The Cobra

by Frederick Forsyth

  “Documents. Old records. But ultra-sensitive. That is why the President does not want them ever to fall into the hands of our country’s enemies. The Oval Office has decided they have to be destroyed. Hence, the gasoline. Please ask the men to haul up the cans and soak every pile.”

  The mention of his country’s enemies was more than enough for the master sergeant. He shouted, “Yes, sir,” and strode back to the beach.

  Dexter strolled slowly up the alley between the palms. He had seen a few bales since the previous March but never anything like this. Behind him the Marines had appeared, each toting a large can, and began dousing each pile of bales. Dexter had never seen cocaine burn, but he was told it was quite flammable if given a starter blaze with accelerant.

  He had for many years carried a small Swiss Army-type penknife on his key chain, and as he was traveling on an official government passport it had not been confiscated at Dulles International. Out of curiosity, he opened the short blade and jabbed it into the nearest bale. Might as well, he thought. He had never tasted it before and probably never would again.

  The short blade went through the buckram wrapping, through the tough polyethylene and into the powder. It came out with a knob of white dust on the end. He had his back to the Marines down the alley. They could not see what the “documents” contained.

  He sucked the white blob off the point of his knife. Ran it around his mouth until the powder, dissolving in saliva, reached the taste buds. He was surprised. He knew the taste after all.

  He approached another bale and did the same. But a bigger cut and a bigger sample. And another, and another. As a young man out of the Army, back from Vietnam, studying law at Fordham, New York, he had paid for his tuition with a series of menial jobs. One was in a pastry shop. He knew baking soda very well.

  He made ten other incisions in different bales before they were doused and the powerful stench of gasoline took over. Then he walked thoughtfully back to the beach. He drew up an empty canister, sat on it and stared out to sea. Thirty minutes later, the master sergeant was at his side, towering over him.

  “Job done, sir.”

  “Torch it,” said Dexter.

  He heard the barked orders of “Stand clear ” and the dull whump as the vaporizing fuel took flame and smoke rose from the palm grove. January is the time of winds in the Bahamas, and a stiff breeze turned the first flames into a blowtorch.

  He turned to see the palms and their hidden contents consumed by flames. On the dock the floatplane pilot was on his feet, watching openmouthed. The dozen Marines were also staring at their handiwork.

  “Tell me, Master Sergeant . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “How did the bales of documents reach you here?”

  “By boat, sir.”

  “All in one cargo, one at a time?”

  “No, sir. At least a dozen visits. Over the weeks we’ve been here.”

  “Same vessel each time?”

  “Yes, sir. Same one.”

  Of course. There had to be another vessel. The fleet auxiliaries that had replenished the SEALs and the British SBS at sea had removed trash and prisoners. They had delivered food and fuel. But the confiscated cargoes did not go back to Gibraltar or Virginia. The Cobra needed the labels, batch numbers and identification codes to fool the cartel. So these trophies he had kept. Apparently here.

  “What kind of ship?”

  “A small one, sir. Tramp steamer.”

  “Nationality?”

  “Don’t know, sir. She had a flag at the stern. Like two commas. One red, one blue. And her crew were Asian.”

  “Name?”

  The master sergeant’s brow furrowed as he tried to recall. Then he turned.

  “Angelo!”

  He had to shout over the noise of the flames. One of the Marines turned and trotted over.

  “What was the name of the tramp steamer that brought the bales here?”

  “Sea Spirit, sir. Saw it on her stern. New white paint.”

  “And under her name?”

  “Under it, sir?”

  “The port of registration is usually under the name at the stern.”

  “Oh, yes. Poo-something.”

  “Pusan?”

  “That was it, yes, sir. Pusan. That all, sir?”

  Dexter nodded. Marine Angelo trotted off. Dexter rose and went down to the end of the jetty where he could be alone and maybe pick up reception on his cell phone. He was glad it had been on charge all night. To his gratitude and relief, the ever-faithful Jeremy Bishop was at his bank of computers, almost the last facility Project Cobra had left.

  “Can that motorized sardine can of yours translate into Korean?” asked Dexter. The reply was a clear as a bell.

  “Any language in the world, if I put in the right program. Where are you?”

  “Never mind. The only communication I have is this cell. What is the Korean for Sea Spirit or Spirit of the Sea? And don’t waste my battery.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  It was two minutes later that the phone rang.

  “Got a pen and paper?”

  “Never mind. Just say it.”

  “Okay. The words are Hae Shin. That’s aitch-aay . . .”

  “I know how it is spelled. Can you look up a tramp steamer? Small. Named either Hae Shin or Sea Spirit. South Korean, registered Port of Pusan.”

  “Back in two minutes.” The phone went dead. He was as good as his word. Two minutes later, Bishop was back.

  “Got her. Five thousand tons, general-cargo freighter. Name: Sea Spirit. Name registered this year. What about her?”

  “Where is she right now?”

  “Hold on.”

  High over Anacostia district, Jeremy Bishop tapped furiously. Then he spoke.

  “She does not seem to have a managing agent and she does not file. Anything. She could be anywhere. Hold on. The captain has an e-mail listing.”

  “Raise him and ask him where he is. Map reference. Course and speed.”

  More delays. The cell was running down.

  “I raised him by e-mail. Put the questions. He declines to say. Asks who you are.”

  “Say, this is the Cobra.”

  Pause.

  “He is very polite, but insists he needs what he called ‘authority word.’ ”

  “He means ‘password.’ Tell him ‘HAE-SHIN.’”

  Bishop came back, impressed.

  “How did you know that? I have what you wanted. Care to note it?”

  “I have no goddamn maps here. Just tell me where the hell he is.”

  “Keep your hair on. One hundred miles east of Barbados, steaming 270 degrees, ten knots. Shall I thank the captain of the Sea Spirit?”

  “Yes. Then ask if we have a Navy warship between Barbados and Colombia.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  East of Barbados, steaming due west. Through the Windward chain, past the Dutch Antilles and straight into Colombian waters. So far south, there was no way the Korean trafficker was coming back to the Bahamas. She had taken her last cargo off the Balmoral where she had been told. Three hundred miles; thirty hours. Tomorrow afternoon. Jeremy Bishop came back.

  “Nope. There is nothing in the Caribbean.”

  “Is that Brazilian major still in the Cape Verde Islands?”

  “As it happens, yes. His pupils are due for graduation in two days, so it was agreed that he could see that through, then retire and bring the airplane with him. But the two American comms people have been withdrawn. They’re back stateside.”

  “Can you raise him for me? Any which way?”

  “I can e-mail him or text on his cell.”

  “Then do both. I want his phone number, and I want him to be on it to take my call in two hours exactly. I have to go. I’ll call you from my hotel room in a hundred minutes. Just have the number I need. Ciao.”

  He walked back to the floatplane. On the island the flames were flickering and dying. Most of the palms were scorched
stumps. Ecologically, it was a crime. He waved a salutation to the Marines onshore and climbed into his seat.

  “Nassau Harbor, please. As fast as we can.”

  He was seated in his hotel room within ninety minutes and called Bishop ten after that.

  “I have it,” said the cheerful voice from Washington, and dictated a number. Without waiting for the time rendezvous, Dexter called. A voice answered at once.

  “Major João Mendoza?”

  “Yes.”

  “We met at Scampton, and I have been the one controlling your missions these past several months. First, I want to offer my sincere thanks and congratulations. Second, may I ask a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember what the bastards did to your kid brother?”

  There was a long pause. If he took offense, he could just hang up. The deep voice came back.

  “I remember very well. Why?”

  “Do you know how many grams it took to kill your brother?”

  “Just a few. Maybe ten. Again, why?”

  “There is a target out there which I cannot reach. But you can. It is carrying one hundred fifty tons of pure. Enough to kill your brother one hundred million times. It is a ship. Will you sink it for me?”

  “Place and range from Fogo?”

  “We have no overhead drone left. No Americans on your base. No guiding voice from Nevada. You would have to navigate yourself.”

  “When I flew for Brazil, we had single-seat fighters. That was what we did. Give me the location of the target.”

  Midday in Nassau. Midday in Barbados. Flying west with the sun. Takeoff, and 2,100 miles, four hours. Close to the speed of sound. Still daylight at 4 p.m. Six hours at ten knots for the Hae Shin.

  “Forty nautical miles east of Barbados.”

  “I will not be able to get back.”

  “Land locally. Bridgetown, Barbados. St. Lucia. Trinidad. I will fix the formalities.”

  “Give me the exact map reference. Degree minute, second, north of the equator, west of Greenwich.”

  Dexter gave him the name of the ship, description, flag she would be flying and the map reference, adjusted for six hours’ cruising due west.

  “Can you do it?” insisted Dexter. “No navigator, no radio guidance, no direction finder. Maximum range. Can you do it?”

  For the first time, he seemed to have affronted the Brazilian.

  “Senhor, I have my plane, I have my GPS, I have my eyes, I have the sun. I am a flier. It is what I do.”

  And the phone went down.

  CHAPTER 17

  IT TOOK HALF AN HOUR FROM THE MOMENT MAJOR JOÃO Mendoza clicked off his cell phone until he felt the surge of power from the last two RATO rockets in the stores, and the old Buccaneer hurled herself into the sky for her last mission.

  Mendoza had no intention of skimping his preparations so that his target could cover a few less miles of sea. He had watched as his British ground crew tanked the Bucc to her full 23,000 pounds of fuel, giving him around 2,200 nautical miles airborne.

  The cannon had been loaded with one hundred percent armor-piercing shells. There would be no need of a tracer in the daylight or incendiary to start a fire. The target was steel.

  The major worked on his maps, plotting height and speed, track and time to target the old-fashioned way, with map and Dalton computer. The map, folded into oblong sheets, he would strap to his right thigh.

  By chance, Fogo Island lies almost exactly on the 15th parallel of latitude, and so does Barbados. The course would be due west, then down the degree heading 270. He had an exact map reference for the position of his target when it was given to the American two hours earlier. In four hours’ time, his GPS display would give his own position with the same exactitude. What he had to do was adjust that to account for six hours’ cruising by the target, descend to low level and go hunting with his last few pounds of fuel. And then make Bridgetown, Barbados, on little more than vapor. Easy.

  He packed his few valuables, with a passport and some dollars, into a small tote bag and stuffed it between his feet. He bade farewell to the ground team, embracing each embarrassed Englishman in turn.

  When the “assist” rockets cut in, he felt the usual mule-kick surge, held the control steady until the blue, foam-fringed waves were almost under him, then eased back and flew.

  Within minutes he was on the 15th parallel, nose due west, climbing to operational 35,000 feet and setting power to maximum range with lowest consumption. Once at altitude, he set his speed at .8 Mach and watched the GPA ticking away the disappearing miles.

  There are no landmarks between Fogo and Barbados. The Brazilian ace looked down at fluffy white altocumulus far below, and between the puffs of cloud, the deep blue of the Atlantic.

  After three hours, he calculated he was slightly behind where he had hoped to be and realized he had a stronger-than-foreseen headwind. When his GPS told him he was two hundred miles behind the target and gave its presumed position, he eased off some of the power and began to drop toward the ocean. He wanted to be at 500 feet ten miles behind the Hae Shin.

  At 1,000 feet, he leveled, and dropped his speed and power setting to maximum endurance. Speed was no longer the option; he needed time to search because the sea was empty, and, because of the headwind, he had used more fuel than he had hoped. Then he saw a small tramp steamer. She was off to his port, sixty sea miles short of Barbados. He dropped his wing, lowered the nose and began a sweep past her stern to see her name and flag.

  At 100 feet, running at three hundred knots, he saw the flag first. He did not recognize it. Had he known, it was the convenience flag of Bonaire in the Dutch Antilles. There were faces staring up at the black apparition howling past the stern. He noted a deck cargo of timber, then the name. Prins Willem. She was a Dutchman with deal planks for Curaçao. He pulled back up to 1,000 feet and checked fuel. Not good.

  His position, revealed by his Garmin GPS system, almost exactly blended onto the map reference of the Hae Shin as she had been six hours earlier. Other than the Dutchman off to one side, he could see no tramp steamer. She could have diverted from track. He could not raise the American sitting chewing his nails in Nassau to ask. He gambled the cocaine carrier was still ahead of him and powered along compass heading 270°. And he was right.

  Unlike the jet at 35,000 feet with a headwind, the Hae Shin had had a following sea and was making twelve knots, not ten. He found her thirty miles short of the Caribbean holiday resort. A sweep past her stern showed him the two teardrops, red and blue, of the South Korean flag, and her new name, Sea Spirit. Again, small figures ran onto the hatch covers to stare up.

  Major Mendoza had no desire to kill the crew. He elected to rip apart her prow and her stern. Pulling away, he took the Buccaneer up and out in a wide circle to approach the target from the side. He flicked his cannon from Safe to Fire, turned and dropped the nose into the bombing run. He had no bombs, but his cannon would have to do.

  Back in the late 1950s, the Royal Navy had wanted a new, jet-powered low-level naval bomber to take on the menace of the USSR’s Sverdlov-class cruisers. The job went out to tender, depending on acceptance of the submitted design. The Blackburn Aircraft Company offered the Buccaneer, and a limited order was placed. She first flew in 1962, almost as a stopgap warplane. She was still combat flying against Saddam Hussein in 1991, but over land for the Royal Air Force.

  At the time of her birth, the Blackburn Company was on short commons, reduced to making metal bread bins. With hindsight, the Bucc was a product of near genius. She was never pretty; but she was tough and adaptable. And reliable, with two Rolls-Royce Spey engines that never failed.

  For months, Major Mendoza had used her as a midair interceptor, knocking seventeen cocaine carriers out of the sky and sending twenty tons of the white powder to the ocean floor. But when Mendoza turned onto his low, sea-skimming attack run, the veteran Bucc reverted to what she had always been. She was a ship killer.

  At ei
ght hundred yards, he jammed his thumb on the Fire button and watched a raking line of 30mm AP cannon shells stream toward the bow of the Hae Shin. Before he lifted his thumb, hauled back and howled over the tramp steamer, he had seen the shells tear out her bow.

  The tramp stopped dead in the water as she ran into a wall of ocean thundering into her forward holds. Then small figures were running for the lifeboat, ripping off the canvas cover. The Buccaneer rose and turned in another long arc as the pilot gazed out through the top of his canopy at the victim below.

  The second strike was from the stern. Major Mendoza hoped the engineer had got out of the engine room; it was right in his sights. The second stream of cannon shells tore open the stern, taking rudder, propellers, two prop shafts and the engine and turning them into scrap.

  The figures on deck had the lifeboat in the sea and were tumbling into it. Circling at 3,000 feet, the flier could see the Hae Shin was sinking by both stem and stern. Certain that she was gone and that the Prins Willem would pick up the crew, Major Mendoza turned for Barbados. Then the first of his Speys, having flown on vapor for the second run, flamed out.

  A glance at the fuel gauges revealed the second engine was also running on vapor. He used his last few pounds of gas to climb, and when the second Spey died he had clawed the Bucc up to 8,000 feet. The silence, as always after a flameout, was eerie. He could see the island ahead of him, but out of reach. No glide was ever going to be stretched that far.

  Below his nose was a small white feather on the water, the V wake of a tiny fisherman. He dived toward it, converting height to speed, raced across the staring faces at 1,000 feet, then hauled back, converting speed to height, pulled the ejector seat handle and blew out straight through the canopy.

  Messrs. Martin and Baker knew their stuff. The seat took him up and away from the dying bomber. A pressure-operated trigger tumbled him out of the steel seat, which fell harmlessly to the water, and left him dangling in the warm sunshine under his parachute. Minutes later he was being hauled, coughing and spluttering, onto the aft deck of a Bertram Moppie.

  Two miles away, a geyser of white foam erupted from the sea as the Buccaneer plunged nose first into the Atlantic. The pilot lay between three dead wahoos and a sailfish, as the two American charter fishermen leaned over him.