The Crisis (42 page)

“Sixty-two grains of diplomacy through the head?”

Teddy spat. “We keep talking to him, we're encouraging every fisherman in the Red Sea to go rogue. What's the problem with taking 'em out? A couple hostages get killed. Tough titty for them, but it'll save dozens down the line.”

“Hey, no argument. I think—”

Kowacki came running out of the surf. “Chopper,” he yelled. Teddy and Kaulukukui scrambled up and grabbed rifles. They took a knee without a word, scanning the horizon while keeping one eye on the approaching mote.

The helicopter circled, its manner cautious too. A small bright yellow civilian model, unmarked. At last it flared out and drifted down like an unreeling spider. The SEALs shielded their eyes as sand stormed from the rotorwash.

When the skids hit, two men rolled out, in sunglasses, long trousers, chukka boots, and desert hats. Cases were handcuffed to their wrists. They trudged up to Teddy through the sand. “How's it, chummie? You're Oberg, nay?” said one, his accent maybe European but hard to place, facial structure hard, sunburned, dark hair combed straight back. A guy who'd spent a lot of time outdoors, someplace hot. “Tay-o-dore Oberg?”

He nodded and they shook hands. “This here, this muerse oek's Sumo?” the guy said to Kaulukukui.

“Only they china call 'oom that,” the second man said. He was built heavier, but he wasn't fat. His accent was Dutchish. He had enormous hands. They carried no visible weapons, but the way they looked slowly around told Teddy these weren't office types. He felt them examining the scars radiating across his face, the team's sweat-stained Ts and trunks and combat boots. An invisible field formed between the new arrivals and the SEALs standing in a spaced circle around them.

“Koos,” said the taller man. “This lattie here's Con.”

Oberg introduced his guys. “What's in the suitcases, Driftwood?”

They looked down as if they'd just noticed them. “What, this? This's kroon, bru.”

“It's what?”

“Money, chommie. What yay kakstamper Sooley wants. A befok billion.”

Kowacki said, “A billion?
Dollars?
Get real. You couldn't lift it. What's it in, million-dollar bills?”

“Bloody near,” said the stocky one. He unlocked one and the SEALs whistled as they caressed the stacks.

“I've never even seen a hundred-thousand-dollar bill,” Arkin said.

“Still 'aven't.” The tall one chuckled. “Look close at the picture.”

They peered. “Who
is
that?” said Kowacki, but Teddy recognized him. He'd come to his mother's parties.

“It's Moses,” he said. He touched the top bill again, stroked it. It felt real. “Charlton Heston. It's fake, guys. They printed up a billion fucking dollars in play money.”

“Only way to deal with the domkop. Owners would have gone a million. Maybe even an' a half. But a milliard . . . They coom to us, says, ‘Help out, 'ere.' So we brings the konkop.” They looked toward the shoreline. “Gi' us a lift?”

. . .

SULEYMAN received them in the captain's cabin. He was bare-chested but still in the frog shorts, which didn't look like they'd been changed or laundered since the first visit. He smelled evil, but no more so than the run-of-the-mill
Shamal
crewman these days. Teddy felt uneasy, looking around the compartment. It was too much like another cabin, in another ship, where he'd had to kill a man who'd never done anything wrong.

He shoved that aside and put the old smile on. Patted his ID holder, feeling the hard weight within it. They still hadn't wised up to the knife. Hadn't found anything when they searched the South Africans, either. Teddy had caught a glance from the tall one as the pirates ran their hands over him. Like himself, though he looked disarmed, he probably wasn't.

“Marlboro?” The Ashaaran held out his hand. Teddy grunted and forked over. As the pirate lit up the Afrikaaners chuckled.

They made a show out of unlocking the handcuffs. They unsnapped the latches, swiveled them, and opened both at once, like impresarios at a Hollywood kids' party.

“One billion dollars,” the tall one said. “As agreed.”

Suleyman looked suspicious. He tapped out the requisite sum on the calculator. The South Africans nodded. The Ashaaran extracted a sheaf of bills and fanned them. Peered underneath, as if to make sure the others were the same denomination. To Teddy's relief he didn't look twice at the picture, just traced the zeros in the corner with a cracked fingernail.

He turned to the captain's bunk and began laying them out. “Fuck me, he's gonna count it,” Kaulukukui muttered. Teddy shot him a
Shut up, asshole
look. Two other pirates leaned against the bulkhead, fingers on triggers. So far, he hadn't seen a single one of the RPGs these guys were supposed to have. But they could be below. Up close, an RPG could punch right through a PC's hull plating.

Suleyman was muttering, counting. Oberg stared at the horrible crusts on his legs. It
was
creeping upward. Maybe his curse was working? One of the guards sauntered over. Teddy held his breath, but his boss sent him back to his post with a curt phrase.

The Ashaaran straightened, and Teddy let out his breath. He was chuckling. He handed a note to Kaulukukui, then one to Teddy. They took them, acting pleased. He held out two more to the South Africans, who bowed, just short of mocking. “Many thanks, you moffie kaffir,” the heavyset one said. The tall one just smiled, but even Teddy found it intimidating.

“We'll be vaai then.” The taller one nodded at the SEALs. “You'll see to getting our hostages off, nay, chommie?”

“We'll take care of it.”

Suleyman snapped orders to a guard, who held the door. The Afrikaaners disappeared around the deck house without a word of good-bye. Teddy stepped out and keyed the radio. He'd brought Geller up to speed on the new arrivals and what they'd brought before they'd left the beach. “Alleycat, this is Goatrope. Ransom delivered and accepted. Stand by to come alongside for hostage extraction. Remember your manners. Over.”

“ ‘Remember your manners' meant every mount manned and every crewman at general quarters, but without showing it. Sweat dripped down Teddy's ribs, down his leg. Could they get away with this? Boatless, he figured the pirates would slip the anchor, drift the tanker ashore, and paddle to the beach in life rafts. But considering how they'd been paid, he couldn't let even one escape. The Afrikaaners' trick could be pulled again, but only if no one ever heard about it. Which meant Suleyman and his bully boys had to go somewhere they'd tell no tales.

Across the water he heard the bark and moan of
Shamal
's engines, the creak and grate as her anchor came up. “Let's go,” he muttered to Sumo, and headed for the mess decks.

 

THE hostages perked up as they came in. “Good news,” Oberg announced. “Ransom's been turned over. We'll cross-deck as soon as our ship comes alongside.”

The captain translated into Dutch, which seemed to be the working language. Chatter grew, but Teddy raised his palms. “Leave everything but your passports. Important thing's to get you all off, right now.” He blotted his neck. The mess decks were stifling hot, but that wasn't why he was sweating.

Suleyman had come down the ladder, and was handing out packets of money. His men shifted their weapons to their left hands to accept the stiff new bills. Teddy tried to keep his expression businesslike. Across the compartment he caught Sumo's eye. The flicker of a lid, expressive as speech.
Keep your cool, haole boy
.

A Filipino stood to see better. He said something surprised. The other Filipinos' heads turned. A murmur passed between them.

“Everything's cool,” Teddy announced. “You won't have to worry about these guys any more. They're
happy
with the ransom.” The Filipino got the message; he sat down; the buzz died away. “Our ship's headed in to pick you up. Don't say anything to rile these guys, okay?” He couldn't help fingering his badge holder. Two steps and he could off the closest pirate. There were four more in the compartment, though, peering at their new bankrolls. He hoped they weren't NRA members.

Suleyman was finishing his Santa Claus rounds, making his way to the ladder. He lifted the suitcase—only one, Teddy noted—and made a long speech, with many gestures. He nodded to the guard who'd evidenced some faint command of English. “Talk,” he said.

“You give am-mo,” the man told Oberg. He pointed to the hostages. “Then we give back these.”

Teddy tensed. “Not part of our deal.”

“Part of deal now. Am-mo.” He pointed his rifle at the captain, who was sitting white-faced.

“Fuck this, dude. I don't have ammunition that fits your weapons. We paid you your fucking ransom.” He slapped a hand on the skipper's shoulder. Hauled him to his feet. “I'm taking these people out of here.”

The muzzle of the AK stopped him. And the murmur from Kaulukukui. “Uh, better not, Obie.”

“Tell Suleyman a man who doesn't keep his word's a piece of shit. Even a pirate.”

The Ashaaran shrugged. “He does not care, your words. You bring ammo, we leave. Other, we stay.”

All the AKs were pointing at the trembling hostages now. Teddy was shaking too, but with rage. He'd thought it was over. Now they wanted more. He took deep breaths, forcing himself not to reach for the knife. Had Suleyman seen through them? Was this his revenge? They were outnumbered. He couldn't do anything. He
couldn't do anything
.

“Let's go,” Sumo murmured, big hand on his shoulder. Unwillingly, he let himself be led out.

 

“THEY'RE upping the ante,” Geller said from his skipper's chair. They were watching the tanker, now only a couple hundred yards away.
Shamal
had dropped anchor at short stay, just enough chain to hold her. “But we can't meet it. Right? We don't have ammo for them.”

Teddy felt as if his guts were made of lead. “We'd have to have it flown in. Plus, what's to say they won't ask for something else after that? Sooner or later, they're going to figure out that's funny money. One of the crew almost gave it away already. We're ready. All we need's the word.”

But Geller shook his head. “Get approval, I'll back you to the hilt. But you're not assaulting without clearance.”

“We've got to, Skipper.”

“No.” Geller pointed his finger. “Hear me, sailor? I'll radio for orders, but
you
stand the fuck down.”

 

DUSK was falling. Teddy stood on the wing, watching the lights across the water. The other ship was quiet. Too quiet. Always before there'd been
music. He felt minutes going by like steel wire being pulled out through his butthole. What would Suleyman do when he realized he'd been tricked?

He'd start killing.

A dark form stood on the main deck, looking in the same direction. It was bigger than any man had a right to be. “Sumo?”

“Hear that?” the Hawaiian murmured. His head was turned, right ear toward the tanker.

“What?”

“Screams. Hear 'em?”

Teddy held his breath. He heard the wind, but nothing else.

Then he understood.

Ashaara had forbidden them to attack. So had Malaysia, and the Philippines. Their own chain of command had nixed it.

The sole exception being if the hostages were being harmed.

 

WARM as it was, the sea silked his skin with cold fingers as it infiltrated the wet suit. He let go the ladder and floated, checking gear. Ahead of him a faint splash sounded as Sumo and Bitch Dog oriented and began swimming.

The outboards on
Shamal
's RHIBs were quiet, but not silent. Moreover, the pirates knew what they sounded like.

A swimmer made no noise.

Geller had listened, squinting, to the wind. He said he didn't hear any screams. If others thought they had, he had no choice but to launch a rescue. But he'd do it from the PC, bringing her alongside while sweeping the bridge and weather decks with suppressing fire.

Teddy had pointed out they'd heard screams, not shots. For shots, an immediate, all-out assault was the right response. As it was, they could reduce the risk. Let his men do it. Silently. In the dark. They were trained for it, they'd rock-drilled for two weeks, they'd even been inside the spaces, seen their enemies face-to-face.

At last, Geller had agreed.

Detaching one by one from the shadow of the stern, they slipped into the graceful SEAL sidestroke, kick and reach and pull, angling out into the dark. They could keep it up for hours, and know by their watches how far they'd gone.

Teddy sensed the sharks somewhere below. But if a SEAL didn't swim where there might be sharks, he wouldn't get out of BUD/S. In two hundred yards, the risk of getting hit was probably not great. The four swimmers stayed close, though, to be able to warn each other if one felt a nudge that wasn't from a swim buddy.

He breathed through his mouth. Whacker was noisy, splashing, a whispered curse. From
Shamal
came the throb of generators, the hum of ventilators, and the ululating rapcore of Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit. He'd asked the crew to bring their personal players on deck for aural cover.

His weapon was slung over his back, bolt wedged open so it would drain the moment it was out of the water. He remembered the last time he'd done this, in the Malacca Strait. Not from the water then, but from a small boat disguised as the same sort of pirate as the men he'd be knife to knife with in a few minutes.

It wasn't a question of right and wrong. A boy with a different name than Teddy Oberg had learned that years before, when a man he was supposed to trust had come into his room. Since then he'd known there was no right and no wrong. Only force, advantage, and action.