A Final Broadside

by Buddy Worrell

  Amin roared in laughter again and handed the arms dealer a typewritten list of items that he needed delivered within thirty days. Rithipol eyed the list and agreed that all of the items could be procured within the stated time frame.

  “Even the MIGs?” Amin questioned.

  “I can have the used MIG-19s delivered from Ukraine to Tripoli within two weeks. The price includes another two weeks of training and familiarization on the aircraft by Libyan Air Force officers and technicians. The balance of the request will be delivered to you directly by the end of the month. Will that be satisfactory?” Rithipol queried.

  “More than satisfactory,” Amin answered. “Please excuse me while I make the call authorizing the payment you requested.” Amin picked up the phone and dialed a zero. “Tell my driver to deliver Dr. Chin’s box to his aircraft immediately.”

  Rithipol bowed deeply to the dictator; shaking his hand somehow seemed unsanitary. Amin rose and returned the bow.

  “If you are dissatisfied with any of the articles I deliver, you know how to contact me. I guarantee all of my transactions.”

  Amin flashed his toothy smile, and Rithipol departed to his aircraft and to oversee receipt of his payment: $35 million in Ugandan gold bullion. With all in order, the Gulfstream roared down the runway and into the blue central African sky, destined for Tripoli and then home to Geneva.

  As the sleek jet climbed into the cloudless atmosphere, a voice came on the intercom. “Dr. Chin, would you like some refreshments?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mohammed. But first, please contact our sister ship circling Kampala and cancel their mission for today.”

  The copilot answered, “Immediately, sir!”

  Rithipol had several more dealings with Idi Amin over the next few years, and all were very profitable. But in 1976, when Amin allowed a hijacked Air France airliner traveling from Tel Aviv to Paris to land at Entebbe and gave aid to the hijackers, Rithipol knew the beginning of the end was upon the Ugandan dictator.

  The Israelis invaded the airport to rescue the hostages, killing all of the hijackers and destroying several MIGs and armored troop carriers in the raid. The hijacking and aiding of terrorists so outraged civilized society that most of Amin’s benefactors abandoned him.

  The last project that Rithipol handled for Amin was his and his family’s escape from Uganda. With the economy in ruins, his ministers defecting, most of his army in full mutiny, and the soldiers of Tanzania threatening the capital of Kampala, Rithipol was contacted by the regime of Muammar Gaddafi to lead a rescue mission to extract Amin and his family from the Ugandan capital. Libya was interested in distancing itself from the dictator, so use of a third party to do the extraction seemed prudent.

  Rithipol and several of his protégés flew to Kampala in a Libyan Mi-4 helicopter and landed on the palace grounds in Kampala even as skirmishes were as close as five miles away. The protégés gathered Amin, his five wives, his twelve children, and their multiple trunks and suitcases and loaded them into the Soviet-era transport chopper. The last piece of luggage was the last of the Ugandan treasury’s gold bars and required a hydraulic lift to load on board.

  Amin was disarmed by the protégés (which he fiercely resisted) and seated near the front of the helicopter. The wives and children were loaded into the rear area and seated for the flight.

  Just then, several mortar rounds exploded near the palace grounds, and the sound of small arms fire was almost upon them. Rithipol engaged the massive rotors, and the craft rose from the palace grounds and northward toward Libya.

  When they landed in Tripoli, a staff car quickly took Amin away to meet with Gaddafi. His family and their luggage were loaded onto several troop trucks and taken to downtown hotels.

  One box was not off-loaded. Rithipol had arranged with the Libyan regime to take whatever Amin tried to steal from the treasury as payment. If the booty was not deemed sufficient (it would be assessed during the flight), he was to land the chopper in the Libyan desert, kill all on board, and destroy the helicopter with explosives planted on board. No traces were to be left, and Amin would soon be forgotten.

  As fortune would have it, the gold bars were worth several hundred million dollars. As a gesture of good faith, Rithipol agreed to transfer the gold to the Libyan Central Bank and take payment in Libyan dinars. He saw no problem with this because the Libyan currency was backed by huge reserves of crude oil, and he would convert the dinars into Swiss francs immediately upon reaching home.

  Rithipol never heard from “His Excellency President for Life, Field Marshal Alhaji Doctor Idi Amin Dada” again. He heard that the Amin entourage moved with an offer of asylum to Saudi Arabia, where he was rumored to have been paid a handsome stipend to live quietly and stay out of politics. No matter. The relationship had been extremely profitable for Rithipol, even if it was somewhat destabilizing to the Ugandan treasury.

  In the present, Rithipol took a deep breath and closed his eyes, immediately falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  After what felt like a short time, the purr of Ariana’s voice came over the intercom. “Dr. Chin? Dr. Chin? Are you awake?” she called.

  “Yes, my dear, awake and well-rested,” Rithipol answered.

  “I wanted to alert you that we are an hour out of Teterboro, New Jersey. We will refuel and cater the aircraft there before continuing on to our destination in Wilmington, North Carolina.”

  CHAPTER 41

  The Gulfstream landed smoothly at Teterboro and taxied up to a private hangar that had been scheduled weeks before the trip. Rithipol deplaned and went inside to stretch his legs after the long flight from Geneva. There was no one in the lounge area, as he had arranged. The less he was seen, the better he liked it. He would, however, be required to make a speech in Wilmington regarding the construction of his Far East Lithium battery factory and the three hundred high-paying jobs that it would spawn. All the local politicians and dignitaries would be attending, and television news cameras would be documenting the entire affair.

  Because the local welcoming party would be so open and public, Rithipol had chosen his “eccentric billionaire/Chinese tycoon” disguise, consisting of a black Armani suit, black Italian leather boots, a black dress shirt, and a silver silk tie. To put the disguise over the top, he would wear a silver wig, oversized aviator sunglasses, a silver Rolex, several silver rings and bracelets, and Ariana on his arm. Her five-foot-eleven-inch frame would be nestled in a deadly little black dress, and she would be sporting five-inch black stilettos. Rithipol snickered to himself at the caricature he would create in the disguise. But that was his plan—to create a character so unlike himself that he would never be recognized.

  Ariana knocked discreetly at the lounge door and entered to tell him that the jet was fueled and catered and ready to depart at his wish.

  “Thank you, my dear. Are all of the other arrangements finalized in Wilmington?” Rithipol asked.

  “Yes, Dr. Chin. All arrangements are complete as you instructed,” Ariana purred.

  “Excellent, my dear! Then let us depart.”

  Ariana held the door, and Rithipol strode outside and across the tarmac. He ascended the Gulfstream’s retractable stairs, and Ariana followed close behind, pulling the jet’s stairs up behind her and securing the entry door. In a few minutes the Gulfstream taxied out to the runway and was quickly cleared for takeoff.

  “Dr. Chin, we are ready for our takeoff roll,” said Ariana. “We will be departing to the north and then will turn right as we proceed southward toward Wilmington. There should be an excellent view of New York City on our way out. Flying time will be fifty-five minutes at an altitude of 42,000 feet. May we proceed, sir?”

  “Yes, my dear. Please proceed,” he answered.

  The Gulfstream’s engines roared to life, propelling it ever faster down the runway until the sleek airplane lifted into a clear New Jersey morning. Within a
few minutes, the jet banked to the right and made a slow turn southward. As Ariana had predicted, the unmistakable skyline of Manhattan appeared. Rithipol glanced out the window, making note of the Empire State Building and the missing twin towers of the obliterated World Trade Center.

  Extorting a huge sum of money from the US government would not be the same as robbing a collection of third-world dictators. These Americans had proved throughout history to have long memories and to carry grudges for decades when they perceived an offense against them. His would be a very delicate operation, highly dependent on timing, powerful motivation, and persuasion that a payoff was in their best interest in the long run.

  “We are clear of New York/New Jersey airspace and are climbing to our cruising altitude, sir. Would you care for tea and a light breakfast?” Ariana asked cheerily.

  “Just tea for now, my dear—Prince of Wales with two cubes and cream,” Rithipol answered.

  Within a few minutes, Ariana, dressed in her international pilot’s uniform and first-officer stripes, joined him in the cabin, bringing a silver tray bearing the steaming cup of Prince of Wales tea, two cubes, and cream. “Careful, sir. It is very hot!” she warned.

  As Rithipol retrieved the cup, Ariana asked if he required anything else before she returned to the cockpit.

  “Yes, my dear, please hand me my briefcase. I thought I would review some details of this operation.”

  “Of course, sir,” she answered and passed the brushed aluminum case to him. As she turned to go back to the cockpit, she reminded him, “We will be landing in about thirty minutes, sir.”

  Rithipol acknowledged her with a glance and opened the case, taking out several color-coded folders, which he spread before him.

  Several years before, he had been supplying parts and stolen specifications to the North Korean Army to build an electromagnetic pulse weapon—an EMP. An EMP could burn out and destroy navigation systems of aircraft and ships, knock out long-range sensors and communications systems, and fry all manner of vehicle control systems on planes, cars, and ships. Although non-nuclear and nonlethal, a sizable EMP blast could devastate a modern army’s systems and wreak havoc with civilian infrastructure. The problem had always been how to make the EMP blast large enough to produce widespread damage.

  However, that particular problem had been solved by a young electrical engineer working on the project for North. His solution was elegant and profound in that it increased the EMP range from a few hundred yards to over three hundred miles. As fortune would have it, the young engineer had also run afoul of his very powerful supervisor, who was threatening to accuse him of disloyalty and treasonous tendencies (both punishable by death by firing squad). The young engineer approached Rithipol and offered the EMP and its range solution to him for safe passage out of the DPRK.

  Rithipol was aware of the significance of the weapon and how it could become an important tool in his extortion kit. But if he accepted the engineer’s proposal and spirited him and the weapon away from the North, this would effectively shut down his dealings with the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. The ruling Kim family would also put a price tag on his head.

  “Done!” Rithipol replied to the engineer. “Leave the weapon, but bring the solution with you tonight when I deliver several purloined parts and specs to your unworthy supervisor. I will have a jumpsuit for you, and when I load to leave, you come along behind me as a member of my crew. My jet will have us over international waters within minutes of takeoff. They will not discover that you are missing for at least an hour. Once we are out of harm’s way, I would like to talk to you about a position on my staff in Switzerland. I can always use a talented engineer like yourself.”

  The plan worked without a glitch, and the engineer and his revolutionary solution to the EMP range problem were now Rithipol’s property. As an added bonus, Rithipol had been able to apply a garrote to the bellicose supervisor’s throat during their meeting, leaving him with a crushed larynx, airless lungs, and a deeply severed carotid artery.

  In the present Rithipol looked up from his files and smiled as he remembered the encounter.

  “We have been cleared for landing, sir,” Ariana announced. “Touchdown in three minutes!”

  Rithipol gathered his files and returned them to the aluminum case. He would review the balance of the files when they reached the rental estate. Figure Eight Island was private, with its own bridge passing to the island from the mainland. It was close to the airport and an easy drive to the city. The tourists and summer renters were gone, and with the exception of a few locals, he would have the island to himself. The Gulfstream landed easily at ILM, Wilmington International Airport, and once off the active runway, it taxied to the Jet-A Aviation hangar and offices.

  Rithipol could see the armored Cadillac Escalade parked and awaiting their arrival. Ariana had done well! The Gulfstream rolled to a stop, guided by the Jet-A ground crew, and wheel chocks were put in place as the wheel dolly was secured.

  Ariana unlatched the front entry door and lowered the stairs. “If you will remain on board, sir, I will make sure that all arrangements are complete and satisfactory and that your luggage is loaded into the limo. I will then come back and accompany you to our ground transportation.”

  “Excellent, my dear!” he replied.

  CHAPTER 42

  Ariana descended the Gulfstream’s retractable stairs and walked quickly over to the armored Cadillac Escalade, where she met a representative of the limo company and signed some papers. She then entered the offices of the Jet-A Aviation Company to confirm the service, fueling, and hangar for the jet. In a matter of minutes, she was back at the foot of the Gulfstream’s stairs.

  “Dr. Chin!” she called out. “All is satisfactory, and we are ready to depart.”

  Rithipol appeared at the entry door and was assisted down the steps by Ariana. They walked the few feet to the Escalade, and she opened the back door, bidding Rithipol to be seated. She deftly moved to the driver’s seat and started the SUV. The pilot would remain with the Gulfstream and on twenty-four-hour call in case of the need for a hasty departure arose.

  The trip to Figure Eight Island was short, and they were immediately granted passage across the private bridge onto the island. Figure Eight had long been a private playground for the rich and famous, including a former vice president of the United States, CEOs of major corporations, and even several famous movie stars, all desiring the privacy offered by the island. The beaches were pristine, and the homes were valued in the multimillion-dollar range. What the island did not offer, boasted a sales brochure, was “shopping centers, hotels, traffic and tourists.” The location was perfect for Rithipol’s plans—private, close to the city of Wilmington, close to the airport, and minutes to international airspace on the jet.

  Ariana pulled the Escalade up to a large, three-story house facing the Atlantic. She pushed the remote to open the garage door and parked the car in one space of the four-car garage. Rithipol remained seated, waiting for Ariana to open his car door, which she did, offering her hand to assist his exit.

  They walked to the elevator and pushed the button for the third floor. As they ascended, Ariana explained that the house had a reverse floor plan that placed the main living areas and kitchen facilities on the top floor, affording the best views of the ocean and beaches. The elevator door slid open to a broad and expansive living, dining, and kitchen area. The furnishings were reminiscent of those one would find in a home in the Bahamas. Multiple flat-screen TVs adorned the walls along with a massive stereo system and surround-sound speakers. A large granite bar separated the kitchen area from the rest of the great room and was equipped with top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances.

  A fully stocked wine cooler and cellar was attached to one end of the kitchen along with a separate walk-in humidor displaying several varieties of Dominican, Jamaican, and Cuban cigars. At the other end of the great ro
om was a door to a separate guest room and bath, where Ariana would reside.

  “Would you like some refreshments, sir?” Ariana asked. “Perhaps some champagne and freshly shucked local oysters on the half shell?”

  Rithipol took a seat in a large floral-patterned chair and answered, “That would be lovely, my dear!”

  Ariana went to the superbly stocked refrigerator to find an array of delights that she had requested from the caterer earlier that day, calling in from the Gulfstream at 42,000 feet.

  She prepared a silver tray with a layer of finely crushed ice and placed exactly twelve oyster shells in a circle, surrounding a half lemon wrapped in a fine mesh for squeezing. She then placed a single large fresh oyster in each shell and added to the tray a silver cup of cocktail sauce and oyster forks. She drew two chilled flutes from the freezer and a bottle of Dom Perignon 1982 from the wine cooler. Ariana deftly uncorked the bottle, filled the flutes, and placed them on a separate silver tray for serving.

  Stepping into the living area, she served one flute to Rithipol and took the other for herself. Raising her glass, she proposed a toast. “To Dr. Chin, author of another successful project!”

  Rithipol raised his glass, and they both drank deeply from the flutes. Ariana pulled a small table over close to Rithipol’s chair and placed the silver tray containing the oysters within his reach.

  “My dear, you have outdone yourself. All arrangements to this point have been impeccable,” Rithipol said.

  Ariana smiled and bowed. “Please enjoy these offerings while I attend to the luggage. I will return shortly to refresh your glass and, when you are ready, accompany you to your sleeping quarters.”

  Rithipol smiled in agreement, and Ariana departed.

  He relished the delicate oysters combined with the finest of champagnes, and feeling refreshed and satiated, he turned to his aluminum briefcase and retrieved the folders he had begun reviewing on the trip to Wilmington. His meeting with the mayor and city council of Wilmington, along with the county commissioners of New Hanover and Brunswick Counties, would take place in two days. At that meeting, the mayor would introduce Dr. John Chin, president and CEO of Far East Lithium Corporation, who would in turn announce the construction of a new production facility to be located approximately fourteen miles west of the city in open land and adjoining Brunswick County.