by Sean Blaise
It was highly unusual for a Russian helicopter to land on a U.S. Aircraft carrier in the middle of a hostile area. But high-level calls had been placed from the Russian defense minister to his compatriot in the U.S. Naval service. The permission was then kicked up to headquarters, and a confused secretary of state was called by a Sandra O'Connor from the New York Times. Sandra asked for a comment on the miraculous international effort between Russia and the United States to aid a U.S. Citizen who was wounded in a vicious pirate attack.
The secretary naturally reacted as if he was already in the know and agreed that it was a great day for international relations when Russia and the United States were able to work together to help a citizen in need.
The secretary of state then called Naval Command for an explanation, and the de facto permission was given to the already ongoing operation.
The Russian helicopter was met by two F-16 fighter jets who were part of the carrier battle group and escorted the chopper onto the Enterprise. The helicopter touched down and the Enterprise hospital staff met the crew as they opened the doors. John was loaded onto a gurney and wheeled away immediately. Considering the strings that had been pulled to get this man on board, it would have been a publicity nightmare to lose him.
The Russian pilot shut down the helicopter, its blades slowly coming to a halt before he disembarked. The Enterprise refueling master approached and shook hands with the pilot as he requested a fuel quantity and type from him. The quicker the Russian helicopter was gone the better.
The helicopter pilot walked away from the helicopter being refueled and looked around. He couldn't help but notice the security team standing not far away. He admired their subtlety. If an American helicopter landed on a Russian Aircraft carrier, he had no doubt it would not be the same. He lit his cigarette and admired the size of the ship. It was truly impressive. He was honest enough to admit, Russian equipment didn't even come close. The ship was nearly spotless. He watched as a large burly man, with a chest full of medals walked across the flight deck toward him. Perhaps he had been wrong about the treatment.
"My name is Captain Jones," the man began, holding his hand out.
The pilot wasn't surprised to see the navy photographer lining up his shot. He threw his cigarette down and held out his hand and put on his best propaganda smile for the cameras.
John was wheeled into an operating room and the doctor took his vitals.
"Blood pressure is crashing, we need blood stat,” he said as he opened John’s shirt. John was cold and pale to the touch and unresponsive. One nurse stuck a fresh IV in his arm while another attached chest probes to record his heart rate. It was low, 40 beats per minutes and dropping. They were losing him.
The doctor opened John's medical file which Ingrid had sent on the helicopter with him. It gave his blood type, A, and a host of injuries he had sustained through his adventurous lifestyle. Broken leg, ankles, arms, the lot. There were more than a few screws holding John together.
The doctor nodded to the anesthesiologist, "put him under".
Chapter 50
The old Cessna 206 seaplane took off from the port of Yemen as instructed. It's pilot, nicknamed Angel, was a retired Vietnam veteran. He got the coordinates on his sat phone and consulted his nautical chart of the area. He put the plane in auto pilot. Angel picked up his handheld GPS and entered the pickup waypoint. He used the Velcro he'd attached on the dash and the back of his GPS unit to stick it in front of his steering column. 102 miles to the contact. He turned using his magnetic compass to get the bird on a straight line, then he kicked back. The window was open, the slow speed of the bird at 115 knots made for a nice cool breeze on his face. Not bad he thought.
Angel was used to delivering ransom packages to the pirates, not picking up some. But, hey, money was money, and he was an opportunist. His instructions had been clear. Conduct a fly over of the area, ensure that the man had a case, and then land the seaplane. Pick up the passenger and return him to Yemen. A few hours work, twenty grand.
Abdul was losing the battle with the seawater. The boat was low in the water, not more than four feet from sinking. He was pushing his body to its limits by throwing bucket after bucket overboard, and still it seemed the water seeped in endlessly. Every time he emptied the bucket, he could see the dark finned sharks, slowly circling, waiting for the inevitable meal. He already felt their jaws closing around his limbs, tearing apart ragged blocks of flesh to devour. He could feel the ghostly presence of Faris and the others, who had already crossed over the threshold into the abyss of the afterlife. They whispered that he should just give up, that maybe it wasn't so bad after all. He wanted to. He was bone tired. Each limb was painfully heavy, as he forced them to rise over and over again. The sea had turned mockingly placid, smiling at him as she did nothing but wait for his slow demise.
He was being punished. He wasn't taken by a quick bullet, or even the spear, he was being teased into thinking he could live when the outcome was all but determined. He was meant to fear, imagine, and see his death in his own mind a hundred times before it finally happened. That was his torture.
Finally, he snapped. He was done, he couldn't lift one more bucket. Abdul dropped the bucket and slid down the back of the boat. He felt the cool water around his legs, and his back groaned as he finally rested on the bulkhead behind him. It felt so good. The cool ocean water was like a blissful respite from the beating rays of the sun. He closed his eyes.
He dozed off until he felt a splash of water on his face that awoke him. The boat was nearly gone. Just three feet of freeboard remained, he felt renewed panic when he realized the immediacy of his impending doom. He stood up, and he saw something he couldn't believe. A ship headed straight for him.
Abdul rubbed his eyes to make sure it wasn't a mirage caused by his dehydration. But there was no mistaking it. A large ship was bearing down on his location. He was saved! Not yet he thought. The vessel was still miles away and he had a problem. Already his mind began turning from doubt to hope. He needed to appear innocent, not a pirate. He knew ships treated pirates harshly and might even refuse to pick him up.
There was evidence everywhere. He rushed over to Jamil and grabbed him. He dragged him to the side of the boat and lifted him up. His arms were so tired that Jamil slipped, his face meeting him eye-to-eye, and he tried not to look at his accuser as he flung him over the side. He ran over to Hamoud next and dragged his body through the water till a little seemed to flow through the large hole in the middle of his chest. He dropped him over the side without ceremony. Lastly, he turned to Faris, his longtime friend.
"I'm sorry," he said. Abdul dragged Faris over to the gunwale of the boat. He picked his burly partner up and lifted him over the side. With an unceremonious splash his friend too was in the water. He watched in morbid fascination as the sharks circled, closer and closer around the three bodies, each one waiting for the another to make the first move. Abdul saw a large fin break the surface at high speed and he watched as the large mouth opened to take in half of Faris's torso in a single bite before ripping him below the surface in a large pool of red. It only took a few minutes of splashing before all three bodies were gone, ripped below the sea by the silver beasts.
Abdul looked and saw the ship ever closer, seeming to slow down. He could see people on board moving around and pointing. Abdul found the guns and threw them also into the sea. He found the case of money, and despite a pang of guilt, he knew it would be seen as a dead giveaway by a merchant ship that he was up to illicit activities and he needed to appear to be just a poor fisherman having a bad day. He opened the case enough to fill it with water and he threw it over the side. It sank its shiny surface shimmering below the waves. He took the sat phone and waited. He knew he would have to lose it. No African fisherman would have it, but it was also his last lifeline.
Abdul looked at the ship and there was no doubt, they were lowering a gangway down the side to retrieve him. He was saved. He could hardly believe his good fo
rtune. I beat them again, he thought, as he dropped the sat phone over the side, and waved up at his rescuers.
“Lower the gangway," Bae yelled into his radio at his bosun. "Come alongside the vessel's port side and standoff one hundred meters. I want four men, armed, with me."
The Tsung Tao's orange rescue boat was lowered down over the ship's starboard side as the first officer slowed the ship to a crawl at 1 knot. The bosun rode down with the rescue boat and once it touched the surface, he uncoupled it from the ship. The motor started on the first pull and he sat on the back seat while he drove to catch up to the passing ship. Captain Bae was already standing on the gangway hanging over the side a couple feet above the ocean.
The first officer placed the engine controls in All Stop and let the Tsung Tao drift slowly to a halt in the calm seas. He could see the black vessel, in the last throws of sinking and a man waving from the stern of the vessel.
"Bring it in!" Captain Bae shouted at the bosun in the lifeboat. The bosun did as he was told and crashed loudly into the side of the ship. Captain Bae said nothing as he jumped in followed by four of his deckhands with automatic weapons.
Abdul could see the little boat approaching and he smiled with relief. He was going to make it. The boat made a wide loop, and then came straight for him. He mentally went over his story in his head, fisherman offshore, men washed overboard. He would think of something. And he was lucky that most of the evidence, like bullet holes, were already hidden below the sea.
As his rescuers approached, Abdul noticed their weapons and he felt a moment of dread. Out of the frying pan and into the fire Abdul thought.
Chapter 51
Alexi met Dmitry in his cabin. Dmitry hung up the phone and turned to him.
"I have placed a call to the Greek, I have not heard back yet. I've ordered the backup helicopter on standby for shipment to our next stop. Which was my next question, where are we going next?"
Alexi sat down wearily. He took the case from his desk and opened it. He looked inside.
"It is all confirmed," Dmitry said.
"Then our plans cannot be changed by this attack."
"Do you think the attack is related?" Dmitry asked.
"I honestly don't know yet. As you said, Abdul is a mercenary, not a pirate. That means someone hired him, paid for him to attack us. Could be a simple ransom job. We were in Yemen more than long enough to attract some unwanted attention from the criminal element. But we can't be sure they weren't after this," Alexi said, closing the case.
"What's next?" Dmitry asked.
"We need to stop and repair the Ivana and retrieve John. We also need figure out who Abdul worked for. Dubai is the best port to conduct the repairs, but I fear being in the Middle East would only encourage whomever just failed to act again. We must stop somewhere unexpected, out of close reach. Mumbai will work, and we have friends there. It's nearly the same distance.
"Shall I tell the captain?"
"Yes. I'm going to lie down for a while," Alexi said.
Alexi laid back in the large bed and closed his eyes. Dmitry picked up his satellite phone and looked at his friend momentarily. Alexi was tired and looking every bit the frail old man that he was.
Chapter 52
Abdul tried to put on his most innocent smile, although he had little experience in attempting a face that was not intimidating. He saw the men in the rescue boat were heavily armed, more so than he would've thought typical of merchant ships; but Abdul had no real reference as he had never been one for the sea. He knew this part of the world was dangerous to ships, and he had to assume that the crews would take measures to arm themselves. The larger mother ship had slowed to a drift and hung back not a half-mile distant.
The Asian man in the front of the craft had a look of determination on his face. That he was Asian was a good thing. The more communication problems they had the better until Abdul made his way to shore. He waved and tried to appear friendly, but the man in the front of the boat was having none of it. He aimed a handgun at Abdul as the boat came within range, and he fired off a shot, causing Abdul to jump for cover. But there was nowhere to go. He peered up at the man, who motioned for him to stand up and place his hands on his head using pantomime gestures. Abdul complied with a more than growing unease about his saviors.
The little rescue boat pulled alongside the mostly sunken speedboat, and two of the men jumped into the pirate speedboat. One trained his gun on Abdul, while the other poked his head down below into the now flooded forward cabin. He made a thorough search of it, but there was nothing to be found. It was odd, Abdul thought, what were they looking for? The leader still stood in the rescue boat holding a steady bead on Abdul's face with his handgun when he tossed a worn pair of handcuffs to Abdul, still without speaking. Abdul reluctantly caught them and put his hands behind his back. He closed the cuff's shut loosely around one wrist, then the other.
Captain Bae jumped into the pirate speedboat. He grabbed the AK-47 from his deckhand and strode forward with purpose through the waterlogged boat. Abdul did his best to smile and appear friendly and confused. That's when Captain Bae smashed the butt of the gun into Abdul's face breaking his nose and knocking him out.
Captain Bae, shouted at his men in the speedboat, and they lifted and dragged the prisoner back into the rescue boat. Bae looked around and saw nothing out of the ordinary. His second officer appeared from below decks.
"Nothing sir."
"Keep looking!" Bae shouted. Bae took a close look around. They had barely a minute left before the boat would sink. He tried to find the cause of the boat's leak, and he found the holes that Abdul had blocked with cushions and clothes. Clever, the man had bought himself enough time to be rescued. He ripped the clothes bundle from the hole and studied it. It was an impact, something had come through the hull, but there wasn't much more he could make out from that. He looked aft at the engines and was surprised by the triple engine arrangement. Clearly this was not a fishing vessel, but a go-fast boat. He walked to the engines and that's when he had the final proof. Very clear bullet holes were made in the engine cases. He shoved a stubby finger into one of the holes and found it penetrated deeply. High powered rifle .50 Caliber. The yacht was armed after all. This would be information that would get him points with the bosses in Pyongyang.
"Let's go," Bae shouted in Korean as he jumped back into the rescue boat. The other men followed, and they pushed off the pirate boat as it quickly sank beneath the waves.
"Look," the bosun said pointing in the distance at object still floating.
"Take us to it," Captain Bae said. The bosun gunned the motor and turned the rescue boat in the direction of the large yellow object. Captain Bae studied it closely as the bosun carefully steered the rescue boat around it. It was large and yellow, like a pontoon or a float. He didn't know what it was, but he would find out.
"Get it," he shouted to his men. They scrambled to pick it up, but it was heavy and waterlogged. One of the men slipped, and his knee collided with Abdul's prone body which was lying on the bilge floor of the rescue boat. Abdul stirred at being hit, and the men had a laugh. Even Captain Bae cracked a small smile.
"Hurry fools!" Bae shouted. They obeyed.
Captain Bae was happy. He had one of the yacht’s attackers. His employer would be very pleased indeed.
Chapter 53
Angel, the seaplane pilot, was struggling to stay awake. He always did on these flights. The constant, numbing drone of the engine, coupled with the warm breeze made for a perfect nap. He bobbed his head down once more taking a micro nap when he awoke as the plane stumbled into some turbulence. He sat up and tried to clear the cobwebs out of his eyes. He opened his thermos and poured out another cup of the strong black brew the Arabs loved. It was also probably one of the root causes of his new ulcer. He consulted the GPS and saw he was only 5 miles from the given coordinates.
He reached for the binoculars and peered ahead. Nothing but a vast expanse of blue. The glare from the sun
made it hard to see. He planned to fly over the spot and turn 180 degrees with the sun at his back which would make spotting a vessel much easier on his aging eyes. Not that it would be hard. The sea was a glassy calm that was stunning to behold. He even made out a ship in the distance, headed to a far-off port. The long trail of its smokestack washing up into the air, a vicious skid mark on an otherwise spotless azure sky.
Twenty minutes later Angel dropped the plane down to a steady three hundred feet. He loved flying close to the mat, and it wasn't too bold considering his old bird was designed to land in the seas anyway. He flew over the coordinates on his first pass and saw nothing. He continued for three miles past before making his turn. On his second pass the same result. Angel climbed up to a higher altitude and began a slow racetrack pattern search to his port. He made long ever widening loops in the hopes of spotting the vessel with the pirate he was supposed to be picking up. A half hour later he still saw nothing. He was about to turn around for the final time and head for port when he spotted it. A black spec on the horizon.
Angel felt his heart rate jump as he centered in on the object. He dropped the plane down again to three hundred feet and eased back on the throttle for a nice slow pass.
It was a jet ski, shot full of holes. He performed another pass and began heading for home. There was nothing here. He picked up his sat phone and dialed the number.
"Nothing to report. There is no vessel, it's gone."
"Are you absolutely sure?" The Sheikh asked.
"Sir, I've spent nearly an hour looking. The sea is flat calm, there is no way I could miss it. A vessel of that size would be easy to spot. Must have sunk."
"And you are in the right area?" The Sheikh asked again.
Angel bit his tongue. Stupid rich people had no understanding. Like he would make a mistake. He flew sorties in Vietnam, through napalm smoke, and still he got his bombs on target. Angel stopped. He knew he would say none of it. After all, stupid rich folks were his meal ticket.