Oath of Honor

by Matthew Betley

The young giant slammed to the stone porch on his haunches as his comrade opened fire behind him. Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Logan ducked in front of the Russian as the bullets struck the man in the upper back with wet thuds. His eyes looked into Logan’s and widened with horror as his body registered the pain and realization that he’d been shot. The bigger they are . . .

  Logan drew his Kimber .45 and leaned to his right, exposing himself to the second assailant. His pistol roared on the front steps as he fired three quick shots at the running figure.

  The slugs struck the man squarely in the chest as his forward momentum carried him through the doorway. His right foot stuck on the door frame and tripped him.

  To Logan, it looked as if an invisible force had yanked the shooter’s feet from under him. His upper body kept moving as if he were being pulled to the ground, while his lower body remained secured to the door frame. He crashed to the front porch face-first behind the behemoth. The gun skittered across the porch and down the steps. The man didn’t move.

  Logan looked back at the behemoth just in time to see his eyes roll up in his head. He toppled backward and landed on top of the second man’s head and neck. Logan cringed as he heard a crack.

  If his friend wasn’t dead from my bullets, he is now.

  He kept the Kimber trained on the doorway and picked up his cell phone. Before he could speak, he heard the high-pitched revving of a small engine from the separated garage. He looked over and saw the garage door had been raised.

  From within, a Honda all-terrain vehicle exited and flashed by Logan before he could react. There’s nowhere to run, moron. I told your friend that and look what happened to him. I guess now it’s your turn.

  ———

  Inspector Romero lay on a hilltop four hundred yards away and watched the speeding ATV accelerate down the driveway toward the street. He adjusted a dial on top of his spotter’s binoculars and kept the illuminated reticle on the fleeing figure.

  “Three seventy-six, three-seventy, three sixty-five . . . ,” he told the prone figure in camouflage holding a military-grade Heckler & Koch PSG-1 sniper rifle.

  The shooter exhaled, released all tension in his upper body, and gently pulled the trigger. A singular crack! echoed down the hillside.

  Inspector Romero caught a momentary glimpse of the 7.62mm bullet’s vapor trail as the round flew toward its target. The bullet struck the front right tire of the ATV, and both men watched the resulting carnage unfold.

  The tire exploded from the impact, and the nose of the ATV changed direction, lurching down and to the right as if the vehicle were trying to tunnel into the ground. The front right tire served as an anchor as the rear of the vehicle hopped up and swung around toward the front. The left tires touched back down, and the vehicle’s momentum caused it to flip over sideways, executing four full barrel rolls before it smashed upside down on the edge of the driveway.

  Fortunately for the driver, he’d been flung into the air with the first flip. He landed on his side with one leg bent awkwardly beneath him and lay still.

  Madre de Dios, Inspector Romero thought and picked up his cell phone. “All units converge on the farmhouse.”

  Both men stood up and watched as the figure of Logan West ran to the front door of the house and looked inside. Apparently satisfied that no other hostiles were present, he leapt down the steps and moved into the garage.

  Inspector Romero turned to the shooter and said in English, “Excellent shot, Mr. Quick. Excellent shot indeed. Now let’s go see if that Russian has anything interesting to say. If he’s still alive, that is.”

  “Show-off,” Cole added from a prone position behind them, a radio in his hand.

  John Quick smiled at the GEO special forces inspector, ignoring his new CIA friend, and said, “Thanks. I try. That sure looked like a nasty spill, but if he needs it, I’m sure Logan can give him mouth-to-mouth.”

  ———

  That had to hurt, Logan thought as he ran down the driveway, figuring that anyone left inside would’ve made a break for it by now or come out with guns blazing.

  You better be alive, asshole, he thought as he reached the ATV driver. Through the open garage door, he’d seen a parked black sedan, and he’d gone inside to investigate. He’d opened the trunk only to discover a spare tire and an old tarp. God knows what that has been used for. More importantly, he’d confirmed that the van and its vital contents were gone.

  The Russian was unconscious but breathing steadily. A small rivulet of blood streaked down his upturned face. You’re lucky you’re out because that’s going to hurt like hell when you wake up, Logan thought as he looked at the broken left leg.

  The man’s pant leg jutted out at the shin. The misshapen fabric indicated he’d suffered an open compound fracture—the bone had broken through his skin. His left arm was positioned at an awkward angle, and there was a huge laceration on his forearm.

  Logan heard the black tactical police vans roar down the street, sirens wailing. A Spanish National Police SUV pulled into the driveway and stopped. Two black tactical vans pulled in directly behind it. Three doors of the SUV opened as John Quick, Cole Matthews, and Inspector Romero exited the vehicle.

  “Nice acting, Brando. You really fooled them,” John said.

  “Hey, cut me some slack. I made it to the front door before the shooting started, which is all we wanted. Unfortunately,” Logan said, and sighed, “they didn’t want to come out nicely.”

  “At least this one’s alive,” Inspector Romero said as a GEO medic hopped out of a van and ran over to attend to the wounded man. The inspector smiled at the Americans and said, “We can hold him up to thirteen days, but I’ll only need thirty minutes to interrogate him effectively. We should know what he knows within the hour.”

  John studied the hardened Spanish GEO, smiled broadly, and said, “You know, I really think I’m beginning to like this country.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Policía Municipal Headquarters, Valdemoro, Spain

  Inspector Romero exited the concrete interrogation room and smiled at his guests in the police station hallway. “Did you know that a form of waterboarding was widely used during the Spanish Inquisition? I guess after all these centuries, it’s still an effective technique.”

  John stared at the GEO team leader with raised eyebrows. “I thought we came up with that idea all on our own. So much for American ingenuity,” John said with mock disappointment. “More importantly, are you telling us that you just waterboarded that Russian bastard inside that concrete box? Wow. That’s awesome, but don’t let our ACLU hear that. They’ll come after you as if you were Hitler.”

  “What is this ‘ACLU’?” Inspector Romero asked.

  “It’s this group of lawyers in our country,” Cole answered. “Bottom line—they’re not all bad, but they often protect the wrong people at the expense of others.”

  The inspector nodded his head in contemplation and said, “We have that here as well. We call it ‘Congress.’ ”

  Logan laughed and said, “In America, the lawyers would be offended by the comparison. Right now, our politicians have about the popularity of the plague, and even that might be considered insulting to the Black Death.”

  Inspector Romero seemed to appreciate the metaphor. “Setting aside our countries’ political problems, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Quick, but I did not actually torture Mr. Yuri Gagolin.”

  “Wait a second,” Logan interjected. “His name is actually Yuri? That’s funny because that’s what I called the big guy back at the farmhouse before his buddy killed him.”

  “Not so funny for him,” John said.

  “Fuck him if he can’t take a joke—or couldn’t,” Logan said, and smiled.

  “You two are somewhat crazy,” Inspector Romero stated drily. “Regardless, I only convinced him that if he didn’t cooperate immediately, he’d soon have a new appreciation for the historical significance of water torture. It helped that he’s disoriented from the
pain medications our medic gave him.”

  “You guys don’t mess around,” Logan said. “I like that. Out of curiosity, would you have done it if he didn’t crack right away?”

  “In a situation like this, I would do whatever’s necessary to obtain the information I need,” Inspector Romero replied, with a look that confirmed Logan’s suspicions. This is a serious man.

  Logan nodded but didn’t get a chance to speak, since Cole asked, “What did he tell you, Inspector? We’re running out of options, and I hope he’s got something useful.”

  Inspector Romero nodded and said, “He says that two of his comrades left the farmhouse this morning with the van for a port in Cartagena. Our friend in there wasn’t supposed to know the details, but he overheard his two friends talking. The one thing he seems to remember was a ship called the Wonjo Buhwal. He thinks the van was delivering its contents to that ship.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. No way,” John said, his head whipping to look at Logan in disbelief.

  Logan’s eyes widened for a brief moment and then narrowed intently at Inspector Romero. “Are you sure—absolutely sure—that’s what he said, Inspector?”

  Inspector Romero nodded and held out a yellow legal notepad. In small capital letters was printed WONJO BUHWAL. “Do you know this vessel?”

  “Both John and I do, unfortunately. It means ‘aid bringer,’ ironically. In 2003, our Force Reconnaissance platoon was sent inside Iraq near the western border three months ahead of the invasion. Our mission was to probe Iraqi defenses near Al Qaim, this town on the border with Syria. When we were done, we were ordered to take a slight detour. There was a North Korean vessel en route to Lebanon with a shipment of SCUD missiles. Our Intelligence Community supposedly had solid proof the missiles were on board, including satellite imagery of the SCUDs being loaded in North Korea. Our JSOC boys and Navy SEALs were busy preparing for Iraq, and we just happened to be the closest unit in the region trained to take down a cargo ship of that size.”

  “What happened?” the inspector asked earnestly.

  “The boarding was routine. We met no resistance, and once we secured the ship, we found no trace of the missiles. But the North Korean captain was belligerent and defiant. I still remember the disgust on his face at the sight of American Marines on his ship. He despised us,” Logan recalled.

  “I remember that asshole,” John said. “We knew the weapons had to be on the ship, but after only an hour of searching, we were ordered off before we could take it into a friendly port. Unbeknownst to us, the Chinese filed an immediate complaint with the UN Security Council, and the UN called our State Department, which caved in to the pressure in typical and glorious fashion.”

  Logan added, “The captain smiled at us as we left the bridge. He knew he’d won and that we couldn’t do anything. We had no choice but to follow orders, which we did, tragically.”

  “Why? What do you mean?”

  “We’d inserted using four Black Hawk helicopters—the Navy calls them Seahawks—and on the way out, there was an accident.” Logan paused in recollection as John shook his head in anger. “There were these four enormous cranes on the deck of the boat—three in the front part of the ship and one aft of the main structure. They occupied the entire area where the cargo containers were stacked. They were secured with these huge cables to keep them from shifting around in rough weather. We’d been careful to avoid them on the way in, but on the way out, one of them snapped—”

  “Or was cut loose,” John said icily.

  “—and it whipped around the deck like a live wire, slicing the tail off one of the Seahawks that had been too close to the deck,” Logan finished.

  “Madre de Dios,” Inspector Romero muttered.

  “The helicopter struck the side of the boat and burst into flames as it plunged into the Mediterranean,” Logan said soberly. “In total, we lost eight Marines, two Navy pilots, and two crew members.”

  “And to make matters worse, that motherfucker got away. As the burning wreckage lay on top of the water, the North Korean captain turned his ship and sailed away in a big ‘Fuck you’ gesture, refusing to help with the rescue,” John said flatly. “Anyone who might’ve survived the crash didn’t last long because the water was too choppy. By the time the nearest naval vessel showed up, all the wreckage had sunk. We recovered only four bodies. The rest were just gone.”

  A sudden realization struck the inspector. “How come I don’t recall this incident? Something like that would’ve drawn international attention. I don’t remember it in the news at all.”

  “Because,” Cole answered, “the US government considered it an embarrassment and agreed to keep it out of the press.” He looked at Logan and John. “I didn’t know that was you guys. I remember when it happened. I was in Turkey at the time, and our station chief had been ordered to monitor any communications coming out of Lebanon. After the crash, we couldn’t believe the spineless response of our own government.”

  “Looks like it’s time for a little overdue justice,” John said.

  No one replied. The mood was somber. The day was nearly over, but night waited for no man’s reflections.

  Inspector Romero looked at his watch and broke the silence. “The clock is ticking. Let’s go find a phone. We need to track a ship.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Khartoum

  Lau Gang’s phone vibrated silently as he received a text message. He watched as his men prepared several vehicles at the small military airfield Namir had provided for their use.

  He looked down and smiled. It was the American. The bait has been taken. They’re going after the ship. You’re almost free and clear.

  It was his international ties to multiple allies, all of whom shared the same interest, that made the American a critical piece in this violent, global chess match. Too bad the US doesn’t see the board yet, Gang thought as he deleted the text and put his phone away.

  ———

  The Alboran Sea

  Two Spanish NH90 tactical transport helicopters flew low in the dark night across the Alboran Sea. The lights of the Wonjo Buhwal served as an illuminated homing beacon less than two miles directly ahead.

  Several phone calls from the Spanish National Police to Cartagena’s main port had revealed that the North Korean vessel had departed Spain less than an hour after the raid on the farmhouse in Valdemoro. The Spanish Navy had immediately initiated tracking and confirmed that the ship was headed in the direction of the destination listed on its manifest—Algiers, Algeria.

  Cole had raised the well-publicized fact that radical Islam was on the rise in Algeria, but why the Russians and North Koreans would be dealing directly with religious extremists was anyone’s guess. In reality, it didn’t matter why. There was only one course of action—board the ship and find the ONERING.

  Inspector Romero and Logan were onboard the lead helicopter, accompanied by an eight-man team of the Spanish Navy’s elite Unidad de Operacionales Especiales, or UOE. The UOE was Spain’s equivalent to the US Navy SEALs, trained with the same legendary physicality and unwavering mental discipline. Cole Matthews and John Quick led a second UOE team on the following NH90.

  Four smaller four-man UOE teams riding combat rubber raiding craft equipped with baffled engines supported the two helicopters. The four teams had launched from the Spanish-flagged landing platform dock Castilla ahead of the helicopters in order to synchronize their arrival at the North Korean ship.

  Logan leaned forward and looked out the cockpit window of the NH90 but only saw blackness below the windows. Inspector Romero’s voice crackled in his headset. “The teams are less than a half mile from the ship. Two minutes to target.” The update was broadcast to the other helicopter through the internal communications system. Once they landed on the ship, the teams would switch to their tactical radio network.

  Logan turned toward the rear of the helicopter. Inspector Romero signaled the team as the helicopter accelerated toward the target. Log
an quickly switched the radio channel and spoke into the microphone. “John, less than two minutes. We’ll take the bridge. You search the cargo. See you on deck. Be safe.”

  “You too. Out,” John replied over the reverberation of the aircraft. The time for joking had passed.

  ———

  Captain Kim Sung Baek was aggravated with Pyongyang. He’d been the captain of the Wonjo Buhwal for twenty years, but today’s events had been a first. He’d received new orders earlier in the afternoon—“Sail immediately for the port of Algiers. Do not stop under any circumstances if anyone tries to board you. Eliminate all hostile forces. It is of the utmost importance that the ship not fall into enemy hands. Fail-safe option should be exercised if necessary. Office 39 is depending on you. Long reign the Korean Workers’ Party!”

  The last part of the message had frozen him in his tracks. Office 39 was the main office of the Central Committee, which took its direction from the highest levels of leadership in the North Korean government, including the Dear Leader.

  He knew that his strong family ties to the military generals in Pyongyang wouldn’t save him if he didn’t follow orders. His family would be executed—if lucky—or worse. Captain Baek had done the only thing available to him—set his navigation system for Algiers and left the port of Cartagena immediately. He’d left so quickly, he’d stranded ten of his thirty-five-man crew ashore. Orders were orders, and he knew these were anything but normal ones. Whatever Pyongyang was orchestrating somehow involved him and his ship, and he didn’t intend to fail his country or—more importantly—his family.

  It was now past 2200 local time as he scanned the sea around him. The nearest ship was three miles to his stern, and nothing lay in front of him. He walked to the port side of the bridge and looked back across the enormous, open cargo area.

  So far, so good, he thought as he peered into the darkness behind the ship through high-power binoculars. He stopped his lateral motion as his eyes spotted four dark, blurry shapes contrasted against the moving sea. It’s not possible. They disappeared. He squinted into the lenses. There they were again, but this time, the shapes were closer. Four small boats were aimed directly toward his ship.