Operation Caribe (3 page)

Gunner and Nolan instantly reached into their crotch areas, the one place they knew the Muslims would not search, and retrieved tiny plastic water guns. Both were filled with ammonia. They fired at the eyes of the third and fourth pirates standing about five feet away, causing both to drop their guns. Two kicks to the scrota, two kicks to the temples, and both pirates were dead.

The pirate up on the railing was looking down on all this in shock. The blood, the screams—it had all happened so fast. He finally pointed his weapon down at the team but hesitated. This gave Crash enough time to pull a Zapper-500 toy dart gun from his crotch, go into a three-point stance, and squeeze the plastic trigger. The dart, sharpened to a razor point, hit the pirate in the throat, puncturing his windpipe. The man gagged horribly, fell over, and drowned in his own blood.

And that’s all it took. In a matter of seconds, the pirates were dead, victims of the Muslim prohibition of feeling another man’s private parts. As a result, the ship and crew were safe. And the prince’s $200-million ransom was still intact.

All without using gunplay.

Sort of.

“Lose the evidence,” Batman reminded them.

Nolan, Gunner and Crash calmly walked to the side of the ship and threw their toy guns over the side.

Then, looking around and seeing a job well done, Batman said, “OK, let’s get some lunch.”

PART TWO

The
Other
Pirates of
the Caribbean

2

Easter morning

THE FIFTY-FIVE-FOOT LUXURY yacht
Mary C
was in trouble.

Boaters traveling between Miami and the Bahamas just after sunrise reported seeing the vintage Rybovich sports craft spinning slowly in a circle off North Bimini.

A U.S. Coast Guard HC-130 patrol plane, returning to its base in Clearwater, Florida, flew over the yacht around 8
A.M.
and tried to establish radio contact with it, to no avail. Attempts by the Coast Guard liason office in Nassau to contact the yacht also failed.

With most of its assets deployed elsewhere—a large storm had blown through the Bahamas just three days before—the Coast Guard asked any law enforcement agency with a vessel in the area to head for the
Mary C
and render assistance.

As it happened, a patrol boat belonging to the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Department was just six miles north of the wayward yacht. The twenty-two-foot Boston Whaler, newly purchased by the sheriff’s marine division, was on an early-morning shakedown cruise, checking out its long-range GPS-based navigation system.

The boat had three deputies onboard.

They were sent to investigate.

*   *   *

THEY FOUND THE
Mary C
a half-mile west of where it had first been sighted. It had run out of fuel, so it was no longer going in circles. The deputies used a grappling hook to pull alongside, and then two went aboard, climbing onto its stern.

They called out for anyone onboard, but got no response. Three Daiwa sports rods, already baited, hung in place. Obviously some deep-sea fishing had been planned. Nearby, a case of beer was on ice, along with some vodka and orange juice. Somewhere a radio was playing salsa music.

The deputies called out a second time, but again, there was no reply. The sliding door to the expansive cabin was partially open. They peeked inside.

Nothing looked out of place. Breakfast food and coffee sat on a table surrounded by leather couches. A TV nearby was on, turned to a religious station showing Easter services but with the sound on mute. All the cabin windows were closed and doors were secured. There was nothing unusual on the floor, nothing broken or upturned anywhere.

The deputies shouted directly into the cabin. Again, no reply.

They drew their weapons and stepped inside. It was more of the same. Nothing was out of place. They walked through the sitting area to the galley. It, too, was clean. Glasses, plates, bottles—all secured and where they ought to be. The fridge was filled with food and the vessel had plenty of drinking water.

They moved into the sleeping area, half expecting to find a body or two on one of the beds, a murder-suicide perhaps. But everything in the sleeping area was also in order. It was empty, and while there were no wallets or money lying around, everything else was in its place.

This was getting weird. Both deputies were veterans of the sheriff’s marine division. They’d seen a lot of odd things on the job, but nothing like this.

They returned to the rear deck, holstered their weapons and contemplated the situation. There
were
pirates in these waters, though not the typical kind. They were more like drug addicts and thieves who would board yachts, sometimes in force, and rob the passengers and crew. Most times, they murdered anyone onboard to eliminate witnesses. Coming upon these pirated vessels, though, it was obvious to law enforcement what had happened: Bloodstains, bullet holes in the hull, and signs of a struggle usually told the tale.

But the
Mary C
looked as normal as any boat at sea could look—except it was empty. Not even any towels on the rear deck to hint the occupants had been lost while swimming.

The deputies climbed up to the bridge to find the steering column had not been set to drive the boat in circles; it had just been left unattended with the yacht’s engines pushed half-speed forward. The radio, located next to the controls, indicated the last message: A call to a recorded weather service had been sent two hours earlier. So the
Mary C
had been adrift since 6
A.M.
or so.

“The
Muy Capaz
, maybe?” one deputy finally asked.

The Muy Capaz was a gang of Bahamian criminals who attacked luxury boats at sea to get cash and valuables. Their name, Spanish for “very capable,” was a loose indication that, unlike other gangs, they strived to leave behind as few clues as possible whenever they committed a crime. Though pretty much drug-addled and shabby, the Muy Capaz nevertheless had been known to wipe down surfaces for fingerprints and to clean up bloodstains.

But if some kind of crime had taken place on the
Mary C,
then the boat had not just been wiped down but
scrubbed
down, sanitized and everything put back in its place with mind-boggling efficiency.

“I’m not sure the ‘Muy Capaz’ is this ‘capaz,’ ” the other deputy replied. “Something else happened here.”

“Like what?”

“Like UFOs? An abduction?”

The first deputy barely smiled.

“Don’t even joke about that,” he said.

*   *   *

THEY TOWED THE
Mary C
a mile east, to shallow water, where they dropped its anchor. Then they called the Bimini police, reported what they knew and turned the whole matter over to them.

But no sooner had this been done than the deputies received another call from the Coast Guard. A second boat had been spotted adrift about five miles south of their present position.

Would they please investigate?

*   *   *

THE DEPUTIES CAME upon the
Rosalie
fifteen minutes later.

It was a sailboat, sixty-five feet in length, with two masts. A real beauty. It was moving west, a few miles off the Bimini resort of Alice Town. All its canvas was set, but it was obviously drifting.

It took some adept maneuvering by the deputies to catch up and grapple the sailboat. They climbed aboard and immediately lowered the vessel’s sails and tied off the steering wheel. Then they searched it.

Unlike the
Mary C,
the sailboat did have some life aboard. There were two canaries and a cat inside the cabin. The cat was spooked, though, and hid as soon as the deputies appeared.

The lawmen searched the sailboat stern to bow and back again. Every cabin was empty, but not in disarray. There were no signs of struggle or conflict. As before, there was plenty of food and water onboard, and the fuel tank for the sailboat’s small inboard engine was full.

As on the
Mary C
, there was no way to tell if anything valuable was missing. From the number of cabins that appeared to have been occupied, the deputies determined at least six people had been aboard the sailboat. But while there were no wallets or billfolds lying about, there were several iPods, TVs, and even a Bose music system still onboard, just the type of thing pirates would normally steal.

The ship’s log, written in a woman’s hand, indicated the sailboat had left South Rocks Cay just after dawn, heading for Miami. This meant it had been adrift for about two and a half hours.

“If this is the Muy Capaz,” one deputy said, “then they’re having themselves a busy Easter morning.”

*   *   *

AS BEFORE, THE deputies towed the vessel into shallower waters, dropped its anchor and contacted Bimini police. And finally, the deputies were able to do what they had come way out here for: test their boat’s new navigation gear.

But just as they were about to contact their headquarters at West Palm Beach, they received yet another call from the Coast Guard.

A
third
pleasure boat had been spotted drifting not twenty miles from the deputies’ current position.

Once again, the Coast Guard asked them to check it out.

*   *   *

THE
PRETTY PENNY
was sitting dead in the water about twelve miles north of the Bimini Road when the deputies found it. It was a sixty-five-foot Alberta, its engine not turning, its one sail taken down. It was motionless, and the water around it was motionless as well.

By this time the deputies were very weirded out.

Pirate attacks on pleasure boats plying these waters were not unheard of. It happened more often than people thought. It just wasn’t widely reported because everyone involved—like law enforcement and the media—knew the area’s economy would suffer badly if the tourists thought there really
were
pirates in the Caribbean. Or, at least close to it.

But again, these so-called pirates were usually slovenly drug addicts in boats looking for money so they could cop their next fix.

What was happening this morning seemed to be something different.

The deputies boarded the
Pretty Penny
and found more of the same. A large, expensive yacht, in perfect condition, with no signs of struggle or conflict—but with no one onboard.

They found all the cabins were in order. They found lots of exotic women’s clothing—bikinis and thongs—neatly folded on several of the bunks. A pot of coffee in the galley’s stove was still warm.

Ominously, up on the bridge they found a man’s watch that had stopped at 0815 hours, approximately the same time as the last entry in the ship’s log, which was a brief comment about the good weather.

By coincidence, the
Pretty Penny
had come to a stop over a submerged coral reef. The deputies played out the anchor line to fifty feet and dropped it, securing the vessel in place. They made yet another call to the Bimini authorities and then decided they’d had enough strangeness for one morning.

Citing their dwindling fuel supply, they radioed their HQ to say they were returning to West Palm Beach.

*   *   *

EASTER TURNED COLD and rainy over southeast Florida.

By 2
P.M.
, Del Ray Beach had emptied out, leaving only a couple of municipal employees working the holiday to get a head start on picking up the half ton of trash the morning’s bathers had left behind.

Using nailed sticks and plastic bags to gather the litter, the two workers made their way up to the north end of the beach where the sandy, flattened-out shoreline became rocky. They knew a place here where they could hide from their boss and smoke a quick couple of joints.

They were just about to light up when they realized a boat had washed up right near their hiding spot. It was a twenty-two-foot outboard with powerful engines and a lot of antennas and wires sticking out of it. The side facing them was caved in, the result of the boat slamming up against the rocks in the incoming tide. There was no one on the boat or anywhere around it.

The workers couldn’t help but investigate, the thought of picking up a few loose items as salvage crossing their minds. But that notion quickly dissipated when they reached the wreck and were able to see the still-intact port side, which had been facing away from them.

Written on the hull was the name of the boat’s owner: the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Department.

The two workers quickly stuffed the joints back into their pockets.

“What the hell happened here?” one whispered.

3

Port of Aden
Yemen
The next day

MARK CONLEY WAS sitting in the new headquarters of Ocean Security Services, Inc., trying to drink his morning cup of coffee. He was having a hard time of it, though, because the phone would not stop ringing.

Located on the top floor of the Kilos Shipping building, the imposing gray-and-glass skyscraper that looked out on the ancient seaport of Aden, the five-office suite was now home base for Team Whiskey. The vast Kilos Shipping Company had given them their first security job, so it was natural the team would make their patron’s thirty-story building their first official business address. It had been open for exactly a week.

Each of the suite’s five rooms had a specific function. One was devoted to communications. Another was filled with computers for hacking and gathering intelligence. A third room served as a crash pad for the team when they were in town. A fourth held most of their exotic weaponry. The fifth was an office—actually, just a cover for the other four. The sign on the door read: K
ILOS
I
MPORT
-E
XPORT
A
NALYSIS
D
IVISION.
The suite’s door was kept locked at all times.

Conley was head of Kilos Shipping’s Middle East security department. With more than a hundred of the company’s ships plying the high seas, it was a full-time job for the middle-aged ex-NYPD cop. But with the surprisingly quick success of Whiskey’s anti-pirating unit, Conley had become the team’s de facto booking agent as well. Since he’d arrived here a half hour earlier, more than a dozen people had called the OSS hotline looking to buy Team Whiskey’s services—and it wasn’t even 7
A.M.