And immediately felt right at home. This place was as shipshape as any stowage locker in the Old Navy—the Navy run by chiefs and men o’ warsmen, not bureaucrats and managers. The lines were all coiled in perfect symmetry. Racks of bright orange life jackets, sitting straight up like sailors at attention, lined one wall. The other wall held immense shelves on which sat four bright red and gray Zodiac Pro-IIs. In stands below the shelves, four 120-horsepower Yamaha long-shaft engines, polished and waxed, rested in custom-made racks.
I heard rustling in the rafters and looked up. Mick started to say something but I cut him off. “My turn.” Then I called out: “Monsieur? ’allo? Excusez-moi?”
There was a slight pause, and then a small, mustached man in blue coveralls, a tool belt cinched around his waist, swung out from one of the Zodiac shelves and stared down at us.
“May I help you, monsieurs,” he said in accented but obviously fluent French.
“We’re here to rent a boat,” I said in my best Parisian accent.
“Ah,” he said, “but it is not the season for watching the whales.”
“We know that,” I called up to him. “But we are still interested in renting a boat, Monsieur…”
“Pereira, Pereira, Frederico Pereira. Wait—I am coming down.” With the agility of a square-rigger deckhand, he swung himself over the edge and easily lowered himself by his fingertips to the shelf below, his feet catching the lip of the thick wood before his hands released their grip on the shelf above. Then he turned and made his way down a crude ladder nailed (somewhat precariously, I thought) to the warehouse’s interior framing.
He dropped the last five feet to the wooden-plank deck of the warehouse, brushed his palms together half a dozen times to take any detritus from them, and offered us his hand. “Frederico Pereira,” he said, “at your service, monsieurs.”
Mick took his hand and shook it, in the European manner—once up, and once down. I did the same. Pereira’s grip was firm. His hands had the toughness acquired by years of hard work. I gestured at the Zodiacs and the well-maintained accessories. “You keep everything very shipshape, Mr. Pereira.”
He gave me a grateful smile. “I am proud you noticed, monsieur. I work hard to make sure that I have the safest, and best, boats on the island.”
“And we are sure that you do, Mr. Pereira.” I put my arm around the little man’s shoulders. “My name is Max Bertaud. I am an oceanographer by trade. I work at l’École de la Océanographie de Paris, and my colleague, Serge, and I wonder if you would be able to rent us one of your excellent Zodiacs so that we can perform some studies on the currents surrounding the islands.”65
“It sounds like interesting work,” the little man said. “Of course, I would have to see how capable you are at handling the boat, as we do not normally rent our boats to customers. I always serve as the coxswain.”
“I appreciate your concern, Monsieur Pereira, and I would be happy to demonstrate for you that I am more than capable of handling your fine craft.” I smiled at Mick. “And we will be happy to pay you a supplement for the use of your Zodiac, since you will not be around to keep an eye on it.”
Day Five: 0655. Nod checked in. Gerry Kelley and Brendan O’Donnell were maintaining their tourist schedule. That troubled me. “Keep your eyes open. Seems to me what they’re doing is performing a long, long SDR.”
“That’s what I think, too, Skipper.”
“Good. So make absofuckinglutely sure that you don’t spook ’em, Nod. Otherwise they’ll bolt, and change their plans, and we’ll be fucked.”
“I recognized the signs already, Skipper. We’re at Threatcon Delta, but we stay out of sight.”
Like all good senior chiefs, Nod had the situation already covered. “Bravo Zulu, Nod.” I went on to ask Nod to detail as many of the men as he could to pick up the items we’d be needing—especially a battery-powered Magellan GPS, so we could navigate on open seas. “If you can’t lay your hands on one, let me know right away.”
“Will do, Skipper.”
Day 5: 1000. Using my French passport, I’d rented a hotel room on the island of Pico when Mick and I flew there to secure the Zodiac. That way, we had a permanent forward base just in case the Báltaí docked there, instead of São Miguel. The room also came in handy for the toughest part of the supply detail: weapons procurement. We had to have at least two pistols to make our assault. Four would be even better. I wanted a pair of shotguns for the takedown, too.
The shotguns turned out to be easy to obtain: bird hunting is commonplace in Portugal, and all Nod had to do was march into a store, where he showed his military ID, and was able to legally purchase a nice Beretta over-and-under 12-gauge. Six hours later, Digger O’Toole did the same at a second hunting-supply store. Once they arrived on the Azores, we’d cut the barrels and stocks down, giving us a pair of concealable and lethal sawed-offs.
The pistols were another story. Handguns are impossible to come by in most of Europe. So we’d have to obtain ’em the old-fashioned way: thievery.
Boomerang and Rotten flew to Pico using their French passports to buy the tickets. From there, they took the ferry to Terceira, and thence jumped a bus that took them to Lajes Field, known to MILPERS (that’s MILitary PERSonnel for all you non-MILPERS out there) as “Crossroads of the Atlantic, Home of the U.S. Forces, Azores, and the 65th Air Base Wing.”
Using their military IDs, Boomerang and Rotten Randy simply meandered right through the main gate just as the evening shift was settling in. The white-gloved, bereted COD (Cop On Duty) never smelled anything fishy. It didn’t take my pair of merry marauders more than half an hour to locate the Crossroads of the Atlantic’s weapons locker. They made sure no one was around, quietly picked the lock on the door, snuck inside, removed four Beretta 9-mm pistols, twelve magazines, and two hundred rounds of 115-grain, full-metal-jacket ammunition, all of which they stowed in their knapsacks. Then they snuck out, relocked the door, meandered into the night, and—having waited for the guard shift to change—marched back through the main gate and caught a zero-dark hundred ferry back to Pico, stowed the weapons in the hotel room I’d rented, then caught the first plane available back to São Miguel.
I know, I know. You’re about to tell me that it was all much too easy. Where, you ask, was Mister Murphy? How come nobody paid Randy and Boomerang any attention? How come there weren’t any guards around to stop ’em, or ask who the hell they were and what the hell they were doing on the base.
The fact is, most of our military bases are wide open and vulnerable as hell to terrorism, or just plain mayhem. That’s nothing new: I proved that back in the late 1980s with Red Cell, when I was able to wreak havoc on Naval installations worldwide, “sinking” an aircraft carrier in the Philippines, taking the base commander hostage in Norfolk, placing explosives aboard a nuclear submarine in Groton, and even “blowing up” Air Force One in a simulation.
Well, as the Frogs say, Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Or, as Yogi Berra would translate that, “It’s déjà vu all over again.” Hell, in an environment where the State Department allows a Russkie intelligence officer to plant a listening device in a conference room, or creates the atmosphere in which laptop computers containing highly classified counterterrorist files are kept in an unlocked office and therefore are stolen by parties unknown, how surprising is it to you that two of my talented, capable, highly trained rogues can bluff their way onto an Air Farce base and make off with a bunch of guns? It shouldn’t surprise you at all.
Day Eight: 1200. By now we were in better shape than you might expect. I’d assigned Timex to stay at the hotel on Pico, so he could keep an eye on the weapons, buy containers to hold the extra fuel we’d need to carry in the Zodiac, and also watch the harbor just in case the Báltaí showed up. I’d rented a third hotel room, this one on Terceira, so we could maintain a discreet surveillance on the port. Hugo and Mick Owen manned that observation post. Yes, I was taking a risk by deploying people to separate islands, b
ecause given the erratic schedule of ferries and puddle jumpers, there was no way I could guarantee that we could assemble quickly if we had to MOVE. But I had no idea where Gerry would go—or which of the deepwater harbors Báltaí would choose for its refueling stop. And so I had to take the risk of dividing my forces to make sure all my bases were covered.
Which left Boomerang, Rotten Randy Michaels, and me to finish up the supplies. We wouldn’t need a caving ladder, as the Báltaí’s rails were low enough so that if we snagged her with a rope ladder, we could pull ourselves aboard. Boomerang constructed one out of a fifty-foot length of soft, woven nylon climbing rope that he discovered in São Miguel’s only camping goods store. We fashioned a hook from a twelve-inch spike, and wrapped it in a pillowcase to muffle undue sounds. I improvised half a dozen assault harnesses from carpenters’ tool-carrying belts—the ones with all the pouches.
Rotten Randy found us a ten-foot-by-ten-foot piece of fishnet at a street market. It was strong enough to support even my Roguish weight, and light enough so that carrying it wouldn’t be a burden. We jury-rigged it so we could use it to climb if necessary. As for wet suits, Boomerang managed to scrounge eight commercial short-sleeved, short-pants surfer’s suits. Not what I would have wanted, but anything is better than nothing when you’re out on the water and hypothermia is a real risk.
1325. Gerry Kelley knew what I looked like. So there was no way I was going anywhere near any of the Azores airports today. I sent Boomerang and Rotten Randy to Ponta Delgada while I stayed in the hotel room, monitoring the phones and waiting for Nod to call and tell me where Gerry was.
1331. The cell phone in my breast pocket vibrated. “Yo.”
“Yo, Jonesie.”
“Yo, Rae. Whassup?”
Her voice crackled back at me. “Got some info for ya, man.”
“Shoot.”
“That boat—it went where you thought it would.”
“Cool. Anything else?”
“Yeah: the Krauts are dirty. Not fugitives or anything, but they’re into some nasty shit. Be careful out there, huh?”
“Will do. I owe you, Rae.”
“Heeey, we North Joyzey kids gotta stick togedda, right?” She laughed, then the phone went dead.
1640. Nod’s chipper voice on the cell phone. “Boa tarde, Skipper. We’re feet dry and good to go.”
But I wasn’t in a playful mood. I’d been in a fucking vacuum for days. “Where’re our targets?”
I guess he picked up on my tone, because he came back all-business. “They’re clearing Customs here at Ponta Delgada,” Nod said. “There’s a car outside waiting—I figure they’ll book themselves into some hotel. Me and Digger caught the flight with ’em. The rest of the guys are on the next plane.”
“You have a couple of friends waiting outside.”
He chuckled. “You mean Gonorrhea and Diarrhea loitering in the no-parking zone? I already saw ’em out there. We’ll hand the targets off so Digger and I can come see you.”
“Good man. Did you bring me any… presents?”
“You’re gonna think it’s effing Christmas, Skipper. I got all the goodies, including the Portuguese navigator you wanted so bad.”
He’d brought me my very own Magellan. My tone softened. “You’re a good boy, Nodster. A bientôt—see you very soon.”
2225. “Very soon” turned out to be a vast overstatement. Why? Because Gerry Kelley didn’t stay on São Miguel. He and Brendan O’Donnell left their car and driver waiting and impetuously caught the last SATA puddle jumper to Pico. Then they caught the evening ferry from Madalena to Horta, Faial’s main port city. Had they been spooked? Who knew. Were they going to signal the Báltaí to come and pick ’em up ahead of schedule? I had no idea. All I did know was that it was way too late in the day to make any moves now.
Here was the good news: Timex was sitting on Pico. I’d called him (I don’t know how we operated in the days before cell phones) and he managed to ID our two targets as they transferred onto the ferry and followed ’em to Faial. If they made any further moves, Timex would know about them.
I checked the schedules. The first flight we could catch to Pico was at 1100 the next morning. Once we’d reached Madalena, Boomerang and I would take the Zodiac and cross the strait to Faial. Rotten Randy would use the ferry, so he could transport all the gear we’d assembled. I checked in with Timex. Our boys had taken rooms at the best hotel on the island, the Estalagem Santa Cruz, built inside a sixteenth-century fort overlooking the harbor. Timex booked us six less ritzy rooms at the Fayal, a big hotel in the center of town but still convenient to the marina. “I love it here, Skipper,” he reported with the exuberance of youth. “There’s a buffet breakfast—all you can eat!”
2230. I called the SATA office to make reservations. Oh, yeah—right. This was the Azores, after all. And even though I don’t speak Portuguese, I knew what the scratchy message on the answering machine was telling me: “Call back during normal business hours, you asshole—beep.”
Fuck. I called Mick Owen in Terceira and gave him a brief sit-rep. There was a direct flight from Lajes to Faial at 1400. He said he and Hugo would be on it, no matter what it might take.
Day Nine: 0700. I started calling the SATA office. It was 0940 before anyone picked up the phone. But I was able to get three seats on the eleven o’clock flight. I called the front desk and told the manager to get our bill in order.
1322. I gunned the Zodiac out of Madalena harbor and turned south, running parallel to the coastline, until I’d cleared the town. Roughly two kliks later, I turned toward the coast and guided the tough little craft through the breakers, beaching it in a small, protected cove that Mick and I had discovered the day we’d arranged to rent the boat from Frederico Pereira.
Boomerang was waiting. Piled next to him were a half dozen bright red plastic jerry cans. They looked just like the six-gallon gas containers you can find at Wal-Mart back in the States. Which is precisely what they turned out to be. Don’t look surprised, friends. This is the twenty-first century and the economy is totally global.
I did some fast math in my head. With the extra-capacity tanks that Frederico had already installed on the Zodiac for his whale-watching expeditions, we’d have an operational range of just over two hundred miles. We could go even farther if we siphoned fuel from Báltaí once we’d boarded her.
Yes, I hear you carping out there; complaining that Báltaí has diesel engines, and that we won’t be able to use her fuel in our outboard. You are correct. But all ships the size of Báltaí carry Zodiacs or other small craft as launches. And those launches are generally gas powered. In any case, the matter is moot. We’d get a chance to eyeball Báltaí when she berthed in the Azores, so we’d learn whether or not we would be able to refuel from her supplies long before I’d committed us to following Báltaí beyond the point of no return.
It didn’t take more than a couple of minutes to stow the empty fuel cans and strap them down. Then we eased the Zodiac into the surf, turned her around, clambered aboard, started the engine, and headed back the way I’d come for the five-mile cruise across the strait between Pico and Faial. The water was clear and cool. The chop was mild. I opened her up. The little RIB stood on its hind legs and kicked forward, and I felt the wonderful sensation of sea spray in my beard.
Two and a half kliks out, I turned the con over to Boomerang. Then I sat back on the padded double seat and allowed my body to relax. When I did, a wondrous thing happened. The little boat became a part of me, and I became a part of it, my big frame adapting to the Zodiac’s aggressive attack on the water the way a cowboy and a great quarter horse meld into one being when they work cattle together.
I swiveled around. Behind us was the towering, mile-and-a-half-high volcano that dominates Pico. I dropped my head back. Above us, high, puffy cumulous clouds stood stark white against the blue sky. It was a perfect day, so flawless that the only thing it needed was a big logo in the sky that read “THE END: A Walt Disney Product
ion.” It is at times like this, my friends, that I know deep in my heart that the Old Testament God of War is a great and a noble and a beneficent God, because He allows me to see wonders like this before I am privileged to serve His will, go into battle, and kill mine enemy in His name.
18
DAY TEN: 0410. BÁLTAÍ EASED INTO THE HARBOR AT Horta, appearing ghostlike out of the night, her running lights dimmed by thin strands of early morning fog that sat atop the water’s surface. I’d been there from midnight, watching from the cover of a blocked-off alley facing the marina, unmindful of the chill and the damp, sweeping the horizon with the night-vision monocle that Mick had stowed in his hand luggage. Yes, by my own estimates of time, speed, and distance, Báltaí hadn’t been expected until Day Eleven. But here on Faial I chose to follow the Roguish SpecWar Commandment not to assume anything. And so, we’d watched for Báltaí around the clock from the time we’d arrived.
I’d assigned myself the worst shift: 2200 to 0600 hours. And I can tell you sans reservation that it had been six hours of misery so far. But as I explained back in Buenos Aires, misery is what surveillance is all about. You cannot slacken, or tire, or relax. Your mind must remain alert—to your surroundings, and to the job at hand. Sure, I was stiff, and cold, and bored. But then, in that instant as Báltaí emerged into my field of vision, both my patience and the cramps in my legs, neck, and back were rewarded.
Out of the dark she came, silent as a specter, almost as large as a destroyer escort—and no doubt just about as fast. The only sounds I heard were the lapping of the water against the pilings, and the slap of an occasional wave on the breakwater. My excitement was palpable: the hair on the back of my neck stood up as the big boat moved into the marina—my Roguish instincts telling me there was danger aboard. Báltaí was barely moving as it passed the far end of the breakwater. Two hundred yards from the largest of the piers, it reversed its engines, deployed its bow thrusters, and eased gently to a complete stop. I hunkered down behind the damp concrete, my night vision poking around the end of the barricade, just in case there was a clandestine countersurveillance lookout aboard.
Detachment Bravo Page 26
