Operation Sea Ghost ph-3

by Mack Maloney

  It was with mixed feelings that Nolan watched the Shin-1 pull away and go airborne. On one hand, he was glad his friends would be getting the medical treatment they needed. On the other hand, the Taiwan Song was on its own again. True, it had more firepower, but with far fewer people to actually pull the triggers.

  But that’s when Alpha Squad got strangely lucky again. Because no sooner had the Shin-1 disappeared from sight than the ship’s dormant radio suddenly burst to life.

  One of the ship’s crewmen immediately answered the call. He announced it was for Emma. She got on the microphone and discovered it was her old friend, the Sultan of Oman, the man who owned the Shins, and a whole lot of other things.

  She broke down when she heard his voice. He told her — tipped off by the Stormos’ refueling stop at one of his country’s naval bases — the head of his intelligence service had briefed him on her predicament. He’d been trying to contact her ever since.

  Emma explained the current situation. She told the Sultan the freighter’s approximate location, emphasizing the lives of the innocent people on board and how she felt responsible for them, and how no one in the area would grant them asylum.

  The Sultan told her to worry no longer. “Help is on the way,” he said.

  * * *

  This good news was enough to relax Emma considerably. She actually lay down on the bridge’s cot to rest. She was snoring softly just a minute later.

  But her nap didn’t last too long. Only a few minutes later, Nolan was gently shaking her awake.

  She came to with a start.

  “Are we being attacked again?” she asked almost in a panic.

  He put his hand on her shoulder and calmed her.

  “No, we’re okay,” he told her. “But come with me. I have a surprise for you.”

  She followed him down to the deck and he pointed out toward the western horizon. She saw dozens of ships approaching, silhouetted by the slowly rising sun.

  “They are not Bom-Kats?” she asked.

  Nolan shook his head no. Then he handed her a pair of binoculars. She focused on the vessels and then leaped for joy.

  “Is that really the Omani flag I see?” she asked excitedly.

  “It is,” Nolan confirmed. “That’s the Omani National fishing fleet. Your friend has kept his promise. He’s sent a hundred little ships to protect us.”

  * * *

  Within thirty minutes, the fleet of brightly colored wooden fishing boats had surrounded the freighter.

  As one, they all started moving southwest again, resuming the freighter’s journey to the Lakshadweep Islands. The commander of the fleet sent a message to Emma saying the Sultan had already made arrangements for the Untouchables to live in Oman, to get medical treatment, homes and jobs. It was the ideal outcome for her.

  Even as the surrounding fleet and the freighter moved to the southwest, Nolan could see vessels belonging to the Bom-Kats, some similar in color and wooden manufacture, sailing around the edges, scoping out what had happened and realizing it would be impossible to get at the freighter for another attack.

  So, for once, everyone on board the Taiwan Song felt relaxed. The refugees below received medicine and treatment and then came up to the deck for the first time since the bizarre journey began. They shared a communal meal around the raised cargo deck, the Omani K-rations being supplemented by fresh fish caught by their new guardian angels, all one hundred of them. Around this time, Nolan scanned the horizon and saw that the remaining Bom-Kat ships that had been hanging on the periphery had finally given up and departed.

  Morning passed into afternoon; dusk became night. Emma fell asleep again on the bridge and this time for more then a few minutes. Nolan stayed close by, keeping awake all night and watching over her.

  He didn’t mind a bit.

  * * *

  It only got better the next morning.

  An Omani warship had arrived with the dawn. It came up next to the Taiwan Song as the fleet of fishing boats parted the way. A gangway was placed between the freighter and Omani destroyer. The warship’s captain greeted Emma like an old friend.

  “The Sultan sends seven million blessings,” he said. “For the most beautiful flower in the world.”

  Then he had his crewmen escort the Untouchables onto his ship. All of the unfortunates were in tears as Emma hugged each one and bade them farewell. She promised she would return soon to Oman to see how their new lives were going — and she meant it.

  By this time they were within sight of the Lakshadweep Islands. The freighter’s crew, also grateful to be alive, had already agreed to sail the ship back to Gottabang and finally put the old tub to rest, its last voyage being its most heroic one.

  Now that it was just them, Nolan felt it best that he and Emma get to the main Lakshadweep Island and maybe get a flight out to somewhere. At the same time, he would try to contact Beta Squad.

  To this end, one of the fishing boats came alongside the Taiwan Song. Its captain yelled up that he’d be honored to taxi Nolan and Emma to the nearby island. This was all right with the Omani navy captain, as it would avoid any complications of his warship entering India’s territorial waters without proper authorization.

  The warship departed with four loud blasts of its horn. The crew lined up on the deck for the occasion and let out a cheer. Speaking through his bullhorn, the captain said: “To the Earth’s most beautiful jewel, ’til we all meet again!”

  Then the destroyer turned and was quickly on its way, the dozens of ships of the Omani National fishing fleet turning as well and following in its wake.

  Nolan lowered a rope ladder and helped Emma down to the remaining fishing boat’s deck. He then said good-bye to the Taiwan Song’s crew, at the same time giving them a phone number. It was the private line to Whiskey’s office in Aden.

  “If you’re ever in trouble,” he told them. “Anywhere in the world, call us — and we’ll come get you.”

  There was a group hug, a series of bows and then Nolan himself climbed down the rope ladder. He joined Emma on the fishing boat’s bow and together they watched the old freighter slowly sail away.

  “That will be something to tell their grandkids,” Nolan said.

  “I’ll tell it to mine as well,” Emma said, briefly squeezing his hand.

  The thought went through Nolan’s mind at that moment that maybe they could wait a little while for a flight out of the remote Lakshadweeps. Maybe they could spend some time on the beach, recuperating after their ordeal. Perhaps a few drinks. Some unwinding. Some time to talk.

  He was just about to summon up the courage to pass this idea on to Emma, when he turned and saw the captain of the fishing boat was holding a gun on them.

  “Bom-Kats very brave pirates,” this man said with a toothless grin. “Smart pirates, too. They make enemies do their dirty work for them.”

  19

  Monte Carlo

  Batman and Twitch returned to the shabby hostel and wearily climbed seven floors up to their room.

  It had turned into a sweltering day and the sound of race cars revving their engines and taking practice laps nearby provided constant background noise. Even louder mechanical rumblings were coming from the harbor; their vibrations ran so deep, they shook the hostel to its creaky foundations.

  The room’s version of air conditioning was an ancient electric fan stuck on low. Batman and Twitch, sweaty and exhausted, sat down in front of it and relived the strange events of the morning.

  “There’s really only one solution to this,” Batman said finally. “If we’re going to find that fucking box, get our ten million back and get paid, we better hope that gagnant game exists, because one of us has to get into it.”

  Twitch wiped his brow. “Well, it’s got to be you,” he said. “Last time I was involved in a card game, I wound up shooting four guys in the head.”

  Batman laughed darkly. “You never know,” he replied. “You might have to do it again.”

  Twitch tried to g
et the fan to move faster, but the switch would not budge off low.

  “But remember,” he said. “If that a-hole Maurice, or Bobby Murphy or whoever the fuck he is, is telling the truth and there is a game, the buy-in is fifty million dollars. How can we get that, if we can’t even make a phone call?”

  Batman stared out the room’s one window for a long time.

  Then he said: “Let me think about that for a while. I might know a way.”

  * * *

  They both collapsed on their rollouts and, despite the racket outside, soon fell into fitful sleeps.

  Batman’s dreams were especially upsetting. In a peculiar vision of the Grand Maison Casino, he was sitting on the balcony, but he was in a wheelchair, a broken down invalid. The casino itself was deserted and in disrepair. The penthouse was in shambles; the concourse below was it overgrown and the Olympic pool empty and cracked. On his lap was a newspaper with front-page stories that kept changing before he could read them.

  But one headline he could see clearly. In big, bold type, it read: “Opportunity Lost?”

  * * *

  Batman woke around 8:00 P.M.

  He left Twitch sleeping in front of the fan and climbed up to the hostel’s roof.

  He was surprised that this particular part of Monte Carlo had been left to wither. The view from here was spectacular, especially at night.

  He looked out over the high-priced penthouses and luxury buildings and the casinos beyond. He wondered how much money was jammed into this half square-mile of seafront property.

  A few billion?

  A few trillion?

  More?

  All they needed was a small fraction of that — fifty million dollars. Back in his Wall Street days, before Madoff, before the Crash, he could make someone fifty million during a coffee break.

  He thought about this for a long time, then recalled the headline from his dream.

  “Opportunity Lost?”

  What a strange thing to see.

  * * *

  The Petite Junque was the smallest casino in Monte Carlo.

  It was two blocks from the hostel, on a back street where the vendors who worked the waterfront area during the day left their idle carts at night.

  It was the only casino in town that was frequented more by locals than tourists; it didn’t appear on any travelogues. Just one large room, with fifty gaming tables and a bar, there were no frills, no tuxedo-clad doormen and certainly no Rolls-Royce taxicabs. Instead, the place smelled of Noisette, cheap brandy and cigarette smoke. This was Monte Carlo’s version of Fulton Street in Las Vegas. Bright, harsh and as far away from the Strip as possible.

  Batman arrived just before 9:00 P.M. He was alone; at his request Twitch had stayed behind. What Batman was about to do, he felt he had to do solo. Because if he failed, if he went down in flames, to have a witness present would be unbearable.

  He’d sold his pistol to the hostel owner, fifty euros for a $450 weapon, plus ammunition. Batman fought back the sting now as he converted the euros into chips. That gun had been with him since his first day in officer training.

  He walked slowly among the tables, hoping instinct would lead him to the right one. But after three times around the floor, he wasn’t getting vibes from any table, any dealer, from anywhere. Finally he selected a table at random, close to the back of the place, almost in the shadows.

  He sat down and asked for a glass of mineral water. He accepted a free cigarillo from the waitress. Four other people were at the table. The game was blackjack. It was five Euros a hand.

  As the cards were being dealt, Batman took out a piece of tinfoil and unwrapped a small herb inside. It looked like a cross between a garlic clove and a small tulip bulb.

  It was a parting gift from Chief Bol Bada of the Ekita, the same magic herb they’d cooked him in. Batman believed this plant had led to everything he’d experienced in the past forty-eight hours. For at least part of that time, absolutely everything had gone his way, as if he’d been in direct contact with the cosmos. But then that connection became a little too close, with troubling, mind-bending side effects.

  This was the first time he’d looked at it since that long night in Somalia. Should he try it again? Would it have the same effect on him? The same downside?

  He was desperate. If there was a gagnant game, it was to be played at midnight, now only three hours away. Not to try to find it and get in it would be giving up, an opportunity lost. And he just couldn’t stand that.

  So, he finally pinched off a little piece of the bulb, put it between his teeth and bit down.

  It tasted like vinegar and burned his tongue.

  * * *

  Batman lost the next nine hands in a row.

  Each time he was but one or two numbers away from beating the dealer, a swarthy Italian with too many earrings and not enough mouthwash; each time he crashed and burned.

  Batman questioned everything during the losing streak. Why did he take so little for his beloved pistol — he should have gotten at least a hundred Euros for it. And was this the right casino to start his bizarre quest? Or should he have just gone down to the waterfront and started playing there? And was this place even on the level? How could a dealer win nine close hands in a row?

  Had he made a grave mistake, ingesting a bit of the bulb? That was the biggest question of all.

  He was down to his last five-Euro chip. He thought a moment, then prayed, hard, for the first time in a long time. Then he threw it in and opened his eyes … and saw someone standing behind the dealer.

  That person looked at Batman, then smiled and nodded, as if to say: Take a hit.

  And Batman nodded back, as if to say: Hello, again old friend.

  * * *

  One hour later, Batman was tipping the malodorous dealer 1,000 Euros.

  He was also signing a register noting him as one of the biggest single winners in the Petite Junque’s history. He was even given a bottle of cheap champagne by the casino’s manager to mark the occasion.

  None of this was because the casino liked him. They were just happy to see him go. Because when he stepped out onto Avenue des Beaux-Arts, he had $874,000 in his pocket.

  He walked three blocks to the Summer Casino, giving the champagne to some tourists along the way. As planned, Twitch was waiting for him outside the casino’s front door.

  Twitch was surprised to see his colleague at exactly 10:00 PM, the agreed-upon time. Batman was rarely on time for anything. But Twitch was even more surprised to see Batman smiling. Until lately, that was a rare sight.

  “Are you hungry?” Batman asked him as a greeting.

  “Always,” Twitch replied.

  They walked into the casino; the Michelin Guide called it “a moderately expensive place to visit.” They were seated at the bar, and with Batman’s urging, Twitch ordered a steak and a double scotch. Batman, meanwhile, wanted only a soda water.

  Finally, Twitch couldn’t take it anymore. He was still completely in the dark.

  “What’s happened?” he asked Batman.

  “My plan is working” was all Batman said.

  “You mean that bitch Lady Luck is smiling on you?” Twitch asked.

  “Something like that,” Batman replied.

  He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. Twitch’s eyes almost fell out of his head.

  “Jesus…” he gasped. “Did you play at that casino or rob it?”

  “Little bit of both,” Batman replied cryptically.

  Twitch’s steak and drink arrived in record time. “OK, then,” he said, diving into his meal. “What’s the next part of the plan?”

  Batman drained his water. Twitch saw him bite down on something between his teeth.

  Then Batman said: “The plan is, you stay here, enjoy that steak and drink it up.”

  “But where are you going?” Twitch asked him.

  “I’ve got to find the l’arrière-salle in this place,” Batman told him, meaning: the back room. “I just hope they have
one.”

  * * *

  Twitch was finishing his third glass of scotch when Batman reappeared.

  His smile was even wider now and he looked like he had an aura glowing around him.

  “Ready to go?” he asked Twitch.

  Twitch was confused. Batman had been away twenty minutes at the most.

  “You mean we’re done here?” Twitch asked. “Already?”

  As a reply, Batman pulled out the wad of bills again. It had doubled in size.

  Twitch couldn’t believe it.

  “Damn…” Twitch said. “What the fuck are you doing back there?”

  Batman paid the bar bill, including a hefty tip. He guided Twitch toward the exit.

  “The night awaits” was all Batman said.

  * * *

  They visited three more casinos in the next hour. The Monte-Carlo Bay, the good old Sun Casino and the so-called Café Casino.

  The pattern was the same at all three: Twitch drank at the bar while Batman disappeared for about twenty minutes. When he returned, he’d be happier than ever — and carrying a bankroll that grew so large, they finally had to purchase a travel bag to carry it in.

  Twitch had no idea what was going on. Batman was obviously gambling in some way, but he seemed to be doing nothing but winning huge amounts of money in short periods of time. So when they started off toward the fifth casino, the exclusive Casino at Monte Carlo, Twitch drunkenly begged Batman to let him watch. Batman finally agreed.

  They walked in and Batman exchanged most of his cash for a tray of gold chips. Each was worth $100,000. They walked through the most prestigious gaming area they could find, where Batman flagged down a floor manager. Slipping him one of the $100,000 chips, they had a brief conversation, and the floor man bid them to follow him.

  He led them through an unmarked door that led into a smaller, windowless, previously unseen gaming area. It was ringed by armed plainclothes guards watching over just ten tables. The room was dark and elegant, and hushed. No one was talking over a whisper.

  “Every casino in Monte Carlo has one of these places,” Batman told Twitch quietly. “No limits on betting. Anything goes. You just got to know how to get in.”