by Don Keith
“You gonna make us guess?” his mother asked.
“I got my orders today for my First Class summer cruise. I'm to report to the City of Corpus Christi in Guam.”
“I thought you’d given up on a submarine,” his dad said.
“I guess it’s good to have an old man who’s a sub squadron commodore. She’ll be leaving for a West Pac deployment right after I get there."
Sweaty or not, the three of them joined in a tight embrace, right there on the patio. There was no mistaking the pride in Jon Ward’s eyes as he hugged his son and wife.
And no mistaking, either, the motherly worry that creased Ellen Ward’s forehead.
3
Sui Kia Shun sat quietly, savoring the calm of the waning afternoon. He gazed out across the stone terrace toward the valley below. An ancient porcelain teapot and tiny cup sat on the stone table by his elbow. Sui drew much solace from this view, just as seventeen generations of his ancestors had done before him. As they had done since the Emperor Ming Chen Zu sent his family to this mountain retreat on what was now the Thai-Laotian border.
Through the generations, Sui's ancestors faithfully guarded the Middle Kingdom's southern borders, fulfilling their roles as warlords for the Emperor. Then the Europeans came and re-drew all the borders. The family necessarily followed its own path to survival. Now, Sui Kia Shun had done the same. He ruled over the largest drug empire in Southeast Asia. His poppy fields supplied the needs of the world's heroin addicts, whether they were on the streets of New York City or in the back alleys of Istanbul.
The white powder was the fuel that energized a much larger financial empire. The mountains of cash generated by the deadly stuff was moved through a complex warren of banks and brokerage houses before it eventually emerged, all clean and new, to fund shipping lines, factories, and plush resorts all over Asia. Of course, neither Sui nor his family appeared in any prospectus or company report. There was no indication they had interest in any of these enterprises, either legal or illegal. Elaborate front companies were structured to show ownership. Anyone energetic enough to investigate beyond the fronts would find other faces behind the sham corporations. Someone dedicated and clever might peel back more layers. But, like an onion, they would only find another stratum, even more tightly wrapped to hide the inner secret.
The heat of the late spring afternoon drifted up from the valley floor. Its intensity was barely eased by the westerly breeze. It would be another month before the monsoon rains brought blessed relief. No matter. Sui took comfort in the constancy of the weather in this place. It might be unpleasant but it was predictable.
Sui Kia Shun thrived on predictability. He did not like surprise.
There was a rustle at the doorway but Sui seemed not to notice. Tai Chui Lim, Sui's most trusted lieutenant, emerged from the old house. He crossed the terrace to where his master sat, surveying the darkening shadows in the valley. Tai had quietly and faithfully served this man for almost fifty years now. He had never seen Master Sui so withdrawn and acquiescent as he had been over the last couple of years. The sudden change in the man’s nature had coincided with the banishment of Sui’s daughter, his only child, both from the organization and from her father’s house. The Master had sent her away in disgrace after one of the organization’s biggest disasters, a loss of tons of product in a scheme hatched up by the late Juan de Santiago, a Colombian counterpart in the drug trade. Sui’s daughter had gracefully accepted responsibility as well as her expulsion. She knew punishment was inevitable. In truth, the old man had been lenient with her. More so than to anyone else who had ever failed him. He allowed her to live. Still, the incident haunted Sui, though he suffered silently.
"My Master, I have news," the tall, gray-haired Tai said. "Our agent in Singapore has reported that the Americans found the Medong Sui. It was adrift off the south end of the Spratley Islands. They were attacked by pirates."
Sui flushed angrily. He pounded the arm of his chaise with a clenched fist.
"Who would dare attack one of our ships? Even the lowest of the scum would not be so stupid. Have they no respect for their betters?"
Tai almost smiled. This outburst sounded more like the Sui of old, the ruthless warlord who ruled with an iron fist. Tai shook his head to acknowledge his own disbelief and continued with his report.
"There were no survivors. The agent reports that all the crew and passengers were machine-gunned while trapped in the hold."
"Yes, but what of the cargo?" Sui asked.
"There is no mention of any cargo," Tai answered. “If the Americans had found the heroin, they would have paraded it in front of the cameras for everyone to see, as is their way. That and we know that they still watch the Dawn Flower in Isabella, expecting the transfer of the shipment."
Sui seemed to calm down. He stroked his chin and thought for a moment. He finally spoke slowly, fatigue heavy in his voice.
"Yes, the Americans have to crow like a rooster about every small victory. We must assume, then, that the pirates stole the heroin." He took a small sip of tea. Tai was pleased with the cold look that had settled in his master’s dark eyes, the rigid set of his jaw. Too bad about the organization’s latest loss, but it may have awakened the old dragon from its slumber. "Tai, with the amount these bastards have taken from us, they will be unable to hide from us. Our property will soon appear on the market. Have all our resources alerted. When they find the pirates, crush them in such a way that their brothers will never even consider stealing from Sui."
“The messages have already been sent, Master.”
Sui stared off into the distance for long enough that Tai thought he might have drifted off into his usual reverie once again. Then the Master smiled.
"Leave the Dawn Flower tied up in Isabella for a few more days. See if you can arrange a cargo of rice or some such. We will lead the Americans on a merry little chase and see what other vermin comes following behind."
"It shall be as you ordered," Tai said and bowed deeply. He turned to retrace his steps into the house.
"And Tai?" Sui said, stopping the lieutenant in mid-stride. He turned to listen. "The captain of the Medong Sui. He was a good, faithful worker. He served us well for many years. Have his family attended to."
As Tai nodded and turned back toward the entrance to the house, he was pleased to see his boss had now risen from his usual chair, that he was on his feet, pacing back and forth, his mouth set, thinking.
The old warrior seemed to have found new purpose.
Sabul u Nurizam trudged up the steep mountain slope without slowing his pace at all. A thick layer of red mud caked his jungle fatigues and his sweat-soaked shirt clung to his back as he made his way up the rutted trail. There was still another hour of hard climbing before they reached the high plateau where the mountaintop command center awaited.
The spiny, mountainous interior of Basilan was ideal for Nurizam's purposes. It was so rugged that few people ventured beyond the narrow coastal flatlands. The volcanic peaks of the interior were sharp and foreboding, daring anyone but the most foolhardy to venture forth. Those brave few who managed to scale the steep cliffs found only more steaming jungle on the other side.
Only a few trails penetrated these heights. They were hidden by undergrowth but still guarded by men loyal to Sabul u Nurizam, all of them brave fighters for the radical Islamic Abu Sayuff movement.
Manju Shehab followed his leader along the trail as best he could. He clung to the vegetation to keep from slipping off the muddy, narrow path. The valley floor, far below, waited for the careless misstep.
"Sabul," he called to the terrorist cleric’s receding back. "What is the hurry? Can we not take a half-minute’s break?"
Nurizam glanced back over his shoulder and scowled.
"There is too much to do for us to sit and rest like weak women. We must hurry. Everything is following Allah's plan. We must be ready when the time comes."
With that, the cleric seemed to move even faster, even mor
e daringly, across the slippery, treacherous terrain.
"What is so important that we risk our lives on this so-called trail?" Shehab protested. He tripped on a tree root and grabbed for a slender jade vine that dangled down from the overhead canopy. He closed his eyes and held his breath. The falter almost sent him tumbling headlong down the steep slope.
Nurizam seemed not to notice his lieutenant’s near fall. He glanced over his shoulder, saw that Shehab was still there, and then charged on up the trail. The mullah had soon disappeared around the bend, hidden by the dense, green undergrowth. Shehab scurried to catch up, muttering under his breath as he struggled to keep his feet beneath him in the slick, slimy mud.
Even high up here in the mountains, the heat was oppressive. The monsoon winds out of the northeast brought little relief. The breeze riffled the vegetation and blew in the occasional rain shower off the Moro Gulf. The rains brought no respite either. They served to keep the mud thick and sticky, the air heavy with humidity.
The sun was just dropping below the western horizon when Nurizam and Shehab arrived at the Abu Sayuff mountaintop command post. Shehab, exhausted from the arduous climb, dropped heavily onto a log at the edge of the small clearing and tried to get his breathing under control.
Arrayed around the open spaces, but hidden back beneath the thick, high jungle canopy, were a number of rough-looking huts. A diesel generator chugged away from somewhere back in the maze of vegetation. It provided light and electrical power to the rude camp.
"Sabul! Welcome back!" a tall heavy-set man yelled from the veranda of the largest hut. He was dressed in jungle fatigues and a floppy tan hat and wore a full, thick beard.
"Erinque, my friend," Sabul u Nurizam answered. "It is good to be back up here, away from the evils of the city."
"Did you bring any of the evil temptations back with you, or did you forget your brothers?" Erinque Tagaytai answered with a laugh. "We have been stuck up here with nothing but plantain and rice. I hope you found room for some delicacies in your pack."
Nurizam pulled off his backpack and dug into it. He pulled out two small bundles and tossed them to the man on the veranda.
"Even ten of me couldn't carry enough food up that trail to keep you fed,” Nurizam said. “But I did bring some sili and a bundle of tanglad. The chili peppers should bring a tear to your eye and the lemon grass will add flavor to your rice."
Tagaytai pocketed the bundles.
"A nice water buffalo steak would have been more filling. I'm getting tired of python and Sambar deer meat stew."
Nurizam stepped up onto the porch and ducked through the door into the hut. The interior was a sharp contrast to the outside. An air conditioner hummed away, keeping the room cool and dry. Two men sat in front of laptop computers, typing away while another watched CNN on a small TV. One table was loaded with the latest in modern satellite communications equipment.
Nurizam smiled to himself. It wasn't enough to fight the infidel with guns and suicide bombers. That was a lesson some of the others had never learned and that was one reason they had thus far failed. Words could be very powerful weapons. With the Internet and a satellite phone, it was possible to run a worldwide public relations campaign from the top of a jungle-covered mountain. The Abu Sayuff website, along with several others that operated under various names, were visited by over a million faithful Muslims every day. With this technology, Nurizam could counter the infidels' lies and raise an army of the faithful on a moment's notice.
"Erinque, can you tell me the hit rate on the site?" Nurizam asked, looking in the direction of one of the computers.
Erinque Tagaytai reached over the man’s shoulder who sat in front of the computer and punched a couple of keys on the laptop. He flipped though several screens until he arrived at one that was covered with colorful pie charts.
“The Abu Sayuff news site is up over thirty thousand views since yesterday,” he answered. “The story of the assassination attempt in Isabella and your invincibility to the bullets has taken off. Of course, we have assisted with the dissemination of the miracle." Tagayti grinned as he flipped through several more screens. "Visits to the donation sites are way up since the attack as well. Donations from America are up over a million dollars and Europe has sent almost a million Euros. All that cash is coming to the Philippine Muslim Relief Agency."
Nurizam chuckled.
"The PMRA will be able to bring several shiploads of rice and medical supplies to our poor persecuted people. Every load will hide tons of guns, ammunition and explosives. Those fools in America will never figure out where their money goes."
"You are right, as always,” Tagaytai answered. “They are blinded by their weakness. They hide their guilt with money."
"True, true. If only it were enough," Nurizam said with a nod. He changed the subject as he stepped toward the communications table. "Is everything ready? It is almost time for our call."
As if on cue, the satellite phone buzzed. Nurizam grabbed the handset and held it to his ear. His face went blank, cold.
"Mullah Subramanian, it is very kind of you to agree to speak with me. How are the faithful Bintulu?"
Nurizam detested the man on the other end of the telephone, the mullah who led the faith in Sarawak. The old weakling was far too willing to compromise the true teachings of the Prophet, all in an effort to accommodate and appease the infidels. He had been the leading mullah in Sarawak for over thirty years and nothing could be done there without his approval. The Malaysian state on the west coast of Borneo was vital to Nurizam's plan. He had to have the support of the Islamic community there if there was to be any chance for his dream to succeed.
Nurizam gazed off at the horizon, imagining the South China Sea as a lake surrounded by a fundamentalist Islamic nation. The Philippines, tiny Brunei, Malaysia, Indonesia, even Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam, all ruled under the one true faith. It was a heady dream, the stuff of prophets, warriors, and martyrs.
Mullah Subramanian stood in the way of his bold dream. The old man had lost the fire and refused to see the righteousness of Nurizam's plan.
Subramanian, his voice cracked and weak with age and washed pale by the tenuous telephone connection, answered.
"Mullah Nurizam, I heard the news of the awful attempt on your life. Allah be praised, you are unscathed. A miracle, truly a miracle."
Nurizam could read the old man's true thoughts: how much better it would have been for everyone if the assassins had taken better aim and their bullets had struck home.
"Yes, Mullah Subramanian, I am unhurt,” he said. “Allah be praised. Many innocents were not so fortunate. They are now in paradise, martyrs for the faith."
"Yes, that is sad," the old man replied. "But you didn't call to talk about the past. What is it that you wish to discuss?"
"Mullah Subramanian, we must talk. We are long due for a meeting where we might discuss matters of substance instead of exchanging pleasantries. There is much that we can do together for the betterment of all Islam."
Subramanian coughed deeply and paused to regain his breath before he replied.
"Mullah Nurizam, I am not sure what a meeting would accomplish. Our ways are very different. You preach violence. I believe peace and co-existence to be the path Allah desires us to follow. I am not willing to stir my followers with your polemics."
Nurizam sneered but managed to turn on his most soothing voice.
"Mullah Subramanian, all I am asking is that we meet and talk as brothers. Please do not judge my motives or my means until I have talked with you in person. Surely we can exchange ideas and explore paths of understanding. I will send my most trusted aide to meet with you next week. Together you can decide on a time and place for us to sit together and break bread."
There was a long, dead pause on the other end of the line. Nurizam was about to believe the connection had been lost when he heard the old mullah’s weak, wavering voice again.
"Send your emissary," he responded tiredly.
Nurizam replaced the phone and turned to Shehab. There was an odd smear of a smile on the terrorist leader’s face.
"I want you to go to meet with Mullah Subramanian. But first, see Colonel Ortega. Let him know that Mullah Subramanian is meeting with me in Sarawak. I am sure he will let his friends in the Malaysian Intelligence Service know. It is time we had a martyr for our cause. I think Mullah Subramanian will serve such a purpose quite nicely."
4
Commander Paul Wilson stood alone on the port bridge wing of the Higgins, enjoying the feel of the warm, humid, tropical breeze on his face. The morning sun glinted off the shimmering, placid water. He had to squint to keep in sight the Singapore Navy patrol boat that was leading them into Changi Naval Base.
The Singaporeans weren't taking any chances with security out here, Wilson noted. Five hundred yards to the port of Higgins, another gunboat steamed in formation, mirroring their path. It flew the 182-pennant of the squadron commodore. A third boat was stationed on the American destroyer's starboard side. That was half of the tiny island nation's gunboat fleet out there and they had all been called out to protect one U. S. Navy destroyer. When he shaded his eyes against the sun, Wilson could see sailors manning the fifty-caliber machine guns on each of the gunboats' decks. They looked as if they meant business.
Wilson smiled tightly. Any boatload of terrorists would be in a world of hurt if it tried to approach the Higgins today. The Singaporeans provided some measure of comfort. Still, it was Gunner Petranko, the big Chicagoan who was manning the Mk-38 Sea Snake twenty-five-millimeter chain gun on the main deck of the Higgins that gave her skipper far more peace of mind.
The normally bustling harbor was strangely empty this morning. Almost nothing moved on the water. The Singapore government was renowned for controlling every aspect of life on the island. It was clear that they had shut down the harbor for the arrival of the American warship.
Only a ferry steamed past the little regatta. It was making its daily run across the Singapore Strait from Palua Batam, Indonesia. The vessel’s deck was crowded with shoppers and tourists. The nondescript little white ferry seemed to be keeping well clear as it chugged for the Tanah Merah Ferry Terminal. Even so, Wilson heard the Singaporean Navy Commodore shouting over the marine band radio for the ferry captain to steer away. Gunner Petranko kept his eyes on the squat little vessel as well. After what had happened to the USS Cole (DDG 67) in Yemen back in 2000, nothing was taken for granted.
