Jim addressed his team. “That’s a wrap. Ghost, Homer. Secure the bridge. Bull and I will meet you there.”
“We’re on it.”
“Iceberg, Magnum. You take the helipad.”
“Roger, Boss Man.”
Jim nodded to Bull and together they dashed for the ladder and ascended. Iceberg and Magnum were twenty meters behind them. The bridge was on the deck just below the helipad.
From the landing outside the watertight entry to the bridge, Ghost eased open the door just enough for Homer to lob in a flash-bang. Two seconds later, it exploded and the two operators stormed the opening, their primary weapons sweeping the bridge, ready to neutralize any threat.
Even through the bridge lights were out to help the officers maintain a degree of night vision, the diffuse illumination from the instruments was more than sufficient to render the space in bright detail through the NVGs worn by Ghost and Homer. The crew, on the other hand, had been momentarily blinded by the bright flash of the pyrotechnic, and they had yet to see the intruders who were now occupying the ship’s command center.
“Hands up! Get your hands up!” Ghost yelled. The four men manning the bridge faced in the general direction of the voice. “Hands up!” Ghost repeated.
One man lunged for a drawer. He pulled it open and grasped a pistol. Homer fired a single round from his MP5 submachine gun. At the close range afforded within the confined space of the bridge, he couldn’t miss. The man took the bullet in the chest, dropped the handgun, and fell back against the console.
“Hands up!” Ghost yelled again. This time, the other three slowly raised their hands. By now, they were able to see enough to recognize two figures holding weapons.
“On the landing just outside,” Jim alerted his two men inside the bridge.
“Roger. Clear to enter. We have three tangos, plus one that Homer dropped.”
Boss Man kept his MP5 leveled at the three prisoners as Bull, with his weapon slung over a shoulder, moved forward. One by one, he pulled the hands of each prisoner down and cinched nylon zip ties around their wrists. Hands firmly bound behind their backs, the SGIT operators felt comfortable enough to lower their weapons.
Bull proceeded to examine the unconscious victim. He was sitting, his back against the instrument console, head slumped forward. Bull check for a pulse. None. “This one’s dead.” He picked up the pistol. On the black rubber grip was the image of a circle surrounding a star. Bull recognized it as a QSZ-92 semiautomatic pistol, standard issue of the Chinese army. He dropped the magazine and cleared the chamber, then stuffed the gun in his belt. More evidence to share with the analysts at SGIT.
Bullets raked across the outer bulkhead, many penetrating into the bridge. Windows shattered and everyone dropped to the deck at the same time. Then the SGIT operators all heard the warning over the squad radio network. It was Magnum speaking. “Heavy machine gun! Must’ve been hidden in a crate or something beneath the towers!”
“Can you get a good angle and take ’em out?” Jim replied.
“Negative! Armor plate in front of the gun. Can’t get rounds on the shooters. Maybe if we had a Barrett. I doubt that armor is thick enough to stop a .50 caliber round.” Magnum and Iceberg were both firing their submachine guns at the threat, but the 9mm pistol rounds, even fired from the longer barrel of the MP5, simply pinged as they bounced off the shield.
Jim crawled to the door joining the bridge to the ladder landing. As he edged his head forward enough to see down to the deck amidships, his courage was rewarded with a burst of gunfire. The bullets all penetrated the bulkhead above him, but it was sufficient to convince him they would never survive a sprint up the steep ladder to the landing pad.
“Bull, get on the radio. Find out the ETA for that Osprey. Let them know the landing zone is hot!”
Bull grasped the handset connected by a coiled line to the radio in his pack. After a short conversation, punctuated with acronyms and jargon, he concluded with “Roger. Swordfish out.” Then he addressed Jim. “The Osprey is five minutes out. They’ll continue inbound and then hold at 3,000 meters until we tell them the landing zone is secure. They have twelve Marines onboard, ready to hold the Panda Star while we exit.”
“Do they have a tail gun on that Osprey?” Jim asked.
“Affirmative. A Dillon minigun. But with limited range of fire, they’re an easy target.”
More bullets gouged through the wall into the bridge, continuing their path of destruction into many of the instrument consoles. The ship shuddered briefly and then all vibrations ceased. The Panda Star was dead in the water. It would continue to coast, maybe for several miles, before it came to a dead stop.
“What’s the plan, Boss Man?” The question came from Homer.
Jim racked his brain, running through options, discarding those that were foolish. And then it came to him.
“Magnum, you guys have any flares?”
Iceberg pinched his eyebrows at the unexpected question, and then nodded to Magnum. “Affirmative. But there’s not much on the deck here that’s flammable.”
“Yes there is,” Jim replied. “Here’s the plan…”
After going over the major elements, Jim turned his attention to his team pinned down on the bridge. “I want all of you to take up firing positions along the row of windows facing down toward the deck. The machine gun is at the base of the towers.”
“We’re not going to have much luck getting our rounds through the steel structure of the towers,” Bull said.
“Doesn’t matter. You’re going to draw the enemy’s attention. Wait until you see Iceberg’s flare, then let loose with all you’ve got.”
Staying low, Bull, Homer, and Ghost edged to the bulkhead with the shot-out windows. Jim checked his watch: ninety seconds until the Marine Corps Osprey would arrive. This had better work.
Iceberg struck the igniter on the road flare and lobbed it toward the machine gunner’s position. It actually landed behind the gun crew, rolling to a stop at the base of a group of fifty-five-gallon drums.
“Fire!”
Four submachine guns opened up simultaneously from the bridge. The effect was predictable. The large volume of automatic fire with bullets impacting the armor shield and all around the gun crew served to force them down. In the brief lull, Iceberg and Magnum rose above their cover. Their angle allowed them to look down the side of the stored drums and, picking out the farthest drum, they opened fire.
At first, their bullets only penetrated the closest drums, those filled with oil and hydraulic fluid. But eventually at least one round penetrated the far drum. With a hiss, compressed vapor escaped the drum—unsymmetrical dimethyl hydrazine, or UDMH, otherwise known as rocket fuel. The vapor was heavier than air, and it formed an invisible cloud that spread along the deck. Extremely toxic, the vapor also formed an explosive mixture with air.
Magazines emptied, Iceberg and Magnum ducked again behind their cover. And not a moment too soon. The hydrazine vapor spread quickly and reached the flare.
A massive explosion and fireball rocked the deck. Steel barrels filled with more than 350 pounds of fluids were thrown overboard. The gun crew was incinerated, their ashes blasted forward in a sooty cloud, while the heavy machine gun was stripped from its mount and tossed forward in a tangled heap.
“Bull, radio the Osprey. Tell them the landing zone is secure. Panda Star is adrift, engine controls believed to have been disabled from gunfire on the bridge.”
s
Seconds later they heard the deep reverberations from the huge Osprey propellers beating the air. The Marine Corps transport circled around the bow of the Panda Star, keeping distance from the stern, as well as the obstruction of the towers, just in case there were more gunmen waiting to ambush the aircraft. The raging fire cast an eerie yellow-orange glow that illuminated the Osprey. Tongues of flame and sooty smoke reached skyward, reminding Jim of a dragon.
The SGIT operators watched the Osprey approach, even though it had extingui
shed its running lights. The huge twin engine nacelles were already tilted partially upward, slowing the plane as it approached the helipad. The whirlwind whipped the fire into a raging conflagration that spread to the many barrels of oil.
With the nacelles pointed vertically, the craft hovered, its landing gear inches above the landing surface. The rear door was open, and twelve combat-ready Marines poured out the opening.
Jim exchanged words briefly with the platoon leader. He wore the rank of lieutenant and exuded confidence born from violent battle under difficult conditions. The men were all heavily armed with M4 automatic rifles, grenade launchers, and two squad automatic weapons. The lieutenant issued orders to his men and they quickly dispersed. Exactly what those orders were, Jim didn’t know. He didn’t have to. His priority was to get their evidence back to command and file his report.
The SGIT team scrambled onto the rear ramp, Jim being the last to board. He stood on the ramp momentarily, surveying the deck of the Panda Star. The hydrazine was still burning, although the flames were less intense. The oil drums might burn for hours. He suspected the Marines would order the crew to attack the inferno with firehoses, but since the conflagration was confined to the deck, he doubted the ship was in peril.
What secrets are in the holds below deck? He’d probably never know, although he felt satisfaction that his team had eliminated the ballistic missile launch vehicle. The Seventh Fleet was out of danger.
In only a few hours, he’d learn how wrong that conclusion was.
Chapter 31
South China Sea
August 26
The pilot was flying a direct course for the Raja Isteri Pengiran Anak Saleha Hospital in the capital of Brunei. It was the best-equipped facility with the most experienced surgeons.
Robert tapped the pilot on the shoulder. When he glanced up, Robert was shaking his head. The pilot’s face registered sorrow upon realizing that Eu-meh was dead. He had not known her well by any measure, but she had always treated the members of her security detail with fairness and respect. On a few occasions, Eu-meh had spoken to him directly, asking about his family and complimenting his loyalty and dedication.
“We’re going to the palace. That was her home, where her family is.”
“But shouldn’t we deliver the body to the hospital? Isn’t that the procedure we should follow?”
“There’s nothing the medical staff can do for her now. At least we can offer the dignity of placing her in the mosque where her family can pay their respects and offer their prayers.”
Retreating from the cockpit, Robert removed some shortbread cookies and a couple bottles of water from a locker, offering the snack to Peter. “I’m going to find her,” Peter said.
“Come on, have something to eat,” he said, ignoring the comment. Peter stared back vacantly. “Well, if you’re not hungry, how about Diesel?”
The red pit bull was looking longingly at the offered snack, a long viscous drop of drool hanging from the side of his closed mouth. He extended a paw placing it gently on Peter’s thigh.
Peter tore open the plastic wrapping and offered the cookies to Diesel, who eagerly devoured the food. Then, cupping one hand, he slowly poured water into the make-shift bowl and Diesel drank his fill—nearly the entire bottle of water. Peter finished the remainder.
“What are you going to do?” Robert asked.
“The way I see it, Captain Rei is our hall pass, our ticket. He will gain us an audience with the Director of Security.”
“They might just kill us.”
Peter shrugged. “Not likely. Whoever is in charge will want answers. They will want to know what we know, so they can cover up their actions.”
“You sound pretty confident.”
“It’s not my first rodeo.”
“Okay. What do you want me to do?”
Peter motioned with his chin toward the cockpit. “See if the co-pilot can put you on the radio. You want to speak to any reporter you can reach, preferably not in Brunei. Maybe Singapore or Manilla.”
“Time to go public?”
“Yeah. Whoever you reach, tell them the complete story. But mostly that Eu-meh was murdered. With this information out there, the Director of Security will have to learn what we know.”
“Got it.” Robert left Peter to his thoughts while he had a brief conversation with the co-pilot. Soon he had a radio connection to someone at the Straits Times, a prominent English-language newspaper in Singapore. After two transfers, he was finally speaking with a journalist. After another ten minutes, he’d retold the events that transpired onboard the Royal Seeker, the missile launch and destruction of the control room, and finally, the murder of the Sultan’s sister. He finished by telling the reporter they were en route to the Sultan’s palace, Istana Nurul Iman, to lay the body at rest in the mosque.
Ever grateful for the scoop, the reporter assured Robert she would be on the first flight to Bandar Seri Begawan to cover the event first hand and then ended the call.
While Robert was on the radio, Peter typed a text message to Commander Jim Nicolaou using the commercial encryption app on his phone. Short and to the point, he reported they’d destroyed the missile launch control room on the Royal Seeker, rendering the platform useless. He pressed the send button, knowing they were over the ocean and not within cellular range. But the text message would be queued to send automatically once he did have a signal. With that problem solved, I can focus on finding Jade.
Having prepped the reporter, Robert returned to his seat to update Peter. “The story should break in a few hours.”
“Good. Now that the Royal Seeker is no longer in business, whoever has Jade should let her go.”
“You’re assuming she’s still alive.”
Peter nodded.
“And if she’s dead?”
“Then we force them to turn over her body so she can be joined in burial with Eu-meh.”
Peter’s hand once again found the grip of the Glock pistol tucked in his belt. The movement did not escape Robert’s notice.
s
The equatorial sun shone brilliantly off both golden domes as the Airbus H160 helicopter, now low on fuel, settled down on the lawn before the mosque entrance. From the air, Peter was able to appreciate the enormity of the Sultan’s palace—over two million square feet, nearly 1800 rooms, five swimming pools, and a banquet hall that could seat 5,000 guests. Closed to the public except for a few days each year when visitors were allowed to enter the banquet hall and the mosque, Istana Nurul Iman palace was the perfect location for a clandestine operation.
A group of palace guards, all wearing their distinctive black berets, was approaching the helicopter in two electric open-air vehicles that looked like side-by-side ATVs. Peter had no doubt their approach was monitored and the palace guard alerted just before the aircraft landed.
Robert exited first, Eu-meh’s covered body supported by his strong arms. He didn’t wait, instead moving directly for the entrance, two oversized doors constructed of tropical wood with heavy, polished gold hardware.
Peter directed Captain Rei out of the helicopter, one hand on his shirt collar and the other hand pressing the pistol into his spine. Diesel was hugging his master’s side. They only made it halfway to the mosque when the approaching guards opened fire. Bullets sizzled through the air, and Peter encouraged Rei to move faster. But with his injured foot, a rapid skip-step was the best he could do.
The pilot and co-pilot took defensive positions on either side of the aircraft, using their submachine guns to hold the palace guards at bay. With their lives at risk, the guards adjusted their aim to the two aviators, and Peter with his hostage pushed through the doors, gaining distance from the gunfire.
He expected to enter a large, open room but instead found they were in a tiled courtyard, the ablutions area. A fountain was in the center of the courtyard. Just ahead, he saw Robert pass through another doorway, and Peter urged Rei forward.
“Please,” Rei protested.
“My foot; I need to sit and rest.”
Peter pushed harder with the barrel at Rei’s back. “Keep moving.”
Once through the second door, they entered the open prayer hall. It was an enormous space without a single supporting pillar, the gold dome serving as the roof. Tiles in all colors, but mostly shades of blue, from turquoise to cobalt, covered the walls and ceiling. Gold tiles set in framed sections along the walls repeated what Peter assumed were passages from the Quran. The floor was covered with small, intricately-woven rugs, all arranged in rigorous geometric order. Two sneakers had been kicked randomly at the side. Peter watched as Robert, now shoeless, crossed the floor aiming directly for a semicircular niche at the far wall, just to the side of a stairway that extended upwards.
Robert kneeled before the niche and gently laid the body down. He positioned Eu-meh so her head was just within the opening. Still kneeling, Robert bowed his head and folded his hands on his lap.
Peter approached silently, his grip on Captain Rei still firm. After a long pause, Robert stood. He turned to discover Peter standing nearby with Diesel sitting at his side.
“That’s called a mihrab,” Robert said, indicating the domed opening in the wall. “It points toward Mecca.”
Peter understood the symbolism of the position in which Robert had laid Eu-meh at rest.
“You shouldn’t wear shoes in here,” he explained. “And I don’t think the Imam would approve of a dog sitting on one of the prayer rugs.”
The sound of sporadic gunfire was heard even through the thick doors. Peter glanced at his feet, and then said, “I don’t think we should wait around to speak with the Imam. Time to go.”
Robert slipped on his sneakers and they left the prayer hall the way they’d entered. They were met in the courtyard by the co-pilot. “This way!” he shouted and waved his arm as further encouragement.
Passing through the outer door, Peter asked about the pilot. “He’s dead, next to the helicopter,” the co-pilot answered. Scattered across the lawn between the helicopter and the mosque, and then farther out from the helicopter to the two electric open-top vehicles, were a half dozen dead guards. Peter dashed to the nearest and grabbed the radio.
Guarding Savage Page 21
