B003IKHEWG EBOK

by Mack Maloney

  Making a bad situation worse, the third site, according to the map, was located on a cliff just below the cone of the extinct volcano. They’d have to climb up to it.

  This took almost an hour itself, and they were exhausted by the time they reached their goal. At first the ground here looked like concrete, but it was actually volcanic ash. Once the top layer was broken, it was like digging in hard sand. They went to work with the entrenching tools again, trying their best to stay on the spot the GPS was indicating.

  More backbreaking work ensued, but finally they came upon yet another box. This one was plastic and about the size of a small TV. They opened it fairly easily and inside found a large, black spotted sack.

  “Motherfucker . . .” Crash groaned. “I knew we should have started up here.”

  “If there’s a jack-in-the-box in there,” Gunner announced. “I’m going on a shooting spree.”

  They all recognized the sack as a “burn bag,” used by spies and other special ops people to burn sensitive items safely should adversaries be closing in.

  They opened the sack and found it was stuffed with rags and a small blanket. Stevenson searched through them until he found a wooden box not much bigger than a pack of cigarettes. Inside this box, he found a smaller metal box and opened it, only to find yet another smaller box inside. It was the type of container that held fuses for airplanes. Inside it was a wad of plastic wrapped in electrical wire. Unraveling this, they were left with a small jewelry box, something a ring would come in.

  With much drama, the doctor opened this box—and took a look inside. Nolan was devastated. All the Whiskey guys were. The box held nothing but a tiny computer chip, something that might be found in a computer game. Sealed inside a little plastic case, it looked ordinary in every way.

  “I knew it!” Gunner roared. “That prick was just yanking our chains!”

  “This really is a bad joke . . .” Batman said angrily.

  That’s when the guy named Squire stepped forward. He had said very little, until now.

  “No, gentlemen,” he spoke coolly, inspecting the chip. “This is it. We’ve found the treasure—and it’s just what I suspected.”

  Batman turned to Nolan and asked: “Is he nuts—or am I?”

  Squire huddled them together.

  “Let me explain,” he said. He picked up the chip and held it for all to see.

  “This little device can rule the world,” he said. “Just watch.”

  He’d been lugging his laptop around with him all night; now the others knew why. With some precision, he slit open the computer chip’s little plastic case, removed the chip, took the access panel off his laptop and then put the chip into a slot in the back. Then he turned the computer on and the screen lit up with an astonishing display of almost 3-D graphics.

  Squire began punching the keyboard and, within seconds, those gathered were seeing some amazing things: classified documents from the Pentagon, the Queen of England’s personal finances, the porn collection of the exalted leader of North Korea.

  “This chip can go anywhere and do anything,” Squire said. “No Wi Fi or wire connection needed. It’s the ultimate hacking device—and the ultimate spying device. It can go through any firewall, through any security system instantaneously, and leave no trail behind. Military secrets. Industrial secrets. Personal secrets. It was stolen from the Chinese, who stole it from the U.S. And maybe the Chinese asked the Iranians to get it back for them, who knows? But our friend who left us these clues knew how valuable it was, and he also knew lots of other people would be looking for it. So he took himself out of the equation and left us to sort it out.”

  Batman looked Stevenson and Squire up and down—then said: “You know, something tells me you guys aren’t exactly the real fish and chips.”

  Stevenson held up his hand. “No—I’m really a doctor,” he said. “But my friend here is a private investigator—and ex-SAS. And if we ever get out of here, we will get this to its rightful owner—and we’ll cut you guys in on the reward, above and beyond your fee, of course.”

  At that moment, they heard a commotion in the bushes nearby. Suddenly they were looking up at two Iranians holding assault rifles.

  The pair smiled at them in a very disturbing way and raised their weapons.

  One said: “We kill you all.”

  The team froze. Their weapons were on the ground, out of reach. Nolan could see the gunmen begin to squeeze their triggers.

  But then both of them suddenly stiffened up, shocked looks washing over their faces. A bubble of blood showed up on both of their chests. They fell forward and hit the ground, dead.

  Behind them stood two of the Senegals, bloody assault knives in hand.

  “God damn,” Batman exclaimed. “God damn!”

  Nolan actually punched himself in the chest to get his heart back beating normally. Everyone in the team was checking his shorts.

  “Comment savez-vous su pour nous sauver?” Nolan asked the Senegals. “How did you know to save us?”

  “Nous avions senti un odeur de leur veni,” was the unusual reply. “We smelled them coming.”

  Nolan took a deep breath and came back to reality. They had their Holy Grail—but they also had two dead Iranians who would have killed them all in seconds had they been able to. And this was a problem.

  “These guys are going to be missed,” Nolan told the others. “And when their comrades find them stabbed, they’ll know someone else is on the island besides them.”

  “What the fuck are we going to do?” Batman asked.

  Once again, it was Twitch who came up with an idea. “The Punji pit,” he said.

  Everyone understood right away. Gunner and Crash immediately began dragging the bodies into the jungle and down toward the booby trap.

  But not far away, they could hear more people crashing through the overgrowth.

  “We still got to get out of here,” Batman said. “These ass-holes will stay here until they dig up every part of this island—and that means they’ll discover the ship and we’ll get the same treatment the catamaran got.”

  Then Nolan got an idea. He turned to Squire.

  “The Iranians probably know they’re looking for a chip, right?” he asked him. “I mean, maybe they don’t know where it is, but they probably know what it is?”

  The ex-SAS man nodded. “Probably.”

  Nolan smiled darkly. “OK—maybe we can get out of here yet.”

  He told the rest of the team to get going—all except Stevenson. “I’ll need your expertise,” he told the doctor.

  As the others departed—including Squire carrying the ultra-valuable chip—Nolan took out his old keychain, the one that beeped in response to a wolf whistle, letting him know where he’d put his car keys. He always carried it with him as a reminder of better times past. He took off the back and removed its computer chip.

  Then he gave the doctor his razor-blade knife and instructed him to insert his keychain computer chip into the tiny case that had held the mother of all chips and then reseal it by heating the knife with his lighter and touching its tip to the edge of the plastic. The doctor did so, being surgically precise—but Nolan knew they were running out of time. He could see a dozen pith helmets in the jungle below them, the heavily armed Iranian soldiers, getting closer all the time.

  The operation and closing done, they hastily put the chip case back in the jewelry box, wrapped it in the electrical wire, put it back in the metal fuse box and then in the small wooden box. Putting this box back inside the burn bag, they wrapped it in the rags and the blanket, and then finally placed it inside the large plastic box.

  Then they put the plastic box back in the ground and dumped dirt back in the hole. Covering it over, they spread the dirt around to hide the fact that anything had been dug up here recently, and then crawled away, just as the first half dozen Iranians reached the top of the cliff.

  Had they taken just a few seconds longer, they would have been caught.


  Now they were back in the jungle, but still surrounded by hostile soldiers.

  “Now what?” Stevenson asked Nolan.

  Nolan thought a moment and said, “Wish I knew.”

  THE REST OF the team reached the beach fifteen minutes after getting off the cliff.

  It wound up taking all seven of them—Crash, Twitch, Gunner, Batman, Squire and the two Senegals—taking turns to drag the two dead Iranians down to the Punji pit. Once they were in sight of the booby trap, Batman suggested he go ahead and uncover the life rafts they’d hidden on the beach, making them ready for the others once they’d disposed of the two gunmen.

  They all agreed, and with Batman plunging back into the jungle, the others hurled the two Iranians into the pit, then quickly moved toward the beach themselves.

  They reached the cove about a minute later—only to find Batman nowhere in sight. And neither were their life rafts.

  The Team Whiskey guys were immediately pissed.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Gunner cried. “Where the hell is he?”

  Crash said, “You mean, this is the time he picked to leave us high and dry?”

  “Money talks,” Twitch said grimly.

  But at that moment, they heard some rustling nearby. They hit the ground, weapons up, only to discover Batman coming out of the bushes dragging two of their three rubber boats.

  “Jesuszz, what’s all the chatter about?” he asked them sternly. “You guys know better than that.”

  The Team Whiskey guys didn’t say a word. They just loaded onto the life rafts with Squire and the Senegals and started paddling madly toward the DUS-7.

  NOLAN AND STEVENSON crawled down the side of the cliff, doing their best to stay as quiet as possible. They were still in a fix, though. They had no idea if the rest of the crew had been able to get back to the Dustboat, and now there were even more Iranians around them than before.

  They reached the lower jungle, somehow getting off the cliff without being spotted. But it was fully light, and without the darkness to shield them, and almost a half mile to go before they could even reach the cove, it seemed the doctor and Nolan were hopelessly trapped.

  They avoided one group of Iranians, only to be cut off by another group that was operating a ground-imaging radar device. These Iranians were searching in large concentric circles, which meant that if Nolan and the doctor stayed where they were, they’d be discovered in minutes. Yet they couldn’t go back the way they came; the cliff was swarming with even more Iranians.

  It was strange because, almost unconsciously, Nolan yanked on his lucky onion bag, and just as two Iranian soldiers were about to walk right on top of them, they heard someone cry out in Farsi. The men working the radar dropped it and ran back into the jungle. Nolan and the doctor took the opportunity to scramble closer to the beach.

  They soon found themselves at a point near the water but also close to the Punji pit. Some Iranians had come upon the booby trap and had found their two colleagues impaled on the bamboo sticks below. They were in the grisly process of taking them out of the pit, their post-mortem injuries disguising the stab wounds that had actually killed them.

  Nolan and the doctor fist-bumped, and then continued making their way to the beach, and the ship beyond.

  ABOUT TWO HOURS later the Team Whiskey group, hiding on the ship, heard a great cry go up near the interior of the island. They saw Iranian soldiers excitedly running to and fro and heard them singing and letting out yelps of joy.

  The ruckus finally died down, and the Iranians made their way back to the south beach where their warship lay offshore. It was clear they were packing up and preparing to leave.

  “I guess they found their treasure,” Nolan said as they all looked on from beneath the camouflage. “Maybe now they’ll be able to find their car keys.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Nolan was at the top of the DUS-7’s forward port cargo mast, his special telescope up to his good eye, watching as the Iranian cruiser pulled anchor and slowly sailed away. He waited until the mast of the warship disappeared over the eastern horizon before climbing back down again.

  Then he joined the rest of the crew in hastily removing the ship’s camouflage. They wanted to get out of the area as quickly as possible.

  Nolan and Batman were working on this alongside Squire and the doctor. Nolan asked Squire: “So—tell us, who have we really been working for all this time?”

  Squire smiled. “My boss? His name is Bill Gates. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  “The name sounds familiar,” Nolan deadpanned.

  “Well, he’s the owner of that ultimate, one-of-a-kind chip,” Squire said. “And he’s the one who’ll actually be paying you—both your original fee, plus a piece of the reward.”

  Hearing this, Batman pulled Nolan aside and whispered to him: “That guy Gates took a bath in the last Wall Street crash—believe me, I know.”

  Nolan thought a moment, then turned back to Squire and said: “Ask him to make that cash, OK?”

  • PART SEVEN •

  The Last Battle

  20

  Port of Aden

  Yemen

  COGNAC.

  Nolan had never tasted it, had never been able to afford it, or even wanted it if he had. But he was drinking it now.

  A lot of it.

  He’d never danced to disco music, either. Never liked the sound of it, or the beat. But he was dancing to it now.

  And everything was spinning again, but now in a good way. The waitresses at the Aden dockside bar grew more attractive with each drink. The music was pulsating and erotic. In one corner, he could see Batman smoking hashish through a hookah. In another, Gunner had his head down in a bowl of beer. Close by, Crash was at a table making out with two, no . . . three women at once. Even Twitch was getting into it, pouring drinks and doubling as the gathering’s DJ.

  They were here again, in the same grungy dockside bar, celebrating their return from their successful adventure to Microchip Island. Though the bar was crowded, mostly with people from the Gulf States here to drink freely, the team had taken over the place, buying drinks and hits of hashish for all.

  Dr. Stevenson and Squire had joined them earlier, but for only one drink. They had places to go—namely Seattle, Washington. With help from the Kilos finance department, they’d paid the team their fee for getting them to the island and back and made arrangements to wire their share of the reward once the Mother of All Chips was safely back home.

  So the team was in high spirits, literally. Their coffers had increased again, practically overnight, and there was little sign of the uneasiness that Gunner, Crash and Twitch had felt recently about the money doings. Batman had totaled up their earnings: In just one month of operation, Team Whiskey had collected almost $7.5 million. When the reward arrived from Squire and Stevenson, that amount would grow to almost $8 million. Tax-free.

  It was more money than any of them had ever had at one time—all except Batman.

  Conley was also on hand for the celebration. He’d told them, “I’d suggest you guys go on vacation, but we know what happened the last time you tried that.”

  That got a big laugh, and then they drank more cognac, and some smoked more hashish, and Nolan took to the disco floor once more, gyrating in slow motion as two Middle Eastern beauties danced circles around him.

  And everything was spinning. But in a good way.

  BEEPING . . .

  At first, Nolan thought it was part of the music—or maybe a side effect of breathing in too much secondhand smoke in the roomful of burning hashish.

  Beeping . . .

  Echoing in such a way, it felt like it was going in one ear and coming out the other.

  Beeping . . .

  Where was it coming from?

  “It’s your phone,” one of the dancing girls yelled to him over the music. “You’d better answer it.”

  Nolan hesitated. He was always uncomfortable answering his cell phone. He never knew who might be callin
g him, especially if it was someone from the United States.

  But he couldn’t ignore it; that was not like him. Besides, it was killing his buzz.

  So he flipped the phone open and was surprised to hear a voice that was familiar and instantly recognizable. But he couldn’t imagine why this person would be calling him.

  It was Bebe, the Russian gangster.

  “I have news for you,” Bebe began the conversation. “Are sitting at present?”

  “I am,” Nolan lied, shouting over the music. What was this about? he thought.

  They’d received payment from Bebe with no problem, and even a big tip. Did the Russian Mob want the money back?

  “Is good you are sitting,” Bebe said. “Because news will make you faint.”

  “Please just tell me,” Nolan said.

  “Your friend, Pirate Zeek?” Bebe said gravely. “Is alive. He lives and is back at old tricks.”

  Nolan collapsed into the nearest chair. He thought for a moment that Bebe was drunk and this was his idea of a practical joke. But he knew that a guy like Bebe was always drunk and probably didn’t play practical jokes.

  “How do you know this?” he asked the gangster.

  “A friend of friend of friend just sold him guns for new boat,” Bebe replied. “Boat is modified Type 352 German minesweeper. Boat will bring Zeek and his posse across Indian Ocean to Somalia. Somalia warlords are waiting to give him open-arms greeting. They to give Zeek political asylum. Zeek to organize their Somali crazy people into better pirates, cause big trouble there. This his plan.”

  Nolan knew Bebe was on the level, for one reason: During their conversations, Nolan never told the gangster that they suspected Zeek’s plan all along was to move his operations to Somalia.

  “Check out what I say,” Bebe went on. “I thought you should know this.”

  Nolan thanked him, and at the same time, tried to think of what to do next. Bebe actually gave him his answer.