Operation Sea Ghost ph-3 Page 5

  Then, just like that, it was over. The cameras stopped, the strobes died away. Emma stood up and, without a word, disappeared below, a small contingent of handlers following in her wake.

  The other hostages were led over to the starboard-side gangway. A small ferry leased out of Aden was waiting below. With no ceremony, the hostages were put aboard and dismissed. The last one to go was the woman who’d been horribly scarred by the Shaka. Once loaded, the ferry pulled away and disappeared into the night.

  Nolan couldn’t believe it.

  “That might have been the coldest thing I’ve ever seen,” he told the reporter. “Miss Perfect was there for about two hours. Some of those people had been held prisoner for years.”

  “Welcome to ‘Emma’s World,’” the reporter said. “And we’re all just visiting.”

  She pulled out her small tape recorder and sighed. “Time to go to work. Can’t keep the Princess waiting.”

  With that, she, too, disappeared belowdecks.

  * * *

  Nolan went looking for the rest of Whiskey. He wanted to get off the yacht in the worst way now. But as he was climbing up to the top deck, he ran into Gunner and Twitch on their way down.

  Both looked rattled.

  “You gotta come with us,” Gunner said. “And I mean, right now.”

  Nolan followed them to the forward top deck, probably the only spot on the mega-yacht devoid of guests. They stopped at the starboard lifeboat station and pointed beneath it.

  “Take a look under there,” Twitch told him.

  “Is this a joke?” Nolan barked back.

  “Just look,” Gunner urged him.

  Nolan looked under the lifeboat — and saw Batman squeezed into an incredibly small space underneath, curled up in a fetal position and shaking violently.

  “What the fuck…” Nolan gasped.

  “We can’t get him to come out,” Gunner said. “Something is wrong with him, big time.”

  Nolan reached in, grabbed his colleague by the collar and, with much effort, eventually slid him out. But Batman was still trembling mightily.

  “What the fuck is the matter with you?” Nolan demanded to know.

  “I’m not sure,” Batman answered, barely able to speak. “Something very fucked up just happened.…”

  Nolan looked into his eyes. “What did you take tonight?” he asked him. “What kind of drugs?”

  “Nothing.…” Batman just managed to whisper. “I swear, no drugs.…”

  “How much booze then?”

  But Batman was shaking his head no.

  “Not a drop,” he insisted. “I’ve been drinking nothing but water since you guys picked me up this morning.”

  Nolan detected no stink of alcohol around him. Nor were his pupils dilated or his eyes overly red.

  Nolan told Gunner and Twitch to stand fast, and make sure no one, especially the magazine reporter, got past them.

  Then Nolan led Batman up to an isolated point of the bow, out of earshot of the others.

  “OK, what the hell is going on?” he asked him.

  Batman’s face was ashen. His eyes were watery and sunken.

  Nolan asked him again: “What is it? Tell me.…”

  Batman wiped his brow, cleared his throat, then looked Nolan straight in the eye.

  “I just saw Crash,” was all he said.

  * * *

  Crash …

  The name went through Nolan like a knife.

  These days Team Whiskey consisted of four members. But they were once five.

  Jack Stacks, aka “Crash,” had been their team’s sniper back when Whiskey was part of Delta Force. A surfer dude from southern California, he’d been a SEAL transfer when he first joined Delta, and eventually wound up fighting with them through the Balkans, Iraq and Afghanistan.

  When the team was hung out to dry after their bin Laden debacle, Crash was the only one who stayed in the business, working as a mercenary. It was he who put the team back together; it was he who kept it going. No argument, Crash was the heart and soul of Whiskey.

  He was also the first to die, drowned by a renegade SEAL team who’d hijacked a U.S. Navy nuclear sub in the Caribbean. Nolan and Twitch were the ones who’d found him, floating face down near some isolated Bahamian islands, beyond resuscitation. After recovering the hijacked sub, the first thing Whiskey did was bury Crash at a veterans cemetery in Florida, a temporary interment until relatives could claim his body. All that had happened not a month ago. The team hadn’t been the same since.

  “So, you’ve lost your mind?” Nolan finally said to Batman. “That’s what you’re telling me?”

  Batman was shaking his head. “I saw him, Snake,” he insisted. “Right up there, on the top deck, near the tip of the bow.”

  “You know how fucking crazy that sounds, don’t you?” Nolan growled.

  “Of course I do,” Batman shot back, eyes welling up. “But it happened. It just happened. I saw him just as I’m seeing you right now. It was him.”

  Nolan knew what was going on. Batman had been tabbed by someone at the party — LSD being the most likely culprit. Either that, or he was suffering delayed side effects of his time with the Ekita Clan back in Somalia. Or an avalanche of PTSD symptoms had just claimed him. Whatever the case, this was not a good situation.

  “We’re getting out of here,” Nolan told him. “We’re going back to Aden right now.”

  But Batman shook his head. “I can’t fly,” he said. “I can barely walk. And you stink of booze, plus you can barely drive the copter in the daytime. Who’s going to fly it now, in the dead of night?”

  Nolan knew he was right. Trying to fly now, in his condition, with his limited sight and high anxiety — he might wind up killing them all.

  So, if flying was not an option, then they had no other choice. They’d have to stay on the yacht and baby-sit their troubled colleague all night, making sure he didn’t harm himself or cause a disruption at the party.

  Nolan said as much to Batman. But his friend was barely listening. He had his head in hands and was sobbing.

  “There’s more,” he said. “Crash told me something. Something very strange.”

  Batman looked up at him. “Do you want to know what he said?”

  Nolan shrugged wearily. Any buzz he’d had was long gone now. “You mean, do I want to know what this figment of your imagination told you?” he asked.

  Batman caught his breath and began slowly. “He said we’re about to be ‘blinded by the light.’ And that you’re going back to jail. And that we should be careful if we ever hear the word ‘moonglow.’”

  Nolan just shook his head.

  “Dude, climb onto one of the lounges up there and get some sleep,” he said pointing to the unoccupied top deck. “That’s the only way you’re going to come out of this.”

  7

  Off West Sumatra

  Things were not going well for the Indonesian pirate gang known as the Kupak Tangs.

  It was a few hours before sunrise. They were sailing on a leaky coastal freighter near a treacherous part of the Indian Ocean known as the Indischer Bank. The pirates were trying to elude a sea-borne posse, while fighting to keep their one remaining engine alive and preserving what little fuel they had left.

  For the Tangs to be in this predicament would have been unthinkable a year ago. Back then, they were part of Zeek Kurjan’s immense pirate gang, a criminal enterprise that had just about all of western Indonesia under its thumb.

  But two unlucky events had cursed the Tangs recently. First, their leader, Zeek the Pirate King himself, had been killed by the American mercenary group, Team Whiskey. Not a month later, Zeek’s godfather, and the patron saint of all Indonesian pirate bands, Shanghai mobster Sunny Hi, had been assassinated, most probably by the same people who’d iced Zeek.

  With their two powerful patrons gone, small brigand bands like the Tangs had little chance of survival. They’d been pursued by the Indonesian state police, no longer being
paid off by Zeek’s bagmen, to the point where the gang was forced out into international waters in order to escape.

  Two weeks before, the Tangs had stolen the leaky freighter from the port of Balang in the Malacca Strait. Desperate to leave Indonesia in hopes of plying their trade elsewhere, they couldn’t have picked a worse ship. A relic from World War Two, its engines were shot, its seams were splitting and its electrical systems were frayed and dangerous. Worst of all, its fuel tanks were half empty when the Tangs made off with it.

  They’d sailed south, toward Jakarta, but one engine died two days into their journey. Then the other started leaking oil. By the time they slipped through Bakauheni Harbor and started sailing up the west side of Sumatra, all nonessential systems aboard the vessel had been turned off, including those in the tiny galley, which made little difference because the twelve-man pirate band had almost no food aboard.

  Bad weather, a dwindling water supply and fights among themselves left little doubt that, at the moment, the Tangs were probably the most unsuccessful pirate gang on the planet.

  This was the situation when the leaky freighter reached the Indischer Bank. This place was known for two things: its brutally thick fog banks and for being a massive spawning ground for the Indonesian short fin eel, considered a delicacy throughout Asia. It was also situated directly over one of the deepest parts of any ocean, anywhere: the 25,000-foot Java Trench.

  Desperate, the Tangs had come up with a somewhat workable plan. They wanted to enter the Indischer Bank at its foggiest, find a good-size fishing ship there, hijack it and then quickly flee the area. This way they could not only get a clean vessel to escape on, they might possibly find its cargo hold full of something they could eat.

  Their porous coastal freighter had only the most rudimentary sea surface radar, something bought at a RadioShack. Still, the Tangs had it working at full power as they approached the Indischer around 0300 hours. As expected, there was an enormous fog bank this morning. Pointing the radar into the mist, they were hoping to find at least a dozen fishing boats working the misty waters.

  What they found instead was a U.S. Navy warship.

  * * *

  It was the USS Messia.

  Six hundred feet long, with a crew of 350, it was, at least officially, an Aegis cruiser. But it had satellite dishes and VRL transmitters poking out of many places where one might expect to find naval guns, and its bridge and superstructure were covered with antennas of all types and shapes and sizes.

  The best description of the USS Messia was probably “armed intelligence-gathering vessel,” because while the ship did carry tons of eavesdropping gear, it was also equipped with surface-to-surface missiles, antiaircraft weapons and even a naval cannon or two.

  Essentially, it was a spy ship — and whenever any kind of covert operation involving the United States was happening anywhere in the waters of Asia, the Messia could usually be found lurking close by, taking it all in.

  That’s what it was doing here this night, moving very slowly on the edges of the Indischer fog bank.

  * * *

  It was too late to change course by the time the Tang pirates spotted the warship.

  And it was their bad luck that they were heading right for it, because they knew there was a good chance their leaky rust bucket would be recognized as a pirate vessel. But they also knew turning around would be such suspicious behavior, they might as well had just run a skull and crossbones up the main mast. They had no choice but sail right past the Navy ship and hope for the best.

  They were within a thousand feet of the warship when they blew their foghorn twice. A few seconds passed, then they heard the warship blast its own mighty horn twice in return. A short radio conversation ensued, discussing the distance between their two ships. The pirates blew their foghorn again at five hundred feet away from the warship, and received two more blasts in response.

  Not a minute later, the pirate vessel sailed past the Navy ship, a hundred feet off its port side. The pirates blew their foghorn again, and the warship replied in kind. Moving much faster than the almost stationary warship, the pirates disappeared back into the mist thirty seconds later unmolested.

  The Tangs couldn’t believe it. They’d risked certain capture and had gotten away with it.

  * * *

  Deep in the heart of the fog bank five minutes later, the pirates came upon another ship. Its name was the Pacific Star and, though old and rusty, it was the answer to their prayers. It was a hybrid cargo vessel and fishing boat, 250 feet long, with a deck covered with huge eel traps. It was moving very slowly to the east and sending out an SOS, asking for help.

  Why the U.S. warship had not come to its aid, the Tangs did not know. But they couldn’t resist. They contacted the ailing vessel, told them they would come alongside and render any assistance they needed. The captain of the stricken ship quickly agreed.

  The Tangs tied up to the ailing vessel minutes later and swarmed aboard. They were met by a crew of ten sailors, all of them Vietnamese.

  The captain came forward to greet the Tang gang leader warmly. But on noticing the Tangs were armed, the captain said in broken English, “I was told real guns were not part of the plan.”

  The Tang leader was confused. They all were.

  He told the ship captain, “We’re taking over your vessel. If you don’t fight back, no one will be hurt.”

  The Vietnamese captain stared back at him. “Are you saying that you’re pirates?”

  The Tang leader shrugged and replied: “Yes — we are.”

  But still, the Vietnamese captain was confused. He said: “But you’re not Filipinos. I don’t understand your role in this…”

  Now everyone on board the ship was confused. The Tangs had no idea what the Vietnamese captain was talking about.

  “We are taking your ship, we are hijacking it,” the Tang leader emphasized, trying to clarify the situation.

  But the Vietnamese captain just shook his head. “But this ship has already been hijacked. By Filipinos. We’ve been waiting for them — but they’re late.”

  “‘Waiting for them?’” the Tang leader asked. “Who waits for pirates to take over their ship?”

  The Vietnamese captain shrugged uncomfortably. “But that’s what we were told to do,” he said.

  “By who?”

  The Vietnamese captain replied testily. “By you—you’re CIA — aren’t you?”

  Now the Tang leader was totally baffled — and he was getting mad. He finally pulled the arming bar back on his AK-47. That’s when the Vietnamese sailors knew something was very wrong here.

  With little more than a nod from their captain, the entire crew suddenly jumped overboard, hurling themselves into the foggy waters below.

  * * *

  Things were just as confused on the bridge of the USS Messia, one mile away.

  The captain and his executive officer were huddled over the spy ship’s ultrasophisticated sea surface radar. While the XO was studying the images coming in from the fog bank, the captain was consulting a highly classified document marked: “Operation Sea Ghost.”

  “Where the hell are they?” the captain finally asked with no little agitation. “According to this, they were supposed to be at the coordinate five minutes ago. They must have blown by it.”

  “Expand the screen coverage again,” the XO told a nearby technician.

  In an instant, the screen was displaying a ten-mile-square area of the Indischer Bank. It clearly showed about a dozen small fishing vessels and a large blur in the middle.

  “What’s with that anomaly?” the captain asked the technician.

  The tech replied, “A blur could indicate two ships so close to each other it skews the equipment.”

  “But isn’t that where our mark is supposed to be?” the captain asked, putting his finger on the blur.

  “And if it’s two ships, who is the other one?” the XO added.

  The tech thought a moment. “Maybe that ship that went
past us a few minutes ago?” he said.

  “Not unless they collided out there somewhere,” the XO replied. “Other than that, what would one have to do with the other — unless they answered their distress call?”

  The captain was growing agitated. “Whatever happened, our Vietnamese friends don’t appear to be following the plan.”

  The XO could only agree. “What should we do?” he asked.

  The captain studied the radar screen again, then said: “Better send in the playboys. Maybe they can straighten it out.”

  * * *

  The XO left the bridge and quickly headed aft.

  He went by a sealed-off section where accommodations for the Vietnamese crew had been laid in.

  Food, clothes and money were waiting for them here. The XO took a moment to peek inside the large cabin and thought, Like a party no one wants to come to.

  He kept moving until he reached the aft portion of the bottom deck. Two fast-boats were waiting here, along with a dozen SEALs, all dressed in battle gear and mission-ready. Also on hand were five Filipinos, mercenaries hired by the CIA for this unusual occasion.

  This compartment had a recessed panel on its aft wall. This panel was open and looking out onto the foggy sea.

  The SEAL team commander saw the XO coming and got his men to their feet.

  “What’s our status, sir?” the SEAL CO asked.

  “Status is officially unclear at the moment,” the XO replied.

  He briefed the SEALs on the situation, how there was some confusion sorting out ships inside the fog bank.

  “The captain suggests you guys deploy, get into the soup and see what’s going on,” the XO told them.

  “How about our little friends?” the SEAL asked, nodding toward the Filipinos.

  The XO just shrugged. “We might have to give them a box lunch and send them home. We’ll see.”

  “Should we bring the UDT gear?” the SEAL CO asked.

  The XO eyed the three duffel bags he knew held enough explosives to sink a good-size cargo ship.