeed Harry Brock. Ahmed placed the blade of the sword gently across Harry’s bare neck. A thin line of blood appeared.

  “Just do it,” Harry Brock said, his voice devoid of any discernible emotion. Ahmed raised the blade.

  “This ain’t happening, Ahmed,” Stoke said, lunging for the traitor and stopping his arm as it came down. The sword clattered on the stone floor. Instantly, four heavyset Arab guards grabbed Stoke from behind and wrestled him facedown to the ground. Stoke managed to fling two away, but one of them pinned his legs and the other had his left forearm jammed up between his shoulder blades. The guy seemed to think he had Stoke in a tough spot.

  Stoke craned his head around and smiled at the snarling gorilla on his back.

  “Rock me, baby, rock me like my back ain’t got no bone,” Stokely said.

  Then, with his right hand, Stoke casually got the man by the throat and dug his fingers into the larynx. The guard’s face was turning blue. Ahmed stuck the tip of his scimitar an inch into Stokely’s shoulder joint.

  “You cut my arm off,” Stoke said softly, “I swear I’ll beat you to death with it.”

  “Stoke,” Hawke said. “Relax. Let him go. Let’s be gentlemen about this.”

  “I’ll let him go soon as they let Brock go…”

  Ahmed lifted Harry Brock to his feet and said, “All right, then. You gentlemen are all going straight to Paradise as soon as we have completed filming your heartfelt pleas for mercy. A casual observer will think you ran into some very nasty terrorists on your way to rescue the sultan.”

  Stoke got to his feet, glaring at the traitor. “Hey, Ahmed. You familiar with that old American expression, ‘Go fuck yourself’?”

  The mercenaries and Chinese guards had the guns leveled on them now. Stoke knew there was little he could do now but wait. Wait and pray Hawke knew what the hell he was doing. He saw Alex look down at his watch and relaxed a little. Hawke was playing for time, all right, and it might just work.

  The French camera crew positioned the digital video camera on a tripod a foot away from the desk. Two floodlights also on tripods were similarly positioned and turned on. In the stark white light, the figure behind the desk, a pale shadow of the man who had appeared before the cameras in Paris just three short weeks earlier, was trembling visibly. On the desk in front of him, some kind of documents. A formal agreement, it looked like. Ahmed stepped behind the man and pulled the cloak from his head.

  “State your name,” Major Tang said from behind the camera. The man at the desk was red-eyed with fear and exhaustion. On either side of him, out of camera range, stood two men with ugly black automatic pistols aimed at his head.

  “I am Sultan Aji Abbas.”

  “Your Highness,” Tang said, “our first order of business. If you’ll please sign the agreement?”

  The sultan picked up the gold pen with palsied fingers and dipped it into the inkwell. With great difficulty, he inscribed his name in the place indicated.

  “What’s he signing, Harry?” Hawke said. Tang smiled and made a sweeping gesture to Brock. Go right ahead, why not?

  “That’s the Muscat Agreement,” Brock said, shaking his head to clear out the cobwebs. “Big bad secret. The French government agrees to supply five hundred thousand tons of tanker shipping toward the establishment of the Omani Maritime Company. OMCO will be exempted from Omani taxes. Ships will fly the Omani flag and the officers will be drawn from an Omani maritime college established and funded by Bonaparte himself. OMCO gets priority rights on all oil shipped to China. Bonaparte gets an initial guaranteed 10 percent of the country’s annual output.”

  “Good idea,” Hawke said.

  “Yeah. Gives France the monopoly on about fifty million tons of Omani oil shipped to China. But Bonaparte knew it couldn’t be implemented without a royal decree. He couldn’t make this fly legally without the sovereign’s signature.”

  “So, now, everybody’s happy,” Hawke said.

  “Yeah. And if this little beauty works, China takes this show on the road. Replicate this scenario in other Gulf States. That’s the plan, anyway.”

  “That’s the plan,” Major Tang said, smiling at Hawke. “Now, if you’d please be so kind, Sultan Abbas, we’ll begin taping your broadcast.”

  The sultan gathered himself and, his voice strong and unwavering, spoke directly into the camera.

  “Tonight, I wish to address the brave people of Oman. As you know, a grave crisis looms over our small nation. Insurgents and insurrectionists are at our back door. In this dire time of our peril and need, I turned to my good friend, President Bonaparte of France. A man whose love for our country knows no bounds. Even now, French troop ships are steaming toward our shores. They will help us repel the barbarians and save us from—”

  The heavy doors were blown off the hinges by the force of the explosion outside. The sound of shouting and automatic weapons fire could be heard just outside the entrance. Stun grenades, both flash-bangs and smoke, were lobbed into the room and immediately exploded, creating deafening, mind-numbing noise and a roiling white fog that obscured everything.

  A momentary smile crossed Hawke’s face as he saw Thunder and Lightning come through the door.

  “Fitz!” Hawke cried, “Over here! I’ve got the sultan!”

  Hawke was trying to pull the old man to the floor and out of harm’s way. Rounds were sizzling overhead, fired randomly in every direction. He’d seen the yellow twinkle of muzzle flames in the smoke not six feet away. It was Major Tang, firing his pistol blindly in their direction, hoping to take out the sultan with a lucky shot. Ahmed, who was barely three feet away, instantly saw what was happening.

  “Death to tyrants! Death to America!” Ahmed cried, slashing downward with the curved blade as he fell, wounded, to the floor. Hawke felt a gush of the sultan’s hot blood splash against his face and the old Arab crumpled in his arms. The sultan was breathing, but his right leg was hemorrhaging horribly. Ahmed had left his blade buried in the man’s thigh. The femoral artery lies deep within the thigh, but if a blade can find it, the chances of stopping mortal blood flow are almost nil.

  “Froggy! Get over here!” Hawke cried aloud. He pressed his balaclava into the sultan’s wound. “Here, Your Highness, press this into the wound as hard as you can. I’ll get help!”

  First he needed a weapon. He saw a boot a foot away and grabbed it, pulling the man wearing it down. The Kalashnikov in his hands clattered to the floor and Hawke grabbed it. He used the butt end of the gun to put the former owner out of his misery, and then came up on his knees. He saw Ahmed, crabbing across the stone on hands and knees. He seemed to be headed for the mouth of the cave. A hundred-foot drop? He wasn’t going anywhere. The firefight was intense now.

  Where was Stoke? Was he down?

  Hawke got to his feet. He had to find Froggy somewhere in this interior cloudbank. The little French sharpshooter and medic was the only one with a prayer of stanching the sultan’s bleeding artery. Hawke had only one thought now: getting the leader of Oman on tape telling the truth. The swirling smoke made identification of anyone in this fight damn near impossible. If he couldn’t get to Froggy, Froggy would have to get to him.

  He aimed the AK-47 straight up, flipped the lever to full auto, and fired a sustained burst at the ceiling.

  “Froggy, I’m going to fire a second burst into the overhead. Make your way to me!” He pulled the trigger and emptied the magazine into the vault of stone.

  Someone was tapping on his knee. Hawke looked down and saw the smil
ing face looking up at him. “Mon ami,” Froggy said, “how may I be of service?”

  Ten minutes later, it was almost over. Thunder and Lightning had taken casualties. Stokely was missing. Bandini had been the first to go down, instantly killed with a clean head shot coming through the door. Two of the Gurhkas had suffered gunshot wounds to the neck and chest but Froggy was tending to them. If they had any chance at all, he’d make sure they got it. Major Tony Tang and most of his men were dead. Tang, Hawke was less than shocked to notice, had been nearly beheaded. Harry Brock was standing over the corpse with Ahmed’s bloody scimitar in his hand.

  The few mercenaries and French regular troops who weren’t dead were either down with injuries or being cuffed by Fitz’s men. Thunder and Lightning, wounded, had struck back with a vengeance. Hawke was sure the searing memory of the grievously injured Chief Rainwater had been in their hearts and minds when they entered the room.

  Fitz had posted four of his commandos outside the door to deal with any curiosity seekers who came to see what all the noise had been about. He and Harry Brock were now helping Hawke with the sultan. They’d gotten the mortally wounded man back into his chair and were tightening the tourniquet Froggy had applied. The Omani sovereign’s breathing was shallow and his pulse was faint.

  “Fitz,” Hawke said, putting a canteen of water to the sultan’s trembling lips, “get the camera set up. See if the lights are still working. We haven’t got much time.”

  “I am worried about Stokely,” Froggy said, erecting the camera in its old position. “We cannot find him.”

  “We don’t have time to worry about anybody but the sultan right now. We need to get this man on record. Damn it, he’s got blood in his eyes. Bring me some water and a cloth, will you?”

  “I’ve no idea who you are,” the sultan croaked, his voice barely audible as he gazed up at Hawke, “but what you’ve done here today is save people.”

  “Bien sûr,” Froggy said, “The camera is recording.”

  Hawke saw the flashing red light under the lens and carefully lifted the dying man more upright in the chair. The sultan seemed to sense what was happening. He placed his hands on the desk, squared his shoulders, and stared into the camera. A steely light came into his eyes and Hawke knew it would be all right.

  “Your Highness,” Hawke said, “I’d like you to finish your address. It’s very important that your people hear your words. The world needs to hear the truth about what is happening this day in your country.”

  “Yes,” Aji Abbas said, “I will do it now.”

  With his dying words, the sultan of Oman did just that.

  He told his countrymen about the treachery and lies of the new French government. Of President Bonaparte, who had betrayed them. He spoke of the suffering his family had endured at the hands of the many Chinese “advisors” and French soldiers who were in Oman illegally. He asked that world leaders, especially England and America, ensure that Oman’s borders were respected and that no foreign troops were ever again allowed on her soil. Oman was a peaceful, law-abiding nation, he said in closing, and, with the help of Allah, the true and just God, it would ever be so.

  The sultan sat back in the chair and closed his eyes.

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” Hawke said, smiling at him. The old man’s bravery in the waning moments of his life was undeniable.

  “Hey, boss,” Hawke heard Stoke say. “Come take a look at this.” The big man had suddenly appeared and was standing at the edge of the cave mouth. The sky behind him was dusky pink.

  “What is it?” Hawke said, not wanting to leave the sultan’s side. The man had only a few more moments to live.

  “Fishing boats,” Stoke said, smiling. “All kinds of damn boats. Trawlers, schooners, little baby scows. Hundred or more of them leaving the mainland and headed this way. Looks like everybody in Oman with a boat and a paddle is coming out to show the flag. Must have heard all the explosions, seen the fires burning. Coming to rescue the sultan’s family and kick the damn Frenchies off this island.”

  Hawke and Brock crossed and stood beside Stoke, neither man believing his eyes. It was, as Stoke had said, a magnificent sight. Perhaps a hundred vessels of every size and description, all lit by the first red-gold streaks of sun, and every one of them headed due east, bound for Masara Island.

  “Where’s Ahmed?” Hawke asked.

  “Down there on the rocks where I left him,” Stoke said. “We had a little disagreement about the future of the world. He lost.”

  “Fitz,” Hawke said quietly, “Could you and Froggy carry His Highness’s chair over here? I think he ought to see this.”

  “Aye, we’re bringing him,” Fitz said. They gently lowered the sultan’s chair to the ground. “What is it?”

  “It’s quite something, Your Highness,” Hawke said. “Just have a look.”

  “Yes,” Aji Abbas said softly, his cloudy eyes taking in the vast armada come to his family’s rescue. “A miracle. Like Dunkirk, isn’t it?” he whispered.

  Then his eyes slowly closed and he slipped away.

  The little boats began to arrive an hour later. It seemed every fisherman and fisherman’s son in Oman had steered his boat across the dangerous stretch of water that lay between the mainland and the island of Masara. Two or three of the tiny vessels had been sunk by the patrol boat before Fitz realized what was happening and got on the radio to tell the French captain and crew it was over. The Fort Mahoud garrison, composed of Chinese and French mercenary forces, had surrendered.

  The patrol boat captain, delighted at any excuse to leave the god-forsaken place, had surrendered over the radio. Half an hour later he was steaming into the dock, all of his crew’s small arms in a pile on the afterdeck.

  Down at the docks, Hawke was standing with Stokely and Harry Brock. They saw Obaidallah’s captain, Ali, and the patrol boat crew helping all the hostages, women and children mostly, into the waiting fishing boats. After a few minutes, they went back aboard their boat to check on Rainwater. They ran into Froggy coming out of the captain’s cabin. He had been in with him for the last hour, doing what he could.

  “How’s he doing, Froggy?” Stoke asked, unable to read the little Frenchman’s expression.

  “The lord, he is still making up his mind,” Froggy said, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, “but I think he’s going to decide in the Chief’s favor.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  The White House

  “MR. PRESIDENT?”

  Jack McAtee looked up from his desk in the Oval Office to see his longtime secretary, Betsey Hall, standing in the doorway. She had the look. Something was up. It was nearly ten o’clock at night and he was only now getting around to reading his goddamn PDB. The president’s daily brief was so sensitive only a dozen people shared it. He was bone-tired. Dr. Ken Beer, his newly appointed White House physician, had told him just this morning that he needed to get more sleep and more exercise. And cut down on the cigars. The bourbon and branch water. And that golf didn’t count as exercise and—

  “Mr. President?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. It’s apparently urgent.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Gooch and General Moore to see you, sir. Assistant Secretary Baker from the State Department is in the Roosevelt Room, if you need him.”

  “Please show them in, Betsey,” McAtee said.

  His national security advisor, John Gooch, and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Charlie Moore, walked in. He closed his PDB file and pushed it aside. Maybe he’d get to it before tomorrow’s report arrived on his desk at 6:45. He got to his feet and moved over to the sofa near the fireplace. Might as well be comfortable. The two men filed in and took the two chairs opposite him.

  “Let me guess,” McAtee said, smiling at each of them in turn, “Something troubling is afoot.”

  Gooch, a tall, thin Boston Brahmin, St. Paul’s and Harvard, spoke first. This was not at all unusual. The NSA talked and th
e JCS chairman listened. Moore would hold his fire until he heard something he and the president would construe as actionable. Sometimes this happened and sometimes it did not.

  “Mr. President,” Gooch said, riffling through a sheaf of reports, “I don’t like what I’m seeing here. There are patterns here that—”

  “Tea-leaf reading again, John?” McAtee said, firing up his Partagas Black Label despite doctor’s orders.

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit more than that. We’ve got French naval assets—here, have a look at the overheads. Time-sequenced satellite imagery shows French assets moving rapidly out of the Indian Ocean into the Gulf of Oman…go ahead, sir, take a look.”

  “What am I looking at?”

  “That’s the nuclear carrier Charles de Gaulle, sir, their flag vessel, and—”

  “Just last month you—or someone—told me the de Gaulle was laid up in dry dock for repairs,” McAtee said. “Her reactors were throwing off too much radiation. The crews were getting sick and suing the goddamn French government.”

  “They’ve apparently repaired her, sir. At least temporarily. Here you’ve got tankers, destroyers, frigates, subs…”

  “Goddamn it, this is an offensive configuration—or am I wrong?” McAtee said, holding up a photo for closer inspection. “These smaller boats here and here are amphibious landing craft, right?”

  “Indeed they are, sir.”

  “So they’re going ahead with this damn thing, John, this invasion.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Goddamn it! Are they fucking nuts?”

  “Not all of them. You can point the finger directly at this man Bonaparte, sir. He’s going to have to be dealt with, sooner rather than later. We’re building the Interpol file now. It’s only a matter of days before we go public with the patricide story.”

  “Guy murdered his own father to get ahead in the Union Corse. At sixteen. You believe that, Charlie?”

  “From what I’ve heard about him, yes, it’s believable.”