Strike Force Bravo s-2

by Mack Maloney

  Uni stared at the bowl for the longest time, crimson fruit glistening in the moonlight. As a child taking a trip to Islamabad, he’d seen a billboard that featured just a bowl of cherries like this one sitting alone on a table. Essentially the wording on the billboard said: If you have a bowl of cherries then your life has become happy and complete. Uni laughed out loud, a rare occasion. That had been so many years ago, yet now here it was, happening to him.

  They glided along for another hour. The stars grew more brilliant; the moon was like a minor sun. Uni ate his cherries, watched his bubbles, and wondered, deeply at times, if Ramosa would ever let him drive the boat.

  Then he heard voices coming from the control bridge. Something had been spotted off their port bow. A light flashing in sequences of three was out on the horizon.

  Uni saw Ramosa take over the yacht’s wheel. He turned the boat 40 degrees, pushed the throttles forward, and headed right for the blinking light. It grew dramatically in size as they quickly converged on it, yet it would take Uni a while before he realized the blinking light was actually attached to another boat. A ferry, painted very bright green.

  Ramosa killed the engine and was soon right alongside the 200-foot vessel. A rope ladder came over, and Uni and Ramosa started up. Uni had some trouble keeping his feet on the rungs, though, as the two vessels bobbed in the three-foot waves. Finally the men on the ferry had to reach down, grab him by his Armani pants, and drag him over the side. Ramosa made a much more graceful arrival.

  Ramosa’s secret operations involved moving men, money, and weapons around, whether it be for Al Qaeda, Palm Tree, or the Aboos. He did this in two ways: by burying the contraband deep underground until it was ready to change hands or by, in effect, hiding it in plain sight. Thousands of ferries operated around these islands. They were of all different shapes and sizes and ages and levels of sophistication. Most shared one thing in common: they were brightly painted in glossy colors. Again, this one was entirely green. But this was no ordinary ferry. Even a dimwit like Uni could see that.

  He was brought below and walked through a short passageway. Uni saw compartments where higher-paying passengers might stay for a one-or two-day trip were filled with explosives instead. On one subdeck, the rows of benches for the day riders were lined with rifles and ammunition belts. The canteen was filled with hand grenades. They reached the ferry’s bottom deck. It was disguised to look like a freezer. There was a combination lock on its door. Ramosa casually spun the dial, the lock snapped, and the door swung open. A light was put on and Uni found himself looking at a wooden pallet holding a number of silver metal tubes.

  Ramosa walked over to the pallet, took off the end of one of the tubes, and reached inside. He came out with a Stinger missile.

  “The candles,” he said to Uni with a grin. “Our birthday cake is now complete.”

  Uni smiled broadly. These things he recognized. He’d last seen them in the basement of Bahzi’s house back in Karachi. He studied the missile Ramosa had retrieved. Nose cone, body, and fins — all in perfect condition. He counted the stash. Strangely, the count was 37, one more than the called-for 36.

  “You see, the people who provided these missiles also wanted you to be sure that they work,” Ramosa said, seeing Uni’s confusion. “Our friend Palm Tree paid a lot of money for these gems. It is only fair that we test the merchandise for him.”

  Uni couldn’t argue this. But how? Against who?

  Again, Ramosa read his mind.

  “Don’t fret, my friend,” he said. “We have just the target in mind….”

  * * *

  The ride to the island of Kaagu-Tak took another two hours. It was 20 miles farther out from Manila than Gugu. The yacht arrived just before four in the morning, having parted ways with the bright green ferry just after 2:00 A.M.

  Kaagu-Tak was another pinprick of rock rising up out of the deep blue water. They approached it from the north side, Uni now up on the bow with Ramosa and some of his policemen. They had both a missile and a launcher by their side. Ramosa handed Uni his night-vision binoculars and suggested he look at the coral lagoon dominating the island’s north side. Beyond its rocky beach was a runway, one as basic as basic could get. Even though they were a mile out, through the night goggles Uni could see a small two-engine commuter plane was on this strip, its engines warming up. Behind it was a small aircraft shelter, a control hut, and three long barracks-type buildings.

  “It’s an orphanage,” Ramosa told him, answering the only question Uni could possibly have. “It’s run by a bunch of priests. Maryknolls, they are called. They have five camps on the islands out here. Every morning, around this time, they warm up that old plane, take off, and go island-hopping, moving orphans around, tending to their unfortunate flock. They’ve been doing it for years.”

  Uni was a certified simpleton, but as he watched Ramosa load the missile into the launcher, he was certain what Ramosa had in mind was nothing more than a test of the missile’s aiming system, a fake firing to show that yes, if the trigger was pulled while the plane was in its sights, then it would hit the plane and the plane would go down.

  The missionary plane took off. Ramosa stood on the yacht’s bow pulpit, his head cocked to one side, allowing him to talk on his cell phone as he raised the loaded Stinger launcher onto his shoulder. He was getting instructions from someone on the other end; that was obvious. But who?

  Ramosa proved very agile, trying to converse and line up the weapon at the same time. Finally he was heard to say: “Yes…it is a lock. I think it is a lock.”

  The voice on the other end became so loud, everyone on the yacht heard it say: “Fire, my friend…. Fire!”

  And so Ramosa did. The missile went off its rail with a whoosh of smoke and corkscrewed itself into the air. It quickly caught the scent of the slowly rising airplane and in an instant made a beeline for it.

  It was strange that it had still not registered on Uni that this was a live fire test — not until the missile actually hit the plane. There was an immediate puff of white smoke, then an orange ball of flame. The noise reached them a second later, a loud pop! followed by a sharp, guttural roar. The plane emerged from the fireball, or at least what was left of it. Its slow ascent indicated it was probably at full weight when it took off, meaning it had a dozen or so passengers onboard and that most of those passengers were probably orphans.

  Uni could actually see bodies falling out of the sky now, each one hitting the sea with a splash, sometimes colliding with pieces of flaming wreckage on the way down. Uni was too dumb to be shocked. He was surprised, though.

  Ramosa looked back at him, just as reality was settling in. He flashed his gold-plated smile. “Worried about the authorities, are you? I can tell by your face. Well, I assure you, my friend, this matter will be investigated by local law enforcement. Which, of course, is me.”

  He looked out on the surface of the water broken only by the smoke and the sinking wreckage of the missionary plane. He never lost the 24K grin.

  “And I have now fully investigated this matter,” Ramosa went on after just a few seconds, as the crew and the female servants laughed around him, “and I have concluded that the poor orphans’ plane crashed due to mechanical problems.”

  More laughter.

  “They were orphans when they awoke this morning,” Ramosa concluded. “But certainly, they are orphans no more.”

  * * *

  The yacht ride back was indeed very pleasant. Smooth seas, more champagne, more cherries.

  Uni was not smart enough to feel remorse, at least, not for total strangers. Orphans? What does the world miss if there are a few less orphans in it?

  He sat at the back of the yacht, again enjoying the wind blowing over his bald head. The sea air smelled great. They were back in the bay, the lights of Manila now just 20 miles away.

  The plan was unfolding like a lotus flower. He’d seen the launchers. He’d been reunited with the missiles. He’d seen them put together and doing
their deadly work. It was now a simple matter of packing them and sending them on their way. If all went just as smoothly later that day, the Stingers would be inside the United States in less than a week. Then Uni would play his final part and activate the sharfa and the Second Time of Falling Sparrows, as Kazeel had christened it, would be at hand.

  All this brought a question to Uni’s mind: If the world knew Kazeel as the first superterrorist, simply because he planned and executed things like this, did that mean that he, Abdul Abu Uni, was now the world’s second superterrorist? Shouldn’t his face be on the magazine covers next? He ate more cherries and watched more bubbles. Perhaps Palm Tree was right: Maybe he was the most important person in the world right now. A true hero. Someone who had to be reckoned with. Someone who—

  Suddenly a disturbing sound filled his ears. It was so loud, Uni felt his eyeballs shake. What could this be? He heard someone at the front of the yacht cry out. One of the female servants screamed. People were pointing to something off the stern. Uni finally turned and saw a huge black wall looming right behind him. It covered everything in darkness: the lights onshore, the moon, the stars. That’s when he realized what was happening: a very large ship was bearing down on them.

  Uni relieved himself on the spot. This frightening thing, coming out of nowhere, was about to rip him in two. Something hit him a moment later. It felt like a load of bricks. Actually, it was the bow wash of the ship crashing into the yacht. The man up front cried out again. Ramosa was at the yacht’s wheel — and he wasn’t smiling anymore. This immense vessel seemed determined to sail right over them.

  There was a blackness now that Uni had never experienced. And the noise was beyond deafening. He kept repeating the name of the prophet over and over, but the horror seemed to go on forever.

  “Hang on!” Ramosa was yelling at him. “Just hang on!”

  Uni was hit with another wall of water. The yacht went up, very quickly, at least 25 feet in the air, and came back down even faster. Its nose was pushed 45 degrees to port as the side wake of the ship began to overtake them. Everything from the bridge on up was torn away by the concussion. Another tall wave hit the yacht, another crash back down to the surface. The ship blew its trouble horn. It was so intense, Uni’s ears began to bleed.

  The ship was passing not 10 feet away from them now and the yacht was being tossed about like a toy. Uni tried to shut his eyes, but he was too frightened to look away. He was hit by another wave and thrown violently to the deck, cutting his scalp on the broken bowl of cherries on the way down. He looked up from his prone position and saw the overhang of the huge vessel going right over his head. Engines rumbling, metal screeching. Such a horrible sound!

  It was a containership; that much Uni could tell. But even with blood pouring into his eyes he knew this vessel was lucky to be afloat. True, it was enormous, but it was also very old, very rusty, and seemed to be full of holes. And there were pieces of branches and trees hanging off of it. How crazy was that?

  And then just as suddenly it was gone, disappearing into the night. But not before Uni could read the words painted on its rear end.

  Ocean Voyager….

  Uni ran his hand over his bloody bald head. Where had he heard that name before?

  Chapter 16

  It was six in the morning by the time Uni returned to the Xagat.

  He was battered, soaking wet, his hands still trembling since nearly being killed by the ghostly ship.

  The yacht barely made it back to Pier 55. No sooner was it docked than Ramosa and his gang went one way and Uni went the other. All were shaken by the close encounter. Uni found a foot taxi somehow and managed to tell the driver to bring him to the hotel. He was broke, though. He had to bum money from the sour doorman to pay the fare.

  The doorman then brought him around back and in through the kitchen entrance, Uni being too waterlogged to appreciate the irony. They took the service elevator up to his suite, the doorman insisting that he call a doctor for Uni, as his head wound was still bleeding. But the shuka was adamantly against that idea. The doorman managed to get Uni into his room without being seen. He left him sitting on the edge of the bed, with a small first-aid kit in his lap.

  “Please fix yourself,” the doorman advised him.

  Uni sat there alone, not moving, not thinking. The sun was coming up, and even though he was exhausted, sleep was not an option. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the black water of Manila Bay enveloping him, freezing him, dragging him down. It was an image he couldn’t shake. How could he ever go to sleep again?

  He took his Nokia phone from his suitcoat pocket. Was it waterproof? He pushed the power button, and the internal displays slowly came on. But they were dim, and condensation fogged the screen. Uni started to cry. He felt very alone.

  He stared at the phone for a long time. These things worked both ways, didn’t they? But he’d never placed a call to Palm Tree; the judus had always called him. Uni wasn’t sure if he even knew how to contact his guardian angel. Was it just a case of pushing buttons? Or were there special ones? Uni didn’t know. He wasn’t good with numbers; more than three in a row tended to confuse him. And even if he knew how to enter it, he didn’t have Palm Tree’s number. Or did he? He went into the bathroom and, standing in front of the huge mirror, examined the underside of his tongue.

  But he found no answers there either.

  * * *

  Day broke. On the streets below, Manila was coming back to life, having survived another night.

  Uni sat in the small chair in the corner of the suite, once again wrapped in towels, wondering if every day was going to be like this now. Was this really how a superterrorist lived? There came a knock at the door. Uni froze. He couldn’t imagine this being anything good, so he decided to ignore it. More knocking came; it was insistent now. Still he did not move. Pounding now, so loud, it hurt his saturated eardrums. He finally got up and answered the door.

  He found the young woman from downstairs, the one who had thrown him out of this place and then brought him back in and since had treated him like royalty.

  What was her name again? Something like Tiffany?

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said.

  Uni managed a smile and ushered her inside. She saw his head wound, his wet clothes, the tracks of his tears, but he waved her concerns away.

  “I think I have good news for you,” she managed to tell him. Uni’s spirits suddenly brightened. Women were foreign to him. Especially Western women. But suddenly she seemed beautiful in his eyes, even though she’d been less than gracious when they first met.

  A friend at last? he dared to think.

  She reached into her purse and pulled out a huge envelope.

  “Another package came for you,” she said.

  Uni nearly passed out. He stared at her — and she stared right back. She handed him the envelope, convinced this was a happy occasion. But feet back on Planet Earth, Uni practically pushed her out of the room. He placed the envelope on the bed and stared at it for a very long time. He was terrified of what it might contain. He scanned the two addresses. Like the first one he’d received, it had been sent to a blind postal box in Yemen first and then forwarded on to Manila. He picked it up, placed it up to his ear, and listened. He heard no ticking. He finally unwrapped it to find, to his horror, that it held two videotapes. A note stuck to one tape indicated it should be opened first. With one loud gulp, he pushed it into the VCR and hit play.

  This tape began where the last one had left off. In the desert, at sunrise. Now all five soldiers were staring into the camera, masks off and grinning. Their hands were covered in blood. Uni recognized them all. They were the same five men who had burst in on the mud fight. Am’reekan Maganeen. The Crazy Americans. In front of them was a shallow grave. Kazeel’s filleted body lay at the bottom. One soldier suddenly produced a small pig. He held it up to the camera, took out his knife, and in one sickening motion slashed its throat. The soldier threw it, still squeal
ing, into the grave on top of Kazeel. Uni was horrified. To place swine inside a Muslim’s grave was to guarantee he would never see Paradise.

  The five soldiers threw dirt into the hole, but just enough to cover the corpse and suffocate the dying pig. Then they all spit on the grave and turned back to the camera.

  “This is what you’ve got to look forward to, Cue Ball,” the maniac named Hunn said. “You remember the last tape we sent you? We were about twenty-four hours behind you then. Well, by the time you see this, that will be down to three.”

  “Can you even count that high?” one of the other soldiers taunted Uni.

  Hunn went on: “You must know by now that we are people who mean what we say. So if you know what’s good for you, follow the instructions written on that second tape.”

  With that, the screen abruptly went to black.

  Uni felt another tremor go through him. He became nauseous, dizzy. He could not stop shaking. He unwrapped the second tape with his teeth. It had a piece of Kazeel’s mufti tied around it, along with a note, written in simple Arabic, that said: Do not leave your room. Do not view this tape for one hour.

  Uni read those words over and over again. What did they mean? That he should remain here and let an hour go by? What else could they mean? He didn’t know, and again, sometimes it hurt to think so deeply. He collapsed to the floor holding the tape in one hand and the night table clock in the other. He started watching the second hand sweep around the dial. It moved with excruciating slowness.

  The events of the last few days began playing back before his eyes. Everything from being thrown out of the Xagat to becoming its most prominent guest, from being treated like a king with a limo to his frightening encounter out at sea. The weapons. The orphans. Kazeel being murdered.