The Crisis (14 page)

 

THE baking-grass stench met them halfway down the ladder. An eye-watering cross between marijuana, pipe tobacco, and nerve agent. Kaulukukui gagged. “What
is
this shit? Ever smell anything like this?”

“Smells like a fucking pot party.”

“That's right, you're from Hollywood.”

“I'm not from fucking
Hollywood.
I'm from Laurel Canyon. And this ain't pot.”

“Want me to go back on deck?”

“Sure. Fuck, no, I want you here to carry me back up if I pass out.”

“I could lower a line.”

“What good's that gonna do me, I'm passed out?”

“I can put a hook on it.”

“Get down here.” Obie dropped to the deck and pulled his Streamlight.

“Here's something interesting,” he said a minute later, trying to breathe shallow. “Look at this.”

His light picked out the corner of a wooden box. The stinky stuff was bits of broken leafy stems, still green though the leaves were wilting in the heat. Someone had hacked it into four-inch chunks, bagged it in burlap, and laid it in the boxes. But that wasn't what he thought was interesting. Nor was it the boxes. Those were just heavy, roughly finished softwood, many with broken sides or slats, as if someone had wrenched them open with a sharp tool ten minutes before quitting time. No, what he found fascinating was the stenciling.

“
Ver
-y interesting. Type 69. Sumo. Know what that is?”

“Rocket-propelled grenade.”

“You got it, Jeopardy Man. Let's see there's any live ones here, okay?” They began tossing sacks around, pulling boxes out from beneath them. A strobe flared as Kaulukukui took a photo.

 

TWENTY minutes later Teddy staggered off the ladder, on deck again. Behind him Kaulukukui lurched like a broken robot. The big Hawaiian had started muttering something that sounded like “kwoo, kwoo, kwoo,” and didn't seem able to stop. Teddy squinted in the sunlight, hacking and spitting. He felt like when you took too many of the amphetamines that were part of every SEAL kit, except worse. His brain was a popcorn kernel in a microwave, about to blast out the top of his skull. His heart was racing like a Yugo with a busted engine mount, and he kept jerking and flinching. “You feel okay?” he muttered to Kaulukukui.

“My mouth is as dry as fifty-year-old pussy.”

The crewmen stared so deadpan it was obvious they were this close to bursting out in guffaws again. Oberg scowled, gripping his MP5, to make sure they didn't.

Someone on
Shamal
was watching through the Big Eyes, because they were on the radio right away. “Boarding Party, Alleycat. What you got over there?”

Teddy clicked the radio, still trying to breathe and stand up at the same
time. For some reason he wanted to do high kicks, like a Rockette. “One here. Ah, it's qat. Tons of it. Which explains why he was in such a hurry. Shit loses its kick three days after it's picked.”

“Copy qat, correct? That's his prime cargo?”

“His
whole
cargo. Question is, where's it from? He says Ashaara City, but I thought it was closed down. And what's he running on the back end? 'Cause from his logs, he's making this trip two, three times a month.”

“Say again, One. You're talking too fast to copy.”

“Uh, yeah.” He glanced at Kaulukukui. “Ah, Sumo's not feeling too good. Those fumes were toxic, man. We're gonna take a break here . . . short break. Yeah. But first. What the qat's packed in. Wooden crates stenciled NORINCO. China North Industries Corporation. With model and lot numbers for one hell of a shitload of rocket-propelled grenades.”

He faintly heard Geller and Lenson discussing it. Finally the CO came on. “Oberg,
empty
boxes?”

“Check. Empty. Turned over about a quarter of the cargo, no joy. Then we had to get out of there or we were gonna start drooling.”

“All right. Get ready to retro.”

He stared at Sumo.
What the fuck
, the Hawaiian mouthed. Teddy clicked the Motorola. “Say retro, Skipper? Evidence of arms smuggling here.”

“Empty boxes aren't a violation, Petty Officer Oberg. Unfortunately, neither is qat. Not by Yemeni law, and that's a Yemeni-flagged vessel. We have no standing to hang on to this guy. Lawful commerce in international waters.”

He started to protest, then shrugged. “You're good to go, Driftwood,” he told the skipper.

“Good to go? You mean, free to go?”

“Right, free to go. Go on, di-di the fuck out of here.”

The guy grew a big grin, as if he'd just crapped in his worn black polyester pants. Those teeth looked even worse now that the qat fumes were magnifying every crevice and pore of whatever Teddy looked at. The captain threw a lever and took station behind the wheel. The engines cranked wearily, then built to a pounding roar.

“I can't believe this,” Teddy's partner muttered.

“Me neither. Say qat's legal here, and the crates aren't evidence.”

“Legal. So, how about we bring some back? Chew it when we're off watch?”

“Shit, all I did was breathe the fumes and I've got a worse hangover than I got off that Kahlua and schnapps shit you made up for us at Jillian's.”

“Kahlua's rich in vitamin K.”

“Yeah, and you're rich in vitamin B, Sumo. B for big-assed Hawaiian bull cookies.”

They were hitching their trou, patting down to make sure they had their gear, getting ready to go aft to the boarding ladder, when the radio crackled again. “MIB, Alleycat.”

“Go ahead. Over.”

“Team leader, step outside pilothouse.”

He raised his eyebrows at Sumo. “Say again, ah . . . all right, got it, Skipper. Stepping out.” He eased the door to the wheel house closed. Through it the captain watched. “Go ahead.”

“Teddy, we've got a closing contact. He's in that haze off to the southeast, but his track, we ran it back, it's on a converging course with your boy. They might have had an exchange planned.”

He grinned and double-clicked the send button.
Fun,
he mouthed to Sumo through the grimy window. “Could be interesting, sir. What's the plan? Over.”

“I'll fade south four, five miles. Low as we are, we'll be out of sight. Heave to and pretend to be fishing, if they're watching their radar. Run your RHIB over to the port side, under cover of the hull. Have your skipper resume previous course and speed. Maybe we can nab two birds with one stone.”

“Especially since we can't touch this one legally.”

“Affirmative, but gun up. Pull your sixty out of the RHIB, get it on deck. Just in case.”

He didn't answer this, so he could say later he hadn't heard it. Their machine gun was on the bottom of the Red Sea, but if he told Geller that, he'd pull them back aboard and stand by with the PC, and the other ship would turn tail as soon as it saw their silhouette. If it really was a smuggler.

His eyes met Kaulukukui's.

No need to say a word.

 

THE little guy with the bad teeth didn't like it, but given the circumstances, he couldn't protest. What was he going to say—“You messed up my drug rendezvous”? Teddy yelled down to Lazaresky to run around and tie up on the port side, and to load his shotgun. The bowhook looked up, eyes wide.

Back inside, to pass the word to Cooper and Dooley. The 60 would've helped, but four SEALs with MP5s should be enough, and if they needed more, they had the two combat shotguns in the RHIB. Neither Lazaresky
nor the bowhook, whose name Teddy had forgotten, were probably exceptional marksmen, but that was what shotguns were for. “I'll make it quick. Everybody out of sight until we see what this new guy at the party's gonna do. Geller thinks he might be here for the qat.”

“I'm here for the beer.”

“Fuck's wrong with you two?” Dooley frowned. “Who punched your fast forward? You're actin' like a couple of fifteen-year-old girls.”

“Fuckin' hold's solid with that joy weed they chew. Contact high.”

“Contact high, huh? You guys kill me. Beavis and Butthead. Prob'ly snorted half of what's down there. Where the hell's Lazaresky going?”

Teddy explained, looking at the trawler's captain. Whose smile had been replaced by a sick look, and whose worry beads rattled like dice in a cup. “So, ship's headed off to the south. Us, we'll stay out of sight until he's alongside. Then see if this's the other half of the deal, maybe nab some arms smugglers. Any questions?”

There weren't, and he told Mickey and Vic to head aft, keep an eye on the crew but stay low, out of sight, and leave the channel clear on the bone mike. “Oh, and get Lazaresky and the bowhook midships with shotguns and full bandoliers.” He squinted into the glare and caught a speck far out in the brilliance that must be the incoming contact. They had to get out of sight. A uniform would be a dead giveaway.

A scuffle and squeak behind him. He turned, to see the skipper floating in midair like a scruffy angel halted in midflight.

“Fucker was going for the horn,” Sumo said. His biceps bulged, but he didn't seem to be straining to hold him up. The skipper's toes kicked for the deck.

“Who are these guys?” Teddy asked him. Going by the old saw: Ask 'em when they're in pain. “What you meeting them for? They your customers for the qat?”

The Hawaiian's grip must have tightened, because the guy's face started to go purple.
“Bass,”
he whispered.
“Bass.”
Enough.

“Make it simple for him,” Sumo suggested.

“Listen to me, Driftwood. These your customers out there?”

“
Aiwa. Aiwa
. Yes.”

“Now we're talkin'. Not so bad, is it? They buy your qat?”

“Is not mine. But they buy. Yes.”

“For what? Cash? Weapons?”

He didn't answer. Teddy looked out the starboard side window, to see the other ship gaining detail. Maybe a mile now. “Your arm getting tired yet?” he asked his swim buddy. Sumo shook his head. “They trade what, Jack? Work with me here. Things can get a lot worse for you.”

“Trade guns. Yes.”

“Kind of guns?”

“Don't know words.”

“Machine guns? Grenades? Stinger missiles?”

“Grenades.”

“Chinese?”

He nodded and Teddy winked at Sumo. A double thump as the guy's shoes hit the deck, followed by his ass as he collapsed. “Get up, you ain't fuckin' hurt,” Teddy told him. He pulled the throttle back to what he figured was dead slow. The engine-beat fell to a putter.

He'd been thinking about how to deploy, and come to the conclusion the wheelhouse gave the best field of fire, field of view, and control of the situation. He removed his cap and took a knee at the starboard door, where he could see the approaching ship but not be made even with glasses. Kaulukukui took the port side. The skipper sat whimpering and wiping his nose with the back of one hand, kneading his neck with the other. “Suck it up, you ain't hurt,” Teddy told him again.

“Charlie Babbitt twisted and hurt his neck. Serious injury,” Kaulukukui said.

“What's that from?”

“
Rain Man.
Don't you think he looks like—”

Teddy grinned. “He does look kinda like Dustin.”

“Lose ship. Lose cargo,” the captain moaned.

“Ain't a thing we can do to the cargo, Jack. It's yours, free and clear. All we want's whoever's pushing the RPGs. Now
that's
contraband, anybody's book.”

“Kill family,” the guy whined. “Al-Sheekh, he will kill family. Those his grenades.”

“Well, whoever Al-Sheekh is, he's gonna have to write it off. Maybe he can get a tax break, huh?”

“Here.” Sumo was holding out something to the guy. Teddy blinked. “Want a Slim Jim?”

Kaulukukui got back a look of disgust, fear, and revulsion. “He doesn't want your Slim Jim,” Teddy told him. “Put it back in your pants.” He raised up a little and checked the other ship. “Nearer.”

“
Definitely
nearer,” Kaulukukui said.

“Try to warn these assholes again, you're the first one I shoot,” Teddy told the skipper. “You transfer cargo out here? At sea?”

“At sea.
Aiwa
.”

“At sea,
definitely,
” Kaulukukui said.

“Shut up, Rain Man. Christ.”

They waited, then Teddy peeped again. The other was a coaster, longer than the dhow, with a container lashed down on deck. Maybe that was where they stowed the ordnance. Easier to dump, if they had to. On the other hand, you wanted to keep your explosives cool. Out on deck in this sun the inside of a container could hit two hundred easy. Hot enough to bleed the binder out of a shaped charge. Heads were moving around on the foredeck. He cleared his throat, trying to slow his heart down. Excitement, but probably still some of the effects of the fucking qat. Man, the stuff had an unpleasant high.

The skipper got up and stood at the wheel watching the other ship, panting like an overheated dog.

Sumo. “Man, wish we had Jelly Man and
Shamal
back of us.”

“We do.”

“Four miles away. What if these dudes resort to violence?”

“Like always. Take the fight to the enemy, man.”

“Wish we had that sixty. Lay down some covering fire.”

“Well, we ain't got it. Can get you that guy in the ghetto hat, get you his bolt action, though.”

“Fuck you.”

Yeah, it'd have been nice, but he wasn't worried. They had six-shooters. More than enough to take a merchant.

Gradually the coaster neared. It sheered off for a time, as if waiting for a signal, but the skipper insisted there was no signal. Even a headlock in Sumo's beefy arm failed to dislodge that insistence. Teddy did a comm check with
Shamal
and thank God got them. Geller asked if he wanted them to come in. “No sir, they haven't committed themselves yet. Soon's they do, we're gonna need you here in seconds.”