Battlecraft (2006) (2 page)

KUPANG, TIMOR ISLAND

7 SEPTEMBER

1030 LOCAL HOURS

THE
Greater Sunda Shipping Line that operated out of Timor Island had been grandly conceived and named by its Indonesian owner, Abduruddin Suhanto. When he started the business with an inheritance from his grandfather, he entertained himself with fantasies of becoming a rival to the famous shipping magnate Aristotle Onassis. And, like the Greek tycoon, he would have hundreds of romances with beautiful women, then marry a stunning and famous American lady of high class. Maybe even a film star.

Unfortunately, his dreams deteriorated rather quickly and he never developed the contacts needed for lucrative shipping transactions. Politicking and socializing were not Suhanto's fortes. He ultimately ended up with a list of shady clients who operated in the darkest shadows of legal commerce. These customers did not pay well, if at all, and his fleet ended up as a quartet of fifth-and sixth-hand cargo vessels with documentation that had been changed, counterfeited, and transferred so many times that it was impossible to trace the rust-streaked tubs' original ownerships.

After a bit more than twenty-five years, Suhanto was now in as bad a physical condition as his ships. He was a fifty-year-old bloated wretch with a multitude of illnesses that had been brought on by shocking excesses of rich foods, alcohol, and sex. His feet were so swollen that he could wear nothing but flip-flops, and he walked with a heavy shuffle. His round face, which should have shown a healthy swarthy complexion, was faded and patched with a network of capillaries that ran through his cheeks and nose.

Suhanto's home life was as miserable as his business. The woman he'd drawn in an arranged marriage by his parents had been overweight, whining, and homely. This was a far cry from the comely svelte women he'd dreamed of in his youth.

Over the years of misery, the wife grew even worse. He had taken a second bride of sorts by purchasing a twelve-year-old girl in Thailand fifteen years ago. She was now moving into middle age and had adopted the first wife's love of chocolate candy and indolence. The two fat women now conspired together to make their husband's existence a living hell. Suhanto had lost all interest in having sex at home. He sought release for his infrequent passions between the legs of his favorite sexual partners: adolescent girls available in the city's brothels.

The shipowner's commercial life, however, did improve a bit after years of struggle. Suhanto began to realize a profit when his main business evolved into a busy smuggling operation. He turned out to be excellent at organizing such activities and his ship's captains were skilled at putting those plans into actual practice. The Greater Sunda Shipping Line made most of its profits in the drug trade, hauling heroin from Southeast Asia to rendezvous points where it was further transferred to the profitable markets in the West. While Suhanto made great sums of money in the business, he also lost a great deal of it through the payment of bribes and kickbacks. Also, a lot of his cargo was stolen away when crooked law enforcement caught him at sea. They simply took over the ship and made the delivery themselves. After collecting all the money, they released the captain to take the vessel back to Suhanto. Those corrupt officials knew that sooner or later they would catch the same ships yet again for more financial gain. After a few such scores, these clandestine pirates were smart enough to let a few vessels complete their runs. After all, if Suhanto made no profit at all, he would abandon the drug trade.

But this particular day was one that might bring a permanent and advantageous change to Suhanto's shipping activities. An Arab gentleman had sent an emissary to arrange for a meeting. The stranger had a smuggling proposition that would not involve narcotics. Suhanto knew it would mean arms shipments, and to him the change would be a step-up in life.

The shipper reached into his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch whiskey. After taking a deep drink, he replaced the liquor and belched. The warmth from the alcohol spread slowly through his bloated body in a soothing way. He felt encouraged from this preliminary stimulation of alcohol. A knock on the door interrupted his reverie. His clerk, a spindly old man named Bachaman, stuck his head into the room.

'The gentleman you are expecting has arrived," the old man said.

"Show him in "

A moment later a slim Arab man with sharp features and a scraggly beard stepped into the office. He wore an ill-fitting Western business suit, and his hair was pulled back into a sort of ponytail arrangement. He nodded politely to Suhanto.
"Sabahil kher, Assayid Suhanto.
My name is Hafez Sabah."

"Good morning" Suhanto said, returning the greeting in the same language. "You know I speak Arabic, hey?"

"I know many things about you, Mr. Suhanto."

"Please sit down, sir," Suhanto said, not too pleased about that particular revelation.

"Thank you," the visitor said, taking a chair on the other side of the desk. "It was most accommodating of you to see me on such short notice."

Suhanto, who did not like idle chatter, got to the point. "What can I do for you?"

Sabah, taking the hint, cut to the chase. "My organization would like to make use of your four ships."

Suhanto shrugged. "I am involved in an especially profitable association at this moment, Mr. Sabah. You would have to offer me a most attractive proposition to lure me away from my present activities."

"I am well aware of your true situation," Sabah said. "You have a business that is either feast or famine. My proposition will even things out for you."

Suhanto ignored the affront. "What is it you would require of me and my fleet?"

"My organization wishes you to pick up goods at certain locations at sea near the Philippines, and make delivery to our people along the Pakistani coast."

"And what organization might this be?" Suhanto inquired.

"We are known as al-Mimkhalif," Sabah explained. "That is an acronym that stands for al-Mujahideen Katal."

'The Warriors of Fury?" Suhanto commented. "I've heard much about you on television and in the newspapers."

"I am sure you have. We are organized under the blessings of Allah to deal with the misguided brothers of Pakistan and Afghanistan," Sabah explained. "We have many connections around the world."

"Am I to understand that this will involve weaponry?"

"Of course," Sabah replied.

"Very well!" Suhanto said. "Payments for such enterprises is traditionally made in American dollars."

"We will pay you in Saudi rials."

Suhanto was thoughtful for a moment. "Mmm. That is acceptable. The currency of Saudi Arabia is steady and dependable. What terms are you offering?"

"You will be paid all expenses; including your crew's salary," Sabah said. "Additionally, a daily total of three hundred rials will be added to that amount."

"I should think a thousand rials would be more convenient."

"I am not going to bargain with you," Sabah said calmly. "Allow me to reiterate. You will be paid your costs plus three hundred rials daily while you actually work in our service."

"Unacceptable!" Suhanto exclaimed pulling out his calculator. He punched in some numbers. "That is only one thousand one hundred twenty-five American dollars."

"You have no choice, Mr. Suhanto," Sabah informed him.

"I refuse!"

"You are going to Hell, Mr. Suhanto," Sabah said. "You are a Muslim, yet you are not a faithful follower of Islam. I can smell liquor on your breath now. What other laws of Allah do you outrage? Perhaps eat pork? No daily prayers?" He paused. "By serving us, you have a chance of being forgiven for your transgressions and allowed to enter Paradise rather than spend eternity burning in flames tended by Satan and his demons."

"I am not a religious man," Suhanto said. "Such talk means nothing to me."

"Then, if you choose not to serve Allah, our spiritual leader will issue a death sentence against you."

Suhanto's pasty complexion blanched even more. If a member of the Islamic clergy condemned him to be slain, the man who committed the act would do so in the belief it was the way to eternal rewards. There would be countless applicants to perform the deed.

"I accept your terms"

"I am pleased, Mr. Suhanto," Sabah said, standing up. "You will be contacted within the week for your first assignment."

"I shall give you a list of the normal expenses of running my ships."

"We have already figured that out," Sabah said. He turned and walked to the door. When he opened it, he looked back at his host. "
Ilal lika
--I shall see you later."

Suhanto sat pensively for several minutes. He was not a fool. The fact that al-Mimkhalif had bullied him into being their shipper meant they were in trouble. The terrorists' former supply routes had undoubtedly been hit hard and possibly destroyed. Perhaps their ranks were rife with betrayers.

This was a situation where a prudent yet daring man of intelligence could profit greatly. Suhanto happily poured himself another scotch.

.

FLORIDA STATE ROAD 528

8 SEPTEMBER

0830 H0URS LOCAL

JIM
Cruiser drove the rental Pontiac with Senior Chief Buford Dawkins sitting in the passenger seat. Wild Bill Brannigan dozed in the backseat as they rolled eastward on the highway called the Beach Line toward Merritt Island.

Cruiser noted the sign informing them they had entered Brevard County. But his mind wasn't on their location or even the purpose of their visit to Florida. "Everybody at the naval base is still talking about nothing but Mike Assad," the lieutenant remarked.

"It's obvious as hell that he's been sent down deep into some highly classified operations," Dawkins responded.

"I've heard of that happening," Cruiser said. "But I thought it was all bullshit."

"No, sir," Dawkins said. "Now and then an individual guy gets tapped for a special assignment. We'll probably never find out the full story even if he comes back alive."

The conversation between the two woke up Brannigan. He looked around, then yawned and stretched. "Are we there yet?"

"We're getting closer," Dawkins answered, pointing at an exit. 'That's State Route Three."

Brannigan took a quick look at the directions provided them back at the Naval Amphibious Base. "Go north to Pine Island Road."

"North to Pine Island Road. Aye, sir!" Cruiser said with a grin.

"Knock off that Navy shit," Brannigan growled.

Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the junction, and Cruiser made a left. He drove slowly down Pine Island Road past several orange groves as he headed for the combination home and factory of John and Harry DuBose.

This was an area known as Old Florida where the tourist spots, high-rise condos, and other features of the twenty-first century had not penetrated. Most of the residents were the home-grown variety of Floridians who dwelt happily in cleared areas amid the tangled vegetation, canals, insects, snakes, and alligators in bucolic isolation. The majority of these good people worked for modest salaries, getting by on limited income since their lifestyles did not demand much money. They supplemented their earnings with fishing, crabbing, hunting, and home-grown fruits and vegetables.

Cruiser left the main road to follow a narrow track that led toward the DuBose compound. Within five minutes they came to a wide area where a rambling house was situated. It was a two-story structure, well built from good architectural plans, and would easily fit into any exclusive neighborhood. In contrast to the upscale abode, the yard was messy with various types of technical junk that represented either failed or abandoned projects of the brothers. A large frame building on the riverbank was behind the house, and Cruiser pulled up to the structure. He had no sooner parked, then the back door opened and the DuBoses stepped out to greet the SEALs as they got out of the car.

"You're right on time" John DuBose said. "Just what we expected from the United States Navy."

The brothers were dressed in the local uniform of tank tops, shorts, and sandals. The family resemblance was strong, both being tall, slender, and balding. John, the older, was completely gray, while his younger brother Harry was still going through the process of having the original black color of his hair fade from age. John led the way with his hand outstretched as he introduced himself and his brother.

Brannigan shook with him. "I'm Bill. This is Jim and Buford." The skipper was in no mood for a period of aimless chatter. "It's obvious you're aware the United States Navy is interested in that ACV of yours."

"Oh, yeah!" Harry said. "We've been talking to lots of you folks."

"All right!" Jim Cruiser said enthusiastically. He had developed an interest in the vehicle. "Let's have a look."

"C'mon then!" John invited. "We'll show her to you guys." He turned and walked toward the large frame building with the SEALs following.

"Y'know," Harry remarked to himself as much as to the visitors. "We really ought to develop a sales pitch or something. Know what I mean?"

"I suppose," Brannigan said. "But a few words of explanation will be enough for us today."

They went inside the building, which was fully air-conditioned. This wasn't for reasons of comfort; the steaminess of the local summers could spoil a lot of machinery and chemicals that were left exposed. The interior was also as littered with projects as the yard, but these seemed to be getting some attention. Brannigan surmised the brothers worked on whatever their moods dictated on any particular day.

They stepped out another door and onto a dock. The ACV
Waterflyer
was tied up to their direct front. The three SEALs gave the craft a quick look, then glanced meaningfully at each other. There was no doubt this was a well-designed and well-built piece of water-going machinery. The brothers led the way aboard and the Navy men stepped from the dock onto the vehicle. The
Waterflyer
was immaculate, and still damp from a recent hosing-down. Brannigan walked to the stern to take a look at the twin airscrews situated on pylons in front of a pair of rudders.

"Those rudders might be overkill," John remarked. 'The airscrews alone are enough to turn the vessel. As a matter of fact, you can slow the speed down on one and speed the other up for a gradual maneuver in case you don't want to mess with the rudders."

"You can also reverse both the same way," Harry interjected.

"Right," John acknowledged. "Or you can do it faster by turning them as a pair, and the rudders can be used to sharpen the maneuver. That wouldn't be necessary when pushing barges."

Jim Cruiser explained, "In this case, the Navy is looking for maximum maneuverability."

Harry asked, "Aren't they going to push barges or other vessels with it?"

Senior Chief Dawkins shrugged. "We was told they wanted a vehicle that could zip around and change directions quickly."

"Well," Harry said, "the
Waterflyer
can sure as hell do that. Do you want to see the cabin?"

When the Brigands stepped inside, they found an empty area of five hundred square feet with only the barest of steering gear. An open door on the aft side revealed the engine room. Brannigan frowned. "We read an article that said there were some bunks and a galley in here."

"That writer put that in to make it more interesting," John explained.

"Yeah," Harry said. "We told him how the cabin could be configured, and he wrote it up like we had already done it."

"Do you want to take it out for a run?" John asked.

"Yeah," Brannigan said. "That'd be a good idea."

"Yeah" Dawkins agreed. "Let's see her go with a wide-open throttle."

Jim Cruiser asked, "Can you do that on the river?"

Harry shook his head. "We got in trouble for that. Not only the police but the Wildlife Management issued us citations. But we can go out through the locks at Port Canaveral and let her rip on the ocean."

"Let's do it," Brannigan said.

Harry leaped on the dock to untie the bow and stern lines, then jumped back aboard. "All set, John."

John went to the controls, opened the throttle, and punched the starter button. The engine immediately roared into life, then settled back into a steady rumble as the throttle was brought back to a rearward position. Harry picked up an old ten-foot oar that lay on the deck. "We're thinking about adding thrusters to the hull configuration, but I'll have to use this in the meantime."

He set the blade of the oar against the dock and pushed, causing the craft to move out into the waterway. At that point, John took off the clutch to activate the lift fan and the ACV shook a bit as it rose off the water's surface. When the airscrews were powered up, the vehicle moved slowly forward toward the outlet that led to the Indian River. The old salt Senior Chief Dawkins noted that the ride was smooth and gentle, giving evidence of an incredible amount of control.

When they reached the river, John eased out into a position between the channel markers, then turned south. He sped up at the end of the maneuver and began traveling at thirty miles an hour.

Brannigan looked at the bare area where the instrumentation should have been. "Don't you have a speedometer?"

"We haven't bothered with that yet," Harry explained. "We estimated our top speed by running from a condo we know in Cape Canaveral down to the Doubletree Hotel in Cocoa Beach. It's a distance of one and a half miles. We made it in a little less than sixty seconds."

"That's ninety miles an hour or a bit more," Cruiser remarked.

"Right," John said. "When we get some serious offers, we'll install the correct instrumentation to get accurate, scientific measurements."

They continued on the route, being careful to stay in the channel. After ten minutes, John turned the
Waterflyer
toward the Barge Canal, which connected the Indian and Banana Rivers. He had to slow down considerably because of the manatee warning signs that limited both speed and wake in an effort to keep boats from colliding with the large, slow mammals. They went under the Christa McAuliffe Memorial Bridge, continuing on past Sykes Creek and down the canal until they reached the Banana River.

As they drew closer to the locks, Harry pulled a handheld radio out of a backpack hanging on the bulkhead. He raised the lock authority to make arrangements to pass through. The SEALs had a little trouble figuring out what sort of communication device it was. Harry noticed their curiosity. "John and I designed and built the radio," Harry said. "It works fine."

"But still another goddamn project we couldn't sell," John said with a laugh.

The trip took them past Port Canaveral and out into the Atlantic Ocean. Now John eased the course to ninety degrees to go due east off the Space Coast. He pushed the speed up for a quarter of an hour before wheeling starboard to face 180 degrees.

"Open it up, John!" Harry yelled happily.

"Wait a minute!" Dawkins interjected. "Isn't there anything to hang onto?"

"You won't need it," John said as he pushed the throttle to a wide-open position.

The
Waterflyer
eased into the run, quickly and steadily gaining forward momentum. Within moments it was at flank speed as Harry grinned proudly at their passengers. "Isn't it beautiful, gentlemen?"

"My God!" Brannigan said. They stood as steady as if they were still tied up to the dock. "This thing is fantastic."

The ACV roared across the choppy waves without a waver. John made some turning maneuvers, including a figure-eight, then zigged and zagged both gently and violently. After a few minutes he eased back on the throttle. "Any of you want to try it?"

"I'm pulling rank," Brannigan announced. "I'll go first."

'That's pretty chickenshit, sir," Dawkins complained.

"I agree!" Cruiser said.

"RHIP!" Brannigan crowed as he hit the throttle.

Harry leaned close to his brother's ear. "I think we got a sale!"

Chapter 2.