B00447820A EBOK

by Mack Maloney

  Again, the prince just nodded. “It is a truly impossible mission,” he said. “And I can understand every reason you would want to turn it down. It seems lose-lose no matter how one looks at it. But I felt I owed it to you to ask.”

  Nolan looked at the rest of the team. Each man tapped his own ear twice.

  Finally Nolan asked, “Can my associates and I have a few minutes to talk?”

  * * *

  THE TEAM WALKED toward the front of the boat, emerging onto the bow.

  Zamal followed and kept an eye on them from a respectful distance. The five Americans were soon locked in an intense discussion.

  The Saudi intelligence officer couldn’t imagine what they were talking about. They were being offered a job that could only result in their deaths. What was there to discuss?

  Yet, ten minutes later, they were back in the captain’s galley.

  “Twelve million,” Nolan told el Saud.

  The prince was shocked. “Are you certain?” he asked. “The chances you’ll survive are almost nil.”

  “Then make it fifteen,” Nolan said. “You’ll only have to pay us if we succeed, so what difference does it make?”

  The Prince thought a moment, then asked: “Seriously?”

  Nolan looked at his colleagues. Each man touched his chin.

  “Seriously,” Nolan replied. “We’ll take the job.”

  Once again silence descended over the galley. The prince and the ONI man plainly were shocked the team was going ahead with it. Even Dr. Bobol looked incredulous.

  Again, Zamal broke the tension. “What do you need from us then?” he asked Nolan.

  The Team Whiskey leader thought a moment, then said: “First of all, Doctor, please draw us a diagram of exactly where the pirates stood when you went aboard and while you were being searched.”

  “And second?” Zamal asked.

  Nolan indicated the four large bundles of money. “We’ve got to put that into a few wooden crates and nail them tight,” he said. “We know what it’s like to carry loose bills on a helicopter.”

  * * *

  WHILE THE OTHER team members visited various cabins within the yacht in preparation for the mission, Nolan climbed up to the bridge and got on the radio.

  He called the pirates on the LNG carrier ten miles away. The gang’s leader answered.

  Nolan’s first words were: “We’ve got a problem.”

  “Who is this?” the pirate asked in heavily accented English.

  “The people you insisted deliver the ransom to you.”

  “You are the Americans? The Whiskey people?”

  “Yes.”

  The pirate leader said something to someone off the mic. Nolan heard muffled laughter in the background.

  “They have the ransom,” Nolan told him. “I just saw them count it. Two hundred million in five-hundred-dollar bills.”

  More laughter.

  “So—what is this problem?” the pirate leader asked.

  “That much money weighs almost a half a ton,” Nolan replied. “And we have only a small utility helicopter. Yet delivering it that way is the only option. We can’t parachute it because that would require a large plane, and it would be a rough landing on that deck. And I understand you don’t want it delivered by sea, is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is,” the pirate replied. “Do you have a solution, then?”

  “We’ll have to break it up into wooden crates,” Nolan replied. “And deliver them one at a time. There’s no other way.”

  A long silence on the other end of the line.

  “How many people work for your company?” the pirate asked.

  “We are five.”

  “Are they all with you now?”

  “Yes.”

  Another silence, and then the pirate spoke again: “We’d be fools to trust you, so this is what you must do. Deliver the first crate—and leave your four men behind. Deliver the other crates—we make sure the money count is right, then the ship is yours and we let the crew go.”

  “Along with me and my men?” Nolan added.

  “Yes—of course,” the pirate said quickly.

  “One hour,” Nolan told him, again hearing more laughter from the other end. “You can expect us then.”

  Forty-five minutes later

  COLONEL ZAMAL WAS standing outside the cabin where Team Whiskey was getting ready for their mission. They’d requested this place as their prep room, a lounge that ran off the gigantic kids’ play area.

  “You only have ten minutes to get airborne,” Zamal said, checking his watch and banging on the cabin door. “We must stay on schedule.”

  The door opened a crack; the man they called Batman stuck his head out.

  “What time is lunch served on this boat?” he asked Zamal.

  Zamal was thrown by the question. “Anytime the prince wants it,” was his reply. “Why? Are you hungry?”

  The man patted him lightly on the shoulder with his hook hand.

  “No—not now,” he said, closing the door again. “But maybe later.”

  * * *

  FIVE MORE MINUTES went by. Zamal anxiously paced the passageway. He was more convinced than ever the Whiskey team members were crazy. It was almost a certainty that the pirates would kill them once the ransom money was paid. It was a no-win situation. Yet the team was going ahead with it.

  Finally the cabin door opened again, and the five men came out. Zamal had expected to see them dressed in full battle gear, but the opposite was true. They wore no body armor, no military fatigues. Not even combat helmets. They were dressed as before: camo shorts, shirts, sneakers and baseball caps. And they were carrying no weapons that he could see. All they had in hand was Dr. Bobol’s drawing and a letter of terms from the prince.

  As they started up to the helipad, Zamal stopped them.

  “My apologies,” he told them. “But the prince insists.”

  With that, he frisked each member quickly. When Zamal declared them to be clean, they resumed walking toward the helipad, where the crates of money awaited.

  Zamal started to follow but then glanced into the empty cabin. It looked unchanged, except for two things. It smelled faintly of ammonia, and in the wastebasket was a handful of torn plastic, the remains of some kind of packaging. Zamal took out the refuse and read the few words he could find on them: One was “Mega Blast.” Another read “Zapper-500.”

  Zamal scratched his head, baffled.

  “What on earth is this stuff?” he thought.

  * * *

  STRIPPED OF ITS weapons, the copter nicknamed Bad Dawg One circled the LNG carrier once before landing on the helipad in front of the ship’s massive stern-mounted superstructure.

  The five pirates were waiting. Just as the doctor’s drawing had indicated, four of them were standing in what appeared to be prearranged spots, one at each corner of the helipad. Each was carrying an AK-47 and had a machete tucked in his belt. As predicted, they were dressed like the tanker’s crew and had their faces covered with bandanas save for their eyes. The fifth pirate was stationed on the railing about eight feet above; he held an RPG launcher.

  Batman was piloting the copter; Twitch was in the copilot’s seat. Nolan, Gunner and Crash were riding in the passenger compartment in back, straddling the first wooden crate. They were all eyeing the pirates, especially their weapons. More than ever, Whiskey knew one stray bullet, and this corner of the Indian Ocean would go up.

  They waited in the copter, engine running, until the pirates motioned them to get out, one at a time.

  Again, just as the doctor had said, the team members were subjected to an intense search. One by one, the pirates roughly frisked them, once, twice, three times. Then they played the metal-detecting wands all over their bodies, paying special attention to their boots and belts, looking for small, hidden firearms. Batman’s metal hand and Twitch’s false leg set off the wands, but no weapons were found.

  Finally cleared, Batman gave the boss pirate the letter,
handing it to him between the metal clasps of his hook.

  “This is from the prince,” he told the pirate. “It contains the conditions we’ve all agreed to.”

  The pirate took the letter, put it under his arm, and then looked at Batman’s hand appliance. He asked, “Crocodile?”

  Batman shook his head and pointed to the pirate on the railing above and said, “RPG.”

  The pirate boss smiled, displaying a set of red-stained teeth. He put his AK-47 in his left hand and held up his right, showing that it was missing its index finger. He laughed and said to Batman, “Crocodile.”

  “Unlucky you,” Batman said.

  Then, in one swift motion, Batman flicked a six-inch razor out of his hook and slashed it across the pirate’s throat.

  At the same moment, Twitch yanked off his prosthetic leg to reveal a twelve-inch-long serrated bayonet. He brought it over his shoulder and down on the second pirate, splitting him open from his chin to his navel.

  Gunner and Nolan instantly reached into their crotch areas, the one place they knew the Muslims would not search, and retrieved tiny plastic water guns. Both were filled with ammonia. They fired at the eyes of the third and fourth pirates standing about five feet away, causing both to drop their guns. Two kicks to the scrota, two kicks to the temples, and both pirates were dead.

  The pirate up on the railing was looking down on all this in shock. The blood, the screams—it had all happened so fast. He finally pointed his weapon down at the team but hesitated. This gave Crash enough time to pull a Zapper-500 toy dart gun from his crotch, go into a three-point stance, and squeeze the plastic trigger. The dart, sharpened to a razor point, hit the pirate in the throat, puncturing his windpipe. The man gagged horribly, fell over, and drowned in his own blood.

  And that’s all it took. In a matter of seconds, the pirates were dead, victims of the Muslim prohibition of feeling another man’s private parts. As a result, the ship and crew were safe. And the prince’s $200-million ransom was still intact.

  All without using gunplay.

  Sort of.

  “Lose the evidence,” Batman reminded them.

  Nolan, Gunner and Crash calmly walked to the side of the ship and threw their toy guns over the side.

  Then, looking around and seeing a job well done, Batman said, “OK, let’s get some lunch.”

  PART TWO

  The Other Pirates of

  the Caribbean

  2

  Easter morning

  THE FIFTY-FIVE-FOOT LUXURY yacht Mary C was in trouble.

  Boaters traveling between Miami and the Bahamas just after sunrise reported seeing the vintage Rybovich sports craft spinning slowly in a circle off North Bimini.

  A U.S. Coast Guard HC-130 patrol plane, returning to its base in Clearwater, Florida, flew over the yacht around 8 A.M. and tried to establish radio contact with it, to no avail. Attempts by the Coast Guard liason office in Nassau to contact the yacht also failed.

  With most of its assets deployed elsewhere—a large storm had blown through the Bahamas just three days before—the Coast Guard asked any law enforcement agency with a vessel in the area to head for the Mary C and render assistance.

  As it happened, a patrol boat belonging to the Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Department was just six miles north of the wayward yacht. The twenty-two-foot Boston Whaler, newly purchased by the sheriff’s marine division, was on an early-morning shakedown cruise, checking out its long-range GPS-based navigation system.

  The boat had three deputies onboard.

  They were sent to investigate.

  * * *

  THEY FOUND THE Mary C a half-mile west of where it had first been sighted. It had run out of fuel, so it was no longer going in circles. The deputies used a grappling hook to pull alongside, and then two went aboard, climbing onto its stern.

  They called out for anyone onboard, but got no response. Three Daiwa sports rods, already baited, hung in place. Obviously some deep-sea fishing had been planned. Nearby, a case of beer was on ice, along with some vodka and orange juice. Somewhere a radio was playing salsa music.

  The deputies called out a second time, but again, there was no reply. The sliding door to the expansive cabin was partially open. They peeked inside.

  Nothing looked out of place. Breakfast food and coffee sat on a table surrounded by leather couches. A TV nearby was on, turned to a religious station showing Easter services but with the sound on mute. All the cabin windows were closed and doors were secured. There was nothing unusual on the floor, nothing broken or upturned anywhere.

  The deputies shouted directly into the cabin. Again, no reply.

  They drew their weapons and stepped inside. It was more of the same. Nothing was out of place. They walked through the sitting area to the galley. It, too, was clean. Glasses, plates, bottles—all secured and where they ought to be. The fridge was filled with food and the vessel had plenty of drinking water.

  They moved into the sleeping area, half expecting to find a body or two on one of the beds, a murder-suicide perhaps. But everything in the sleeping area was also in order. It was empty, and while there were no wallets or money lying around, everything else was in its place.

  This was getting weird. Both deputies were veterans of the sheriff’s marine division. They’d seen a lot of odd things on the job, but nothing like this.

  They returned to the rear deck, holstered their weapons and contemplated the situation. There were pirates in these waters, though not the typical kind. They were more like drug addicts and thieves who would board yachts, sometimes in force, and rob the passengers and crew. Most times, they murdered anyone onboard to eliminate witnesses. Coming upon these pirated vessels, though, it was obvious to law enforcement what had happened: Bloodstains, bullet holes in the hull, and signs of a struggle usually told the tale.

  But the Mary C looked as normal as any boat at sea could look—except it was empty. Not even any towels on the rear deck to hint the occupants had been lost while swimming.

  The deputies climbed up to the bridge to find the steering column had not been set to drive the boat in circles; it had just been left unattended with the yacht’s engines pushed half-speed forward. The radio, located next to the controls, indicated the last message: A call to a recorded weather service had been sent two hours earlier. So the Mary C had been adrift since 6 A.M. or so.

  “The Muy Capaz, maybe?” one deputy finally asked.

  The Muy Capaz was a gang of Bahamian criminals who attacked luxury boats at sea to get cash and valuables. Their name, Spanish for “very capable,” was a loose indication that, unlike other gangs, they strived to leave behind as few clues as possible whenever they committed a crime. Though pretty much drug-addled and shabby, the Muy Capaz nevertheless had been known to wipe down surfaces for fingerprints and to clean up bloodstains.

  But if some kind of crime had taken place on the Mary C, then the boat had not just been wiped down but scrubbed down, sanitized and everything put back in its place with mind-boggling efficiency.

  “I’m not sure the ‘Muy Capaz’ is this ‘capaz,’ ” the other deputy replied. “Something else happened here.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like UFOs? An abduction?”

  The first deputy barely smiled.

  “Don’t even joke about that,” he said.

  * * *

  THEY TOWED THE Mary C a mile east, to shallow water, where they dropped its anchor. Then they called the Bimini police, reported what they knew and turned the whole matter over to them.

  But no sooner had this been done than the deputies received another call from the Coast Guard. A second boat had been spotted adrift about five miles south of their present position.

  Would they please investigate?

  * * *

  THE DEPUTIES CAME upon the Rosalie fifteen minutes later.

  It was a sailboat, sixty-five feet in length, with two masts. A real beauty. It was moving west, a few miles off the Bimini resort o
f Alice Town. All its canvas was set, but it was obviously drifting.

  It took some adept maneuvering by the deputies to catch up and grapple the sailboat. They climbed aboard and immediately lowered the vessel’s sails and tied off the steering wheel. Then they searched it.

  Unlike the Mary C, the sailboat did have some life aboard. There were two canaries and a cat inside the cabin. The cat was spooked, though, and hid as soon as the deputies appeared.

  The lawmen searched the sailboat stern to bow and back again. Every cabin was empty, but not in disarray. There were no signs of struggle or conflict. As before, there was plenty of food and water onboard, and the fuel tank for the sailboat’s small inboard engine was full.

  As on the Mary C, there was no way to tell if anything valuable was missing. From the number of cabins that appeared to have been occupied, the deputies determined at least six people had been aboard the sailboat. But while there were no wallets or billfolds lying about, there were several iPods, TVs, and even a Bose music system still onboard, just the type of thing pirates would normally steal.

  The ship’s log, written in a woman’s hand, indicated the sailboat had left South Rocks Cay just after dawn, heading for Miami. This meant it had been adrift for about two and a half hours.

  “If this is the Muy Capaz,” one deputy said, “then they’re having themselves a busy Easter morning.”

  * * *

  AS BEFORE, THE deputies towed the vessel into shallower waters, dropped its anchor and contacted Bimini police. And finally, the deputies were able to do what they had come way out here for: test their boat’s new navigation gear.

  But just as they were about to contact their headquarters at West Palm Beach, they received yet another call from the Coast Guard.

  A third pleasure boat had been spotted drifting not twenty miles from the deputies’ current position.

  Once again, the Coast Guard asked them to check it out.

  * * *

  THE PRETTY PENNY was sitting dead in the water about twelve miles north of the Bimini Road when the deputies found it. It was a sixty-five-foot Alberta, its engine not turning, its one sail taken down. It was motionless, and the water around it was motionless as well.