Operation Caribe (2 page)

Their success had brought them much wealth—and a reputation for being able to handle virtually any job. They were also undeniably American in looks and demeanor. Hard-bitten, hard-drinking, cynical, bitter—and very tough. Though they were all in their late 30s, each man looked old beyond his years.

The prince finally addressed them. “I admire your past accomplishments. You’ve done some brave and amazing things in the past few months. In fact, from what I’ve heard, someone should make a movie of you. But I must be clear: We are in an entirely different situation at the moment, one that is only matched by the unusual circumstances that led me to ask you here.”

“And what are those exactly?” Nolan asked him.

“That’s my LNG ship out there and I want it back,” el-Saud told them. “But obviously, considering the cargo it’s carrying, there can be
no gunplay
involved in its recovery. One bullet in the wrong place and the whole ship and everything around it will explode like an atomic bomb. So…”

The prince nodded to his aides. They wheeled in a laundry cart carrying four enormous satchels. Each looked to weigh a couple hundred pounds at least.

“This is the ransom,” he said. “Two hundred million dollars—all in five-hundred-dollar bills, just as the pirates demanded. All I want you to do is deliver this to them so I can get my ship returned to me.”

The team was bewildered.

“You called us here just to deliver a ransom?” Nolan asked.

The prince nodded. “The pirates refuse to allow any military to be involved. No U.N. No Red Cross. I need someone I can trust to handle such a large amount of money. And besides…”

He let his voice trail off.

“Besides what?” Nolan asked.

“Besides, one of the pirates’ demands is that
you
make the ransom transfer.”

Nolan was taken aback. “Us, specifically?”

“Yes, by name,” el-Saud said. “They are insisting that you and your associates act as the middlemen, or there is no deal.”

“This smells like a setup,” Nolan said.

“That’s because it is,” the prince said bluntly. “Like everyone else around the Indian Ocean, these pirates know who you are and what you’ve done. We’re listening in on their radio transmissions. Your names have been mentioned; your history has been discussed. I don’t have to tell you how these pirates feel about you. You’ve killed their brothers, their cousins. So, they’re probably going to kill you once the ransom is delivered, just to increase their reputation in the pirate underworld.”

Nolan almost laughed. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “These mooks say the only way they’ll release the ship is if
we
deliver the ransom to them. And the reason they want us to do it is so they can kill us and increase their street cred. Yet, we won’t be allowed to take any firearms with us to protect ourselves?”

Everyone at the other end of the table nodded. “That’s it in a nutshell,” el Saud said.

“And actually, gunplay will be impossible,” Colonel Zamal interjected. “The pirates are being very aggressive about searching anyone coming aboard. They even brought metal detecting wands with them. It would be impossible to carry a firearm aboard that ship.”

“How do you know all that?” Nolan asked him.

For the first time, Zamal indicated the man in the doctor’s scrubs. “They allowed Dr. Bobol here aboard to treat one of the pirates injured in the takeover. He went over in the Spanish ship’s helicopter. Tell them your experience, Doctor.”

“I was frisked three times,” Bobol said. “Then I was buzzed with wands another three times. They did everything short of molesting my private parts and doing a full cavity search. They, on the other hand, are heavily armed and seemed quite willing to shoot me had I stepped out of line, stray bullets be damned. They have the frisking process down to a science. They will detect any weapons on you immediately—and when they do, they will kill you instantly, and not later on. I’m sure of it.”

A silence descended on the room. Nolan thought for a few moments, then asked: “Are there any Americans aboard the ship?”

“No.”

He turned to the man in the bad suit and sunglasses. “Then why is the ONI here?”

The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The team knew he was an agent from the U.S. Navy’s Office of Naval Intelligence—his cheap suit gave him away. ONI was basically the CIA of the seas, and because of Team Whiskey’s ex-Delta, expatriate status, the little-known agency had been a thorn in their side since they’d started their maritime security business. This also explained the presence of the shadowy USS
Messia
nearby.

“We are here on an unofficial basis,” the ONI man said finally. “Purely in an advisory capacity.”

“Put that through the bullshit meter, please?” said Nolan.

The agent’s face turned crimson. “We’re here because the gas in that carrier came from Qatar; Qatar’s export partner is ExxonMobil,” he admitted. “And we want to protect their interests. As well as those of the Saudis and, of course, the prince himself. But, for the record, the ONI feels it’s an impossible situation we have here and, again for the record, we recommend you don’t go through with it.”

Nolan just rolled his eyes and turned back to the prince. “You expect to pay us for this job, right?” he asked.

“Ten million dollars if your efforts are successful,” the Prince replied somberly.

Nolan thought about this, then said: “What if the ransom gets delivered, but we still get popped? We’re just, what? ‘Collateral damage?’ Is that it?”

Again, the prince just nodded. “It is a truly impossible mission,” he said. “And I can understand every reason you would want to turn it down. It seems lose-lose no matter how one looks at it. But I felt I owed it to you to ask.”

Nolan looked at the rest of the team. Each man tapped his own ear twice.

Finally Nolan asked, “Can my associates and I have a few minutes to talk?”

*   *   *

THE TEAM WALKED toward the front of the boat, emerging onto the bow.

Zamal followed and kept an eye on them from a respectful distance. The five Americans were soon locked in an intense discussion.

The Saudi intelligence officer couldn’t imagine what they were talking about. They were being offered a job that could only result in their deaths. What was there to discuss?

Yet, ten minutes later, they were back in the captain’s galley.

“Twelve million,” Nolan told el Saud.

The prince was shocked. “Are you certain?” he asked. “The chances you’ll survive are almost nil.”

“Then make it fifteen,” Nolan said. “You’ll only have to pay us if we succeed, so what difference does it make?”

The Prince thought a moment, then asked: “Seriously?”

Nolan looked at his colleagues. Each man touched his chin.

“Seriously,” Nolan replied. “We’ll take the job.”

Once again silence descended over the galley. The prince and the ONI man plainly were shocked the team was going ahead with it. Even Dr. Bobol looked incredulous.

Again, Zamal broke the tension. “What do you need from us then?” he asked Nolan.

The Team Whiskey leader thought a moment, then said: “First of all, Doctor, please draw us a diagram of exactly where the pirates stood when you went aboard and while you were being searched.”

“And second?” Zamal asked.

Nolan indicated the four large bundles of money. “We’ve got to put that into a few wooden crates and nail them tight,” he said. “We know what it’s like to carry loose bills on a helicopter.”

*   *   *

WHILE THE OTHER team members visited various cabins within the yacht in preparation for the mission, Nolan climbed up to the bridge and got on the radio.

He called the pirates on the LNG carrier ten miles away. The gang’s leader answered.

Nolan’s first words were: “We’ve got a problem.”

“Who is this?” the pirate asked in heavily accented English.

“The people you insisted deliver the ransom to you.”

“You are the Americans? The Whiskey people?”

“Yes.”

The pirate leader said something to someone off the mic. Nolan heard muffled laughter in the background.

“They have the ransom,” Nolan told him. “I just saw them count it. Two hundred million in five-hundred-dollar bills.”

More laughter.

“So—what is this problem?” the pirate leader asked.

“That much money weighs almost a half a ton,” Nolan replied. “And we have only a small utility helicopter. Yet delivering it that way is the only option. We can’t parachute it because that would require a large plane, and it would be a rough landing on that deck. And I understand you don’t want it delivered by sea, is that correct?”

“Yes, it is,” the pirate replied. “Do you have a solution, then?”

“We’ll have to break it up into wooden crates,” Nolan replied. “And deliver them one at a time. There’s no other way.”

A long silence on the other end of the line.

“How many people work for your company?” the pirate asked.

“We are five.”

“Are they all with you now?”

“Yes.”

Another silence, and then the pirate spoke again: “We’d be fools to trust you, so this is what you must do. Deliver the first crate—and leave your four men behind. Deliver the other crates—we make sure the money count is right, then the ship is yours and we let the crew go.”

“Along with me and my men?” Nolan added.

“Yes—of course,” the pirate said quickly.

“One hour,” Nolan told him, again hearing more laughter from the other end. “You can expect us then.”

Forty-five minutes later

COLONEL ZAMAL WAS standing outside the cabin where Team Whiskey was getting ready for their mission. They’d requested this place as their prep room, a lounge that ran off the gigantic kids’ play area.

“You only have ten minutes to get airborne,” Zamal said, checking his watch and banging on the cabin door. “We must stay on schedule.”

The door opened a crack; the man they called Batman stuck his head out.

“What time is lunch served on this boat?” he asked Zamal.

Zamal was thrown by the question. “Anytime the prince wants it,” was his reply. “Why? Are you hungry?”

The man patted him lightly on the shoulder with his hook hand.

“No—not now,” he said, closing the door again. “But maybe later.”

*   *   *

FIVE MORE MINUTES went by. Zamal anxiously paced the passageway. He was more convinced than ever the Whiskey team members were crazy. It was almost a certainty that the pirates would kill them once the ransom money was paid. It was a no-win situation. Yet the team was going ahead with it.

Finally the cabin door opened again, and the five men came out. Zamal had expected to see them dressed in full battle gear, but the opposite was true. They wore no body armor, no military fatigues. Not even combat helmets. They were dressed as before: camo shorts, shirts, sneakers and baseball caps. And they were carrying no weapons that he could see. All they had in hand was Dr. Bobol’s drawing and a letter of terms from the prince.

As they started up to the helipad, Zamal stopped them.

“My apologies,” he told them. “But the prince insists.”

With that, he frisked each member quickly. When Zamal declared them to be clean, they resumed walking toward the helipad, where the crates of money awaited.

Zamal started to follow but then glanced into the empty cabin. It looked unchanged, except for two things. It smelled faintly of ammonia, and in the wastebasket was a handful of torn plastic, the remains of some kind of packaging. Zamal took out the refuse and read the few words he could find on them: One was “Mega Blast.” Another read “Zapper-500.”

Zamal scratched his head, baffled.

“What on earth is this stuff?” he thought.

*   *   *

STRIPPED OF ITS weapons, the copter nicknamed
Bad Dawg One
circled the LNG carrier once before landing on the helipad in front of the ship’s massive stern-mounted superstructure.

The five pirates were waiting. Just as the doctor’s drawing had indicated, four of them were standing in what appeared to be prearranged spots, one at each corner of the helipad. Each was carrying an AK-47 and had a machete tucked in his belt. As predicted, they were dressed like the tanker’s crew and had their faces covered with bandanas save for their eyes. The fifth pirate was stationed on the railing about eight feet above; he held an RPG launcher.

Batman was piloting the copter; Twitch was in the copilot’s seat. Nolan, Gunner and Crash were riding in the passenger compartment in back, straddling the first wooden crate. They were all eyeing the pirates, especially their weapons. More than ever, Whiskey knew one stray bullet, and this corner of the Indian Ocean would go up.

They waited in the copter, engine running, until the pirates motioned them to get out, one at a time.

Again, just as the doctor had said, the team members were subjected to an intense search. One by one, the pirates roughly frisked them, once, twice, three times. Then they played the metal-detecting wands all over their bodies, paying special attention to their boots and belts, looking for small, hidden firearms. Batman’s metal hand and Twitch’s false leg set off the wands, but no weapons were found.

Finally cleared, Batman gave the boss pirate the letter, handing it to him between the metal clasps of his hook.

“This is from the prince,” he told the pirate. “It contains the conditions we’ve all agreed to.”

The pirate took the letter, put it under his arm, and then looked at Batman’s hand appliance. He asked, “Crocodile?”

Batman shook his head and pointed to the pirate on the railing above and said, “RPG.”

The pirate boss smiled, displaying a set of red-stained teeth. He put his AK-47 in his left hand and held up his right, showing that it was missing its index finger. He laughed and said to Batman, “Crocodile.”

“Unlucky you,” Batman said.

Then, in one swift motion, Batman flicked a six-inch razor out of his hook and slashed it across the pirate’s throat.

At the same moment, Twitch yanked off his prosthetic leg to reveal a twelve-inch-long serrated bayonet. He brought it over his shoulder and down on the second pirate, splitting him open from his chin to his navel.