Battlecraft (2006) (8 page)

1315 HOURS LOCAL

THE
Marine guards walked Mike Assad ahead of them as they escorted him to Rod Barker's office. The prisoner was handcuffed and both men carried regulation billy clubs that any veteran of a Navy brig would have recognized. The pair of highly disciplined Marines displayed no animosity toward the prisoner other than a properly stern attitude. When they arrived at the door, one took Mike's arm while the other knocked.

"Come in."

Mike was taken inside to a spot in front of Barker's desk. "Here's the pris'ner as ordered, Mr. Barker," the senior Marine reported.

"Fine," Barker said. "You can leave us. We're just going to have a little chat." He smiled at Mike, then nodded to the Marines. "Let's take off those handcuffs. What do you say?"

"Yes, sir!" the Marine responded. He quickly removed the restraints. "Anything else, Mr. Barker?"

"I don't think so, guys," Barker said. He waited for the guards to exit the office before speaking to his unusual guest. "Sit down."

Instead of sitting, Mike smiled. "I'll stand, if you don't mind."

"Certainly. Suit yourself."

"What do you do around here?" Mike asked.

"I'm the embassy intelligence officer."

"All right then," Mike said. "I'm an operative in Operation Deep Thrust."

"Really?" Barker asked. "What's the weather like?"

"It's a cold day in Hell."

The words of the recognition phrase were so unexpected that Barker stood up. He started to speak, then went to his safe. It took him a few moments to open the security container, and he withdrew a red folder. He pulled a sheet of paper from it, giving the document a careful read for several moments. When he finished, he turned his attention back to Mike. "You're inserted into al-Mimkhalif?"

"Yep," Mike said, now feeling he was very close to getting back to the Brigands. "The name is Mikael Assad." Then he added, "United States Navy SEALs."

"Good God!
This is a hell of a situation, isn't it?"

"Hey, no shit," Mike commented.

.

ACV
BATTLECRAFT

USS
DAN DALY
DOCKING WELL

1500 HOURS LOCAL

LIEUTENANT
Jim Cruiser sat in the skipper's chair watching Lieutenant Veronica Rivers run diagnostic tests on the
Battlecraft's
communication, navigation, and weapons systems. She had been at it for over two hours, using various instruments that read impulses and other evidential data on the condition of each piece of equipment. Although Lieutenant Bill Brannigan had assigned his 2IC additional duties of maintaining the ACV's technical logs, he didn't really have to be there since the results would be printed out. But he was antsy on this day off from patrolling and didn't feel like sitting around in his cabin.

"That
¹
s it," Veronica said, stepping back from the instruments. "It all checks out A-okay as the astronauts say."

"All right," Jim said.

"I'll tell you one thing for sure," Veronica said cheerfully. "Those DuBose brothers put together one bad-ass machine when they built this baby."

"I suppose so," Jim replied.

"Do you want to read the printouts?"

"Hell, no!" Jim snapped. "Put the info in the maintenance log and I'll check it out when I sign off on all this shit."

"Sure," Veronica said, "if that's what you want." She was surprised by her fellow officer's flash of temper. She gathered the printouts and put them in the maintenance folder. "Is there anything else? If not, I'm going up to the wardroom."

"Suit yourself," Jim said grumpily.

He remained seated after she left, staring out the bridge windshield at the activity in the well. They had accomplished nothing during a dozen patrols, but the lack of real achievement in the mission wasn't the biggest thing bugging Jim Cruiser. For the past couple of weeks he had begun feeling a downright boyish awkwardness when he was around Veronica. This was nothing new for the young naval officer. It was always the prelude of his developing an infatuation for a member of the opposite sex. But the last thing he wanted was to find himself in a romantic, sexual relationship with the attractive young woman.

Jim Cruiser was a normal man with normal needs. He existed in a pattern of one-night stands dominated by the unspoken agreement that the coupling was only a temporary, ships-that-pass-in-the-night thing. He even hired call girls from time to time when the opportunity and his financial condition made it possible. All this left him physically satisfied, but emotionally pent up with normal desires for a meaningful relationship dammed like a river. He knew that a romance between him and Veronica Rivers would be a disaster for both of them. But the impelling drive of wanting someone was a hard desire to smother.

Jim abruptly stood up and walked outside, leaping from the deck onto the walkway around the docking well. There was a bottle of Smirnoff's Vodka in his cabin, and he could hear it calling to him.

Chapter 6.

GREEN EMERALD RESORT AND SPA

SINGAPORE

30 SEPTEMBER

1030 HOURS LOCAL

HAFEZ
Sabah, the agent for al-Mimkhalif, sat in the back of the cab paying no attention to the beautiful view as he rode across the causeway from the city to Sentora Island. The trip continued until the taxi arrived at the lobby entrance of the Green Emerald Resort and Spa. To casual observers, Sabah appeared to be a down-at-the-heels but respectable Middle Eastern businessman as he paid the fare and exited the vehicle. The doorman, a serious Malayan garbed in a gaudy uniform complete with aiguillettes, epaulets, and a high-peaked cap with a bill sporting an oak-leaf design, stepped forward looking like a comic-opera field marshal. He offered a salute, but the respectful gesture was dimmed by a glare of disapproval at the disheveled visitor.

"May I help you, sir?"

"I have an appointment with Mr. Harry Turpin," Sabah said. "I don't know his room number."

"Let me take care of that, sir," the doorman said. "May I have your name, please?"

"I am Sabah; a business associate of Mr. Turpin."

The doorman walked to a phone at an outside counter and punched a button that alerted security. "A gentleman by the name of Sabah wishes to visit Mr. Turpin."

"Wait," a voice responded. A few moments passed, then the man came back on the line. "You may send him over."

Now the doorman hung up and spoke to Sabah with genuine respect. "Mr. Turpin is in one of our cabanas, sir. I'll arrange transportation for you." He signaled down to a row of canopied golf carts. A driver immediately got into one and drove up. Sabah got onto the front seat next to the driver. The little vehicle whirred as it was driven away from the main building and out to a narrow street.

They wound around tennis courts, a golf course, driving ranges, and an Olympic-size swimming pool before arriving at a section of Siloso Beach where a long row of luxury cabanas sat along the sand. They came to a stop at the largest, which had a spacious veranda.

Sabah quickly slid off the seat and out of the cart, going straight to the door and knocking. A Chinese houseboy, obviously expecting the caller, opened the door and invited him to enter. The Arab was led across the living room to an outside patio.

"Mr. Turpin will be here presently, sir," the houseboy said. "May I get you a drink?"

"An orange juice," Sabah requested. "Will Mr. Turpin be long?"

"He should be able to join you within a half hour," the houseboy said as he went to the bar to pour a glass of the requested drink. "He sends his apologies for the delay, but an unexpected phone call of some importance has interrupted his daily schedule."

"Quite all right," Sabah mumbled in irritation.

"If you desire anything else of me, please press the buzzer on the bar."

Sabah took a seat at one of the tables, appreciating the outside panorama of beach and ocean as he sipped the drink and waited for the arrival of his host.

.

HARRY
Turpin was the type of scoundrel that only London's East End could produce. He was now close to seventy years of age, and had begun a life of petty crime while still in the knee pants of his generation. By the age of thirteen he had a rap sheet at Scotland Yard that rivaled that of many older criminals. He spent more time in juvenile confinement than on the streets, but he learned the craft of the Artful Dodger well, prospering between times in the lockup. When National Service drafted him into the British Army in the 1950s, he was running several profitable rackets and cons, and had developed a craftiness that won the respect of older gangsters.

As could be expected, his Army career was a total disaster. If ever a young man existed who could not adapt to military discipline, it was Private Harry Turpin. Even several trips around to the back of the barracks where hard-fisted corporals and sergeants treated him to punch-ups, did not improve his attitude. After less than nine months' service, the young hood was demobbed and sent back to Civvie Street with a bad-conduct discharge.

Unfortunately for him, Turpin's attempts to restart his former activities were seriously thwarted by upstarts who had come on the scene during his absence. They displayed an amazingly fierce dedication to territorialism. As far as they were concerned, Turpin was an outsider trying to move onto their turf, and they stopped him cold. The ex-soldier, however, looked up an old friend--a loan shark and fencer of stolen goods--who hired him as a debt collector. Unfortunately for the business arrangement, Turpin was a fellow who succumbed to temptation like a Cockney drunkard to cheap gin. After several months of making collections from his boss's debtors, temptations stimulated by the exposure to all that cash brought him to ruin. He made a clumsy attempt to abscond with a couple of thousand pounds sterling, and the end result was that a contract was issued on his life. This was a no-win situation and, ironically, Turpin had to turn to the military to escape from the threat. He fled the U. K. to join the French Foreign Legion.

The Legion did not care about Turpin's past. In that year of 1958, they were in the midst of a guerrilla insurrection in Algeria, and needed bodies to throw into the fray. They signed him up; gave him a new name--John Morris---and sent him out to fight the insurgents. This time Turpin's attitude toward military discipline was radically changed. Ninety percent of the noncommissioned officers in the Legion during the 1950s and 1960s were World War II veterans of the German armed forces. And this included the elite and deadly Waffen SS. It didn't take Turpin long to figure out they would do much more than give him a bloody nose if he misbehaved; those Teutonic bastards would continually send him out on near-suicidal patrols and raids until a burst of submachine gun fire from a rebel ambusher would rid the Legion of the troublemaker. Consequently, the English hoodlum began to tow the line, did his duty, and even earned a promotion to
caporal
After three years of this enforced good soldiering, the situation turned more to his favor.

When the politicians in Paris decided to grant independence to Algeria in spite of the French Army crushing the revolution, the victorious officers, soldiers, and Legionnaires felt they had been betrayed. In April 1961 a mutiny broke out that spawned such organizations as the murderous OAS, the French acronym for the Secret Army Organization. The resultant bombings, assassinations, and other violence created a vacuum into which
Caporal
John Morris--ne Harry Turpin--flourished. He joined the OAS, first as a gunman, then as a procurer of arms from military arsenals. Eventually, the OAS was brought to its knees through betrayals and attrition. At first this defeat looked bad for Turpin, but he figured out a way to turn the downfall into a private enterprise to benefit him personally. Wheeling and dealing his leftover weaponry wares to African revolutionaries and despots led to great profits, which eventually evolved into a full-scale, worldwide business that sold all sorts of arms to the highest bidders.

Now, over four decades later, Mr. Harry Turpin was a billionaire, still making the big bucks with his ever-expanding enterprise.

.

HAFEZ
Sabah lounged on the patio, languidly smoking a cigarette as he enjoyed the peace and quiet of the upscale neighborhood. It felt good to be away from the sleaziness and hurly-burly of his job. The thing he disliked the most about his assignment in al-Mimkhalif was having to deal with infidels; but as soon as Allah permitted the great Islamic victory over the nonbelievers, that unpleasantness would be permanently eliminated. Such delightful environs as these would be enjoyed by the true followers.

"Ah! Good morning, Mr. Sabah."

Sabah turned to see Harry Turpin stride onto the patio. The Englishman had a bouncy step in spite of his heavy weight. His face was round and rosy and what was left of the hair on top of his head was combed straight back. He went to the bar and poured a double shot of whiskey into a glass, then joined the Arab at the table.

Sabah nodded to him. "How are you, Mr. Turpin?"

"Bluddy great," Turpin said in his Cockney accent. "And 'ow're you keeping?" .

"I enjoy good health, thanks to Allah."

"I expected you to come by for a visit," Turpin said. "In fact, I've been waiting for you."

"What made you anticipate my calling on you?"

"A great big fucking coincidence," Turpin said, smiling. "I bought a cargo of Stingers some days back, and me warehouse man calls up and says they're the very ones I had sold to you not 'ardly a month ago. Blimey, says I, 'ow could that 'ave 'appened?"

"We paid for them, but they were never delivered into our possession," Sabah said carefully as he prepared for some verbal sparring.

"Sorry, mate," Turpin said. "But you see, I paid for the bluddy things again. So they're my property now, ain't they? Wot's the old saying? Possession is nine tenths of the law."

Sabah gave up any idea of broking a deal. "Who did you buy them from?"

"I'm afraid I can't divulge that information," Turpin said. "Business ethics and all that, wot?" He took a deep swallow of whiskey. "I take it you'll be wanting to purchase them again. Or do you 'ave some other type of weaponry in mind?"

"We need the Stingers," Sabah said. "I hope we shall not have any unpleasantness about an increase in the price."

"O'course not," Turpin said. "You Arabian blokes is good customers. I wouldn't want to take unfair advantage of you now, would I?"

"I wish you would tell me who sold them to you," Sabah asked again.

"Can't do it," Turpin said. "I keep me good name by being discreet. But you'll find out soon enough on your own, won't you?"

"It's just a matter of time."

Turpin laughed loudly. "Right! Just a matter o' time."

.