Operation Sea Ghost ph-3

by Mack Maloney

  In other words, with the Shin-1 long gone, and with no way of calling it back, Whiskey was now stuck aboard the racing yacht whether they liked it or not.

  So much for off-the-cuff planning.

  * * *

  But Whiskey could not just give up.

  Once Savoldi’s cold truths sank in, they began accounting for anything aboard the racing boat that was not necessary and could be thrown overboard.

  The first to go was most of Whiskey’s weapons. Over the side went their beloved M4s, all their ammunition and their sidearms. Next went the teams’ heavy battle suits, their helmets, utility belts and even their boots.

  They knew this was not nearly enough, but still wanted to know how they did. Savoldi checked his sensor

  They’d shed only eighty pounds.

  Next to go were the two gunny sacks containing MREs, some water, medical supplies, blankets, an assortment of things usually needed by special ops groups.

  Another check of the sensor. They’d only lost another thirty pounds. And that was just about all the equipment Whiskey had brought aboard the vessel.

  With Savoldi’s blessing, they started searching for items belonging to the boat itself that weren’t necessary. The racing yacht was made up of three basic components: Its extended nose was empty; its main purpose was to provide the aerodynamics of a long narrow snout. The semi-enclosed cockpit, where they were all congregated, was also where all the navigation and steering controls were located, as well as all the computers. The third component was the engine compartment, the claustrophobically small, brutally hot rear space where the turbine sat surrounded by a slew of twenty-five-gallon fuel containers. Once a container was used up, it was thrown overboard, thus making the vessel that much lighter, and making it go just a little bit faster.

  Whiskey crawled all over the vessel, inspecting every bit of it. But as Savoldi had said, the intricately designed boat had been built to be lightweight in the first place, so there really wasn’t much on board that could be discarded.

  Then Twitch said, “Just before they went to the moon, they discovered the Apollo lander was too heavy. So the first thing they did was get rid of the seats.”

  The Numero Two had a pair of seats located in front of the control panel. Again, on Savoldi’s OK, Whiskey went about dislodging these seats from the deck, using their combat knives as screwdrivers. It took more than an hour, but they finally came loose and we’re thrown overboard.

  Each seat weighed twenty pounds, so an additional forty pounds was gone.

  But they were still more than 400 pounds from their goal.

  * * *

  Scouring compartments adjacent to the engine compartment, Nolan found a steel box that contained many unusual and exotic tools. Giuseppe, the engineer, indicated the tools were on hand in case the vessel’s turbine broke down.

  This began an extensive discussion. While the chances of the turbine breaking down were remote, it wasn’t impossible, especially considering the many hazards of the sea. Finally they asked Giuseppe what were the most important tools he would need if a problem arose.

  He pointed out a handful of ratchet extensions and wrenches, then told them in broken English: “If I can’t fix it with these, then I can’t fix it at all.”

  That’s all they needed to hear. Giuseppe took out the tools, then the box went over the side.

  Savoldi checked his sensor. It was a total of sixty pounds gone.

  But about 350 pounds of dead weight still remained.

  * * *

  They spent the next two hours going over the racing yacht yet again, picking up scraps, like deck mats, extra seat cushions, even some lightbulbs.

  But discarding things like this had minimal effect; less than ten pounds for all their efforts. Plus, it was getting dark and the Numero Two had made up little if any distance separating it from the still out-of-sight Smoke-Lar.

  They’d all worked hard at it — even Emma and Murphy. But slumping back down in the cockpit after yet another hour of searching, the universal feeling was obvious: Their plan wasn’t going to work and the terrorists would probably reach the U.S. unchecked to do their dirty work.

  “We still have the option of calling in help,” Twitch said finally, even though Murphy’s sat-phone had run out of juice a long time ago. “If we sent a radio message to someone in a position of responsibility, they could pass the word along and someone can still deal with these guys before they’re within sight of the U.S.”

  “But you know what that means,” Batman said glumly, having heard the argument before. “The Navy will get involved and more likely than not, they’ll cream that boat and apologize later.”

  Twitch just shrugged. “I still think we should consider it,” he said. “Because what we’ve been doing here just ain’t going to work.”

  Overhearing the conversation, Murphy slowly got to his feet and calmly made his way over to the boat’s control panel. Without a word, he pulled the small two-way radio out of the console and nonchalantly tossed it overboard.

  Then just as calmly he sat back down again.

  “That was at least ten pounds,” he said.

  * * *

  Once again, they started searching, this time concentrating on the cockpit and the various tiny compartments that ran off it.

  Batman found a box tucked way behind the control panel. It was so heavy, he needed Nolan’s help to pull it out.

  “This is got to be at least a hundred pounds,” Nolan said. “Maybe more.”

  “Actually it weighs almost one hundred and forty pounds,” Savoldi told them.

  “Christ — what is it then?” Nolan asked. “Can we toss it?”

  That’s when Savoldi pointed out a tag on the side of the box that read: EMERGENZA ZATTERA

  Loosely translated: LIFE RAFT.

  There was a slight gasp from the others.

  Batman looked up at Nolan. “Remind me again how much we want to do this?” he said. “I mean, no radio, no phones and no lifeboat?”

  Nolan did a quick calculation. “We’d still be more than two hundred pounds overweight,” he said.

  “We should vote,” Twitch said.

  But Nolan knew this was hardly the time for democracy. Besides, it really wasn’t their decision to make, especially now that the radio was gone.

  He turned back to Savoldi, who’d been amazingly gracious as Whiskey had ripped apart his boat.

  Nolan said to him, “You have the right to tell us to stop all this right now,” he said. “Bottom line, you guys are the victims of circumstance here.”

  But Savoldi shook his head no. “I want to beat the man in that boat more than anything now. Race or no race. I have trained for something like this my whole life. He’s a fraud. Plus, he killed people like me. People who do what I do. It is my duty to help you catch him.”

  Giuseppe was vigorously nodding in agreement.

  “But this is not something we can do half-ass,” Batman said. “Once it’s gone, that life raft, like the radio, ain’t coming back.”

  Strangely, it was Savoldi and Giuseppe themselves who settled the matter. They each took an end of the box and hurled it overboard.

  No one said a word. For five long minutes, as they roared along, hammering against the Atlantic waves, everyone was silent.

  Savoldi checked his weight sensor. It was down 140 pounds, but still that had only a minimal effect on their speed. They had 200 pounds more to go, and that was just to break even. And according to Savoldi, those 200 pounds were more than enough to prevent them from even seeing the Smoke-Lar again, never mind catching up to it.

  This had a huge dampening effect on the uninvited passengers. Hearing it, they all collapsed to the deck of the cockpit, tired and beaten, and contemplated this unexpected disaster. They’d been aboard the boat for six hours now. They were wet, they were cold, and there was no food or water for them, only energy drinks for nourishment. And as these were highly caffeinated, they would only serve to put people on edge. It
might have been the worst predicament Whiskey had ever found itself in.

  His back pressed up against the rear panel, Nolan spied Twitch across the cockpit and could almost feel frustration oozing off of him. Truth be told, he’d been of little help in the weight search because, due to his makeshift umbrella-parts prosthetic leg, he had an especially hard time moving around the boat.

  Now Nolan could almost hear him thinking, “If I just throw myself overboard, it might be enough to get close to the terrorist boat.”

  This vibe was so intense, Nolan leaned over to Batman, told him his fear about Twitch, and then said: “Please keep an eye on him. Don’t let him do anything rash.”

  Batman replied, “OK — but who’s going to keep an eye on me?”

  * * *

  Night had fallen by this time. As was always the case at sea, one moment it was dusk, the next it was the dead of night and the stars were out in all their brilliance.

  Still sitting in the back of the cockpit, Nolan saw an airliner going over their heads. Way up there, all lights and contrails, he thought: You lucky bastards.

  Emma was right up next to him as always, her head pressed against his shoulder. He couldn’t imagine what she was feeling about all this. It was embarrassing that after all they’d gone through he’d fucked up so royally with such an unworkable plan. As everything had more or less gone their way in the past few days, he’d never considered the string of good luck would so suddenly run out. And that had been a big mistake.

  But all she said to him was: “Who will tell our story if we all die?”

  * * *

  No one slept. No one spoke.

  The racing yacht roared on, bouncing constantly by riding atop the ocean waves.

  Nolan watched Savoldi, as if he was waiting for a miracle to occur. The pilot was continuously checking his computer readouts, checking the weight sensor, checking the GPS screen and tracking the little red dot that represented the Smoke-Lar. But he could tell every time Savoldi went through this procedure, it was not good news. They just could not get close enough to the terrorist boat, and if even the slightest thing went wrong with Numero Two, they would probably be lost for good.

  Who will tell our story if we all die?

  Those words were now stuck in Nolan’s head.

  Through it all, Murphy sat off by himself, staring into space. He looked so out of place, like an old man lost at the supermarket. He’d said nothing for the longest time, so Nolan started to worry about him as well.

  At one point Savoldi pulled a notebook from underneath his control board. It was the operating manual for Numero Two and probably weighed a quarter of a pound if that. Yet the pilot considered throwing it overboard as all the information within was duplicated on his computer.

  But Murphy stopped him.

  “May I?” he asked the boat pilot.

  Savoldi shrugged and said, “Be my guest.”

  Murphy took the book and sat back down.

  * * *

  They plowed on into the night.

  The roar of the turbine first became physically tiring, and then painful. Again, the team was huddled at the very rear of the semi-enclosed cockpit, definitely not a space designed to carry people. A lot of spray made its way onto their heads and the temperature was plummeting. Their hopeless condition made them more miserable by the minute.

  But suddenly, Murphy came alive.

  He sprang to his feet, operating manual still in hand, and made his way up to Savoldi at the control board.

  “Turbine engines have a tendency to leak fuel, am I right?” Murphy asked him.

  Savoldi thought a moment, then nodded. “More so than other types of engines, si.”

  Listening in, Nolan also knew this to be true, especially on some jet aircraft or turbine-powered helicopters. When turbines were first started, they were flooded with fuel, and some of that fuel inevitably leaked out. It was the nature of the beast.

  “What do you do with that leaking fuel?” Murphy asked him.

  Savoldi had to think a moment. “It’s found and used again,” he said in the best way he could find to explain it.

  Murphy’s eyes lit up. “So, your engine has an attachment that captures and then recycles this leaking fuel?”

  Savoldi called for Giuseppe. His cousin crawled out of the engine compartment having just changed out a fuel container.

  Savoldi explained Murphy’s question to him and Giuseppe nodded. “When the turbine stops, we take extra fuel back,” he said.

  “So, your engine has a fuel recycle and recovery tank?” Murphy pressed Giuseppe directly.

  Giuseppe nodded. “Si…” he said. “A big one.”

  Nolan was up beside them now. Murphy explained to him that the turbine’s recycling attachment and recovery tank must weigh at least four hundred pounds. Yet according to Numero Two’s manual, they really didn’t need it, as the amount of fuel it would save in a couple days was negligible. If they were able to take it off, along with the recovery tank, it would be a huge weight savings.

  Nolan and Savoldi both understood, but then Savoldi said, “Such a thing can’t be done while turbine is running — everything in the engine is too hot to touch. And we can’t stop to do it or we’ll be way too far behind. Plus, fuel usually caught by the recycler would wind up on the floor of the compartment.”

  “But the engine can run without this attachment?” Nolan asked Giuseppe.

  He nodded again, but confirmed the fuel would collect on the bottom of the engine compartment.

  He said, “Kerosene. One spark—boom! All over…”

  Nolan turned back to Savoldi. “If we were able to lose all that equipment, would we catch up to the Smoke-Lar?”

  Savoldi checked the Dutch boat’s position and then nodded. “It’s a better possibility,” is how he replied.

  Now Nolan had a million thoughts shoot through his head. If they could somehow get rid of this nonessential engine part, then they might still be able to make this all work.

  But how could they detach it? Giuseppe was indicating that he knew how to do it, but how could they work on a piece of equipment that would be red hot?

  “I can do it,” Batman suddenly said from the corner of the cockpit.

  Nolan turned to him. “You? Why you?”

  Batman held up his twisted prosthetic hand and said, “Because I got nothing to burn.”

  * * *

  Six hours.

  That’s how long it took for Batman to disconnect the fuel recycler and its recovery tank from the boat’s massive gas turbine engine.

  All the work had to be done inside the extremely tight confines of the engine compartment, a hot, smelly greasy place that had no headroom, no legroom, and only a dull fifty-watt-equivalent bulb to light it.

  Add in the constant bouncing of the boat, and the thunderous roar of the engine itself, it equaled a little piece of hell traveling at 80 mph.

  Batman stuck with it, though. The attachment was located at the front and on the underside of the turbine, the most inconvenient spot imaginable when attacking it from the rear. It was held on by a flange of countersunk bolts, designed to be removed by a universal wrench, which was one of the tools Giuseppe had retained. The problem was, there were three-dozen of them, and each bolt took many minutes to slowly come undone.

  Batman worked the wrench with his good hand, using his mechanical hand to hold the loosening flange in place and to collect the bolts each time one needed to be removed. Nolan sat just outside the engine compartment hatch throughout, passing in a t-shirt soaked with seawater for Batman to cool himself off, however minimally. Giuseppe sat just inside the cramped room, providing encouragement and collecting the bolts each time one was removed.

  Nolan found himself thinking more than once the engine room was so small, even Crash’s ghost would have a hard time fitting inside.

  The attachment was finally separated from the turbine five hours into the operation. The sixth hour was spent trying to position the heavy
, four-by-five boxlike recycler so they could work it out of the engine room. This proved to be the hardest part of all, and for a few scary minutes it seemed that after detaching it, the recycler was just too big to take out though the engine compartment’s hatchway.

  But with a lot of pushing, pulling and even some kicking, they managed to squeeze the 400-pound attachment out the engine hatch, where Nolan, Twitch, Savoldi, Murphy and Giuseppe triumphantly pushed it over the side. The recovery tank was also given the heave-ho. Then Savoldi checked his weight sensor again.

  The Numero Two was lighter by a whopping 422 pounds.

  They could feel the boat moving faster already.

  * * *

  But then they extracted Batman from the engine compartment, and one look at his other hand — the one without the prosthesis — told just how painful the procedure had been. All of his fingers and his palm down to his wrist were horribly burned.

  Emma immediately wanted to take care of him, but all their first-aid supplies had gone overboard. The only thing she could treat it with was salt water from the spray coming into the boat. She gathered it up on the t-shirt and gently rubbed the burns.

  It must have been hugely painful, yet Batman just sat there and took it.

  “How do we get ourselves into these situations?” he asked Nolan darkly through gritted teeth. “I had more fun when the IRS was chasing me.”

  28

  Within ten minutes of Savoldi telling them that Numero Two could now catch up to the Smoke-Lar, the Whiskey contingent were all asleep.

  It was strange. Whether the situation had become a little more hopeful, or a little less stressful, or that exhaustion finally set in, everyone found a place at the rear of the cockpit and just drifted off.

  Nolan was the last to succumb; Emma was the first. She was pressed tightly against him and he could hear her breathing softly despite the roar of the turbine and the constant slamming of the boat’s hull against the ocean waves. Above it all, she felt warm when everything else felt cold.