Operation Sea Ghost ph-3

by Mack Maloney

  One hour into the storm, Nolan made the mistake of asking Savoldi for one of his energy drinks.

  It tasted like bad soda pop but it did give him a rush — for about thirty minutes. Then he began to lose this artificial vitality as its effects quickly wore off.

  Savoldi recognized the problem and handed Nolan two tiny white pills. Nolan knew what they were — amphetamines. He’d downed a lot of them in his special ops days as well as during his more recent pirate-hunting gigs.

  Nolan swallowed both with another can of energy drink. The combination kept him sharp, alert and wide-awake for the next three hours. But this did nothing to help him achieve that elusive kill shot. And as the rain got worse, he found himself taking his eye off the scope more and more and just wanting to breathe.

  Finally, he had to take a break. He visited the tiny commode located in the aft part of the forward compartment, then he made his way back to the rear of the cockpit to check on Emma. She was sleeping peacefully, or as peacefully as could be expected. The others were as well.

  Nolan sat down close by and stuck his head out the cockpit vent window, hoping to breathe in some fresh, if damp air. That’s when he saw a cargo ship passing them in the near distance.

  This seemed odd. They had not seen any other vessels during the trip. Now this one was no more than a quarter mile away.

  But Nolan quickly realized this was not some ordinary ship. It was a container vessel, painted mostly black with some green and white on the upper decks.

  He was stunned. He didn’t even have to read the two words on the side of the ship to know its name.

  He knew it was the Dutch Cloud.

  Batman had his ethereal visions — and Nolan had his. Both men were haunted by things they couldn’t explain. For Nolan, it all started a few months before, during Whiskey’s gig for the Russian mafia. Protecting a cruise liner full of mobsters as they took a “business trip” through the Aegean Sea, their client, a gangster named Bebe, had told Nolan about the Dutch Cloud.

  It was a near-mythical vessel, a phantom ship said to have disappeared shortly after 9/11. Endlessly sailing the seas ever since, its contents were unknown but subject of much speculation. Bebe said that if Whiskey were ever able to capture the Dutch Cloud, they would be in for a huge reward, payable by none other than the CIA.

  It had sounded like drunken Russian bullshit at the time. But then Nolan actually saw the ghost ship. It happened while Whiskey was heading toward an island near Zanzibar to help recover a buried treasure containing a billion-dollar microchip. He was out on the rail one particular stormy night and saw the spectral ship passing just off their port side, only to be quickly lost again in the gale and fog.

  Then just a month later, Nolan saw the ship once more, this time while the team was crossing the mid-Atlantic to the Bahamas for another gig.

  Now, he was in the northeast Atlantic — and here it was again.

  In the middle of a storm, just like before.

  * * *

  The next thing Nolan knew, he was awake again, slumped against the vent window where he’d just paused for a breath of fresh air.

  Yes, the pep pills and the energy drinks had delivered him a great rush, but then they hit him with a sudden crash. He’d gone to sleep in a very awkward position for about two hours.

  When he awoke, the first thing he saw was a seabird flying overhead. Then he looked out on the brightening sky and saw other ships, all shapes and sizes, plying the ocean.

  He took in a deep breath and for the first time in a long time, detected something more in the air than just the smell of the sea.

  This time, he smelled land.

  * * *

  Fahim Shabazz had done nothing for most of the past twenty-four hours but duck bullets, both real and imaginary.

  Shortly after the first three shots were fired at them, he’d peeked out the back of the boat and was astonished to see that the rival Italian racing yacht had not only gained on him, but was practically right behind them. This didn’t seem possible, as he thought he could see more than two people crammed into its cockpit, vastly overloading it. But after a few more large caliber rounds had gone zipping by his head, Fahim Shabazz had stopped wondering how it happened, and started worrying about how he could get away from his pursuers without getting killed first.

  As a result, he’d spent a lot of time crouched down below the Smoke-Lar’s control panel, checking his settings only occasionally, but always making sure that the autopilot was still engaged. This gave him a lot of time to think as to why he was being chased — and eventually he started to put it together. The Italian boat was from Monte Carlo and there were people in Monte Carlo who knew he had the key to the Z-box. These people must have discovered that he and Abdul had stolen the Smoke-Lar for their escape and so in turn had somehow commandeered the Numero Two and had been chasing them across the Atlantic.

  So for Shabazz, a weird set of circumstances was at work here. He was trapped on a boat going more than 85 mph, a boat he didn’t dare divert from its preplanned course, with another similar boat right behind him, apparently carrying expert marksmen ready to take him down the moment he presented them with a hittable target. These fears were reinforced anytime Shabazz saw the sparkling trail of a bullet going by.

  It was so distracting, so unsettling, he never even bothered to crawl over and check on Abdul, who’d managed to stagger back into the engine compartment after being shot, and had stayed there ever since.

  * * *

  As time and the miles dragged on, the euphoria Fahim Shabazz had felt earlier had drained away.

  He didn’t want to die, at least not like this. Not at the hands of these people who were so relentlessly pursuing him.

  All throughout the stormy night, he was certain he saw bullets whizzing overhead and on either side of the Smoke-Lar, leaving their long trails of smoke and sparks. He felt if he moved even one inch this way or that, a bullet would find his gut or his cranium, so good were these people trying to shoot him.

  His biggest fear, though, was if he was killed here, out at sea, then all his efforts will have been for naught. He would have failed in his mission and the Great Satan would escape punishment once again.

  But when morning finally arrived and the sky started brightening, Fahim Shabazz began rethinking his predicament. He began to wonder why his pursuers had not killed him yet. One bullet fired on the boat’s turbine would have torn it apart, sinking the boat immediately. One bullet hitting a fuel line would have blown the racing yacht to bits. They could have done either one of those things at any time.

  Even in these crazy conditions, his would-be assassins were trying to be too precise, like the SEALs who’d shot the pirate hijackers of the Maersk Alabama.

  Why?

  And then it suddenly became obvious. This wasn’t about him. Just like it wasn’t about those Maersk Alabama pirates on that Easter Morning. It was about the hostage he had stashed below. His pursuers wanted to kill him and Abdul without harming her because with them out of the way and the autopilot still engaged, she could probably get the boat under control somehow. Or at the very least it would run out of fuel eventually and just come to a stop. Simple …

  Yes, now that daylight was coming, Fahim Shabazz was sure he had the situation right — and he knew there was only one way to counteract it.

  He, too, could smell the land, meaning his goal wasn’t that far away. In fact, he was close enough that he could steer the boat manually from here.

  So he boldly lowered his cockpit top, making sure he’d be in full view of his pursuers and with the butt of his knife smashed the autopilot’s computer screen. The message was clear. If they shot him or Abdul now, the girl would probably die when the high-speed boat went out of control.

  From that moment on, no more bullets came his way.

  But now with this done, Fahim Shabazz had to get as far away from his pursuers as possible. But how?

  Both boats were reaching speeds of 85 mph plus, e
ven though the Italian boat had as many as a half dozen people on board. Logic told Shabazz its passengers had somehow discarded a lot of weight in order to increase their speed.

  He had to do the same thing.

  He ordered Abdul out onto the deck. The engineer timidly crawled out of the turbine compartment, still bleeding, terrified he’d be shot again.

  Fahim Shabazz yelled over to him to find anything on board that they didn’t need and to throw it overboard. Two could play this game, Fahim Shabazz thought.

  It took Abdul about a half hour to crawl around the boat, finding nonessentials and with his good arm, throwing them over the side. Then Fahim Shabazz told Abdul to hook up the last fuel container and, when this was done, to bring the girl up.

  The end game was about to begin.

  * * *

  The girl named Li had been tied up below for almost the entire trip, yet she still looked as glamorous as always.

  Making sure the rope binding her hands was tied tight, Fahim Shabazz forced her to stand at the rear of the boat in full view of his pursuers with Abdul at her side, holding her upright. Then Shabazz checked his turbine weight gauge and found Abdul had done a good job; he’d lost about two hundred pounds of nonessential items. Shabazz could actually feel the boat going faster — but he needed even more speed. He’d lost a lot of extra poundage, but at this point, every little bit more would count.

  So Fahim Shabazz made his way back to the rear of the open cockpit — and promptly pushed Abdul over the side.

  Then he pulled Li down to the deck, threw his throttle to full maximum power and off he went, quickly pulling away from the Numero Two.

  * * *

  Abdul Adbul couldn’t swim. He began panicking the moment he hit the water, splashing about and trying madly to breathe. He just couldn’t believe Shabazz had done this to him. They were supposed to be partners in this. But now his desire for a great martyrdom was gone.

  He was still bleeding from his gunshot wound and the salt water brought excruciating pain. Though he was far out at sea, he could make out the rim of the land to the west. The buildings, the early morning lights — this had been their goal, New York City, not twenty miles away.

  But Abdul was beginning to sink; his wounded arm prevented him from even treading water. His only hope of being saved was the Italian boat coming up on him fast.

  He raised his hands and started waving them madly, pleading with them to stop.

  But the Numero Two was now off autopilot, too, and at maximum power, roared right past Abdul, leaving him in its wake.

  29

  The finish line for the Great Racing Yacht Competition was at Coney Island, New York.

  The location was selected as part of the iconic amusement park’s modernization and revitalization. A temporary dock had been put in place near the park; it stretched out into New York Harbor, about a mile south and west of the area called The Narrows.

  A review stand had been erected on this dock, along with a set of bleachers and seats for media, sponsors and guests on hand to witness the end of the race. About a hundred people were in attendance.

  Chief among them were representatives of the racing yachts’ design teams. The designers of whichever boat actually won the race would have bragging rights to the title of World’s Fastest Yacht for at least a year, a desirable position when it came to future sales.

  Also on hand were members of the yachting press and a couple New York City TV news crews.

  Exactly when the yachts would reach the finish line was not known; estimates ranged between 6:00 and 6:30 A.M. The actual finish line was about a half mile south of the review stand and was represented by a laser beam bouncing between two pilings installed for the occasion. Whichever yacht broke the beam first would be the winner.

  From there, the plan called for both yachts to pull up to the reviewing stand for photos and interviews.

  * * *

  It was a warm muggy summer morning.

  Even at 6:00 A.M., the temperature was climbing into the 80s and early thunderstorms were forecast.

  At 6:10 A.M., a traffic helicopter owned by one of the TV stations spotted the pair of yachts about a mile off Sandy Hook, New Jersey. The pilot reported that one yacht had about a half-mile lead, but the other vessel was coming on strong. This put the people on the reviewing stand in high scramble mode. The yachts would be passing the finish line within five minutes, and would be slowing down to tie up at the dock just two minutes after that.

  The guests went to their assigned seats; the TV crews turned on their camera lights. Per agreement, there was no radio contact with the yachts as the race organizers didn’t want to distract either crew. A TV camera set up on the laser beam piling would record the finish; only then would radio contact be made.

  The helicopter radioed the reviewing stand at 6:12, saying the yachts were about a minute away and that both were going at tremendous speed, one right behind the other.

  At 6:13, those people on the dock who had binoculars were able to see the two yachts coming out of the early morning haze.

  The video feed from the TV camera on the finish line piling was put up on a monitor on the reviewing stand. The yachts were now only about thirty seconds away from crossing the finish line. The TV reporters got on their marks, ready to broadcast the finish live.

  At 6:14:40 the first boat zoomed across the finish line. It was the Dutch boat, Smoke-Lar. Right behind it was the Italian boat, Numero Two. The Dutch boat had bested the Italians by less than ten seconds.

  Those on the review stand burst into applause. Crossing the Atlantic in a yacht in fifty-five hours was a huge achievement for the yachting world. They could clearly see the pair of boats now roaring up the channel, as if they were still in a race.

  “Competitors to the end” was how one on-air TV reporter described it.

  But then, something strange: Once the two yachts reached the point where they should have slowed down in order to come into the dock as planned; they kept on going instead.

  They blasted right past the reviewing stand, causing an earsplitting racket, and continued up the channel toward New York Harbor.

  It happened so fast the people on the reviewing stand weren’t sure what was going on. Race officials immediately tried to contact the boats to tell them to turn around, but neither boat answered the call.

  In less than thirty seconds both vessels had disappeared into The Narrows. Beyond that, lay Manhattan.

  Totally confused now, one spectator told another: “That is not a race — that’s a chase.”

  * * *

  Longshoremen working the docks on Red Hook Pier 19 saw the racing yachts pass at about 6:25.

  It was the noise of the gas turbines that first attracted their attention. This being New York City, nothing was really surprising, even two yachts shaped like bullets screaming up toward Governors Island.

  However, among the dock crews were a couple soldiers in a local crime family, and they’d be told to report anything unusual they saw along the waterfront or in the harbor. Anything at all.

  A few phone calls were made, some texts were sent, and within minutes, word of the two racing yachts was spreading up and down the inner harbor.

  This is why two other low-level mobsters working the fish pier near Maiden Lane were on alert when they saw first one, then a second racing yacht heading in their direction at high speed. The pier was a place where anything from stolen furs to trash bags full of marijuana were known to pass through, always under heavy protection. Even the police gave the place wide berth. Anyone intending to dock here better have a very good reason.

  Yet, no sooner had the first yacht come into view, when it suddenly cut its engines and began pulling up to that part of the pier normally reserved for fishing boats.

  It didn’t bother to tie up. Those dockworkers nearby saw a swarthy-looking man jump off the racing yacht, holding a beautiful Asian woman by the arm.

  Even in this rough-and-tumble part of lower Manhattan
, this just didn’t look right. Two crewmen of a nearby fishing boat tried to stop the man as he made his way up the gangway to the street, practically dragging the woman behind him. The man never broke stride, though. He pulled out a gun, shot both workers and kept on going.

  At that moment the second yacht screamed to a halt in front of the pier. That’s when it got real confusing.

  Of the dozen stevedores working on the dock, more than half were armed or had personal weapons nearby. As soon as the two pier workers were gunned down, these weapons came out and Fahim Shabazz, potential suicide bomber, found himself in the middle of an unexpected gunfight.

  To step on American soil for the first time was a moment he’d been waiting for. But the reception was not what he expected. He knew it was dangerous in America, but did everyone own a gun?

  He had no choice but to fire back, even though bullets were flying at him from many directions. Shabazz’s first thought was to return to the dock, get back on the high speed yacht and escape. But upon turning in that direction, he saw the Numero Two had now arrived and at least one person on it was firing in his direction with a huge weapon.

  That’s when Shabazz put Li in front of him to use as a human shield. All the shooting stopped immediately and Shabazz resumed making his way off the pier, heading for the street.

  A stretch van was parked almost at the water’s edge, not ten feet from the pier. It was a shuttle for tourists wanting to take the scenic harbor tour offered at the Fulton Street pier, three blocks away. The van’s driver was having his morning coffee when he saw the bizarre gunfight unfold. Before he could put the van in gear and drive away, Shabazz ran up to him, ordered him out, then shot him on the spot.

  Li was just baggage now. Shabazz put his gun up to her head and began to pull the trigger. Suddenly he saw a glint of light come from his right. The next thing he knew the sharpened tip of an umbrella was sticking out of his right forearm.

  It was such an odd thing, that he stared at it for a few seconds, enough for Li to break free and run. He wanted to shoot her — as well as the strange little man who’d hurled the razorlike umbrella tip at him — but the wound in his forearm had temporarily frozen his fingers, making it impossible to fire his gun.