Battlecraft (2006) (10 page)

KUPANG, TIMOR ISLAND

3 OCTOBER

0315 HOURS LOCAL

THE
car pulled off the main street and rolled into the ambulance entrance of the City Hospital. The man in the passenger seat quickly got out and opened the back door. He reached in and pulled Abduruddin Suhanto from the automobile, and shoved him toward the emergency room. The shipping line owner staggered backward a few steps as the man returned to the vehicle, which quickly sped back to the streets.

A tourniquet had been applied to Suhanto's right wrist where the hand had been severed. He sobbed aloud in shock and pain, almost fainting, but he gathered enough strength to lurch toward the medical help available in the building.

.

In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful: If a man or a woman steals, cut off their hands as a punishment for what they have done. They deserve this exemplary punishment from Allah, and Allah is Mighty and Wise.

--as it is written in the Holy Qu'ran

.

Suhanto, like Batanza, had now paid for his part in the robbery of al-Mimkhalif's weapons. From that time on, he would have to eat with the same hand he wiped his rectum with after defecating. A supreme embarrassment in the Islamic world.

Chapter 7.

ACV
BATTLECRAFT

INDIAN OCEAN

VICINITY OF 5deg NORTH AND 60deg EAST

4 OCTOBER

0730 HOURS LOCAL

THE
Battlecraft
skimmed over the placid surface of the ocean at a steady clip of forty-five miles an hour with the throttle set at
half speed
. Petty Officer First Class Paul Watkins had an easy time maintaining a course of zero-four-five, while to his right Lieutenant (JG) Veronica Rivers kept a constant vigil on her radar instrumentation, eagerly scanning the scope for contacts.

Lieutenant Bill Brannigan had now grown completely disenchanted with this assignment. Every day was the same. Get up early for chow, launch the ACV from the USS
Dan Daly's
docking well, and spend some empty hours cruising the Indian Ocean finding absolutely nothing. Then return to the ship, pull any necessary maintenance, fill out the logs, report in to Commander Tom Carey, and end another dreary tour of duty that had accomplished absolutely nothing. Higher command echelons could not provide any leads on terrorist activities to investigate. Brannigan wished that some staff weenie would get at least an inkling of information to give them the impression there was something out there on the Indian Ocean or the Arabian Sea worth finding. Whatever the bad guys were doing was either out of sight or not happening on the
Battlecraft
⁹
s watch.

The entire Second Assault Section was topside, taking in the sun and reading field and technical manuals in anticipation of MOS proficiency tests. Sometimes they broke the monotony by doing push-ups and deep knee bends to keep their muscles supple for any potential boarding of suspicious ships.

Down in the office, Veronica Rivers broke the silence. "I have a contact. Zero-one-niner at ten miles."

The announcement did not cause any excitement since there were always plenty of contacts during the reconnaissance tours. Merchant ships, oil tankers, and miscellaneous naval vessels of nearby nations constantly cruised to and fro as they went about their business in the area.

"Course zero-one-niner," Brannigan said to Watkins. He leaned toward Veronica. "What's it look like?"

"It's a weak contact, sir," Veronica answered. "Something out there is constructed of a minimum amount of metal."

"Great!" Brannigan said sarcastically. "From all indications it's probably a rowboat."

"It's under power," Veronica said. "Moving approximately seven to eight knots on an easterly course."

"Maybe it's the Pakistani rowing team going so fast they sped out into the open ocean," Watkins said, grinning.

"In that case," Veronica said, "they're a cinch to win a gold medal in the next Olympics."

Senior Chief Buford Dawkins had alerted his SAW gunner and two fire teams about the contact, and was using binoculars to scan the horizon in the direction of the target.

After a few moments, he climbed down the ladder to the office. "It's one of them towel-head dhows," Dawkins informed Brannigan. "A real antique, but obviously under power. The sails are furled."

Now Brannigan could see the antique vessel through his own binoculars. He retrieved the ensign-identification pamphlet and quickly scanned the contents, finding a green and white banner with a crescent moon and star. "She's flying the Pakistani flag. We'll check her out. The latest intelligence--such as it is--indicates the bad guys may be using a dhow in their operations." He took his pistol belt with the 9-millimeter Sig Sauer and strapped it around his waist. "Let's go topside, Senior Chief."

The skipper and Dawkins went up the ladder and the senior chief gestured to his two fire team leaders, Milly Mills and Gutsy Olson. "We're going to check out a dhow. Charlie Fire Team, stay here to cover us if things get hairy. That means you special, Miskoski. Keep that SAW ready. Delta Team will go aboard with me and the skipper."

"What the hell is a dhow, sir?" Gutsy asked as he and his men got to their feet.

"A traditional Arabian boat," Brannigan said. "Wooden. They go back centuries." The disappointment on the SEALs' faces was evident. This didn't seem to offer much potential in the way of meaningful excitement. Brannigan added, "There's an outside chance it's a terrorist craft."

"Now you're talking, sir!" Guy Devereaux, one of Delta's riflemen, remarked.

The
Battlecraft
closed in tight as Veronica attempted to contact the boat by radio to order them to heave to. It was a useless effort. "I don't think they speak English. All I get is that Arab gibberish in response to my command for them to break their voyage."

"They must get the drift of what you're saying," Watkins said, maneuvering the ACV into position to close in on the old ship. "The captain is slowing down."

Bobby Lee Atwill went out on the side deck to toss lines to the crewmen of the dhow. Within moments, Brannigan led Dawkins and Delta Fire Team aboard, leaping over the railing into what seemed the tenth century.

Captain Bashar Bashir of the dhow
Nijm Zark
showed a toothy grin to the visitors. "
Asalam aleikum "
he said.

The SEALs held their CAR-15 rifles ready, but the half-dozen Arab crewmen showed no unfriendly tendencies. They smiled and nodded silent greetings to the boarding party. Brannigan glanced around to make sure there were no more individuals lurking in any corners before he spoke to the captain. "Do you speak English?"

Bashir indicated a negative with a slight flip back of his head as is done in that part of the world.

"Papers?" Brannigan said. "Where are your papers?"

Bashir smiled with a blank look on his face. Brannigan turned to the SEALs. "Senior Chief, leave your men here. You come with me over to the hold." Brannigan and Dawkins walked to the hatch. Brannigan pointed to the dhow captain, then down to the hatch. Bashir said something to a couple of his crew, who walked over and pulled the entrance to the hold open. Another crewman fetched a ladder off the side of the cabin and courteously set it in position so the two Americans could go down to the cargo area.

Brannigan and Dawkins went below and found it completely empty. There was not one piece of cargo in the place. Brannigan sighed. "Here we go again. More or our time wasted."

Dawkins walked slowly around the hold. Suddenly he stopped and knelt down, touching an oily spot on the deck. "Sir."

Brannigan walked over to him. "Find something, Senior Chief?"

Dawkins raised his finger, which was soiled with some black gook. "Cosmoline, sir. The very stuff weapons are coated with for storage or shipment."

The pair searched around the hold finding other oily spots. There were enough to give ample evidence of numerous transports of weaponry on the old boat. Brannigan sank into thought for a few moments.

"Are we gonna tow her back, sir?" Dawkins asked.

"Nope," Brannigan said. "I'm going to check her papers and try to determine her name and home port. Then Til turn the information over to Commander Carey and he can arrange for some sneaky folks to keep an eye on this tub. We'll catch her when she's got a full cargo."

They ascended the ladder to the main deck. Brannigan put a friendly expression on his face and indicated that the dhow captain was to follow him. They went into the cabin, and Brannigan said, "Papers."

Once again the Arab exhibited a look of incomprehension. Brannigan made a motion with his hands like he was leafing through some documents. Bashir caught on and went to a tin box. He opened it and took out a sheaf of papers, handing them to the American.

Most of the printing and writing seemed to be in Arabic script, but some Pakistani import and export licenses were in English, the nation's quasi-official language. Brannigan was able to determine that the name of the dhow was the
Nijm Zark
out of Karachi, Pakistan. The man identified as the captain was Bashar Bashir. The SEAL officer looked over at the old man and pointed to him. "You Captain Bashir?"

Bashir smiled and swelled his narrow old chest proudly.
"Raiyis
Bashir. I captain!"

Brannigan now pointed to himself. "I Captain Brannigan."

Bashir offered his hand and they shook enthusiastically. Brannigan entered the information off the licenses into his notebook, then went out on deck. "Senior Chief Dawkins, let's go back aboard the
Battlecraft
" He turned to Bashir. "Thank you, Captain Bashir. Thank you. Thank you. Good-bye."

Bashir grinned widely. "
Shokhran!
Thank you! Goodbye! Good-bye!"

Brannigan led the SEALs off the dhow, then went into the office as the dhow's crew threw the lines back to Atwill.

"Okay, Watkins. Set a course for the
Dan Daly
. We've actually accomplished something today."

Veronica Rivers looked at him. "Really? Were they carrying contraband?"

"Not a single piece, Lieutenant," Brannigan said. "But what we got was much more important. We picked up enough information to confirm some very valuable intelligence."

'The course to the
Dan Daly
is one-eight-seven, sir," Watkins reported.

"Go to one-eight-seven then," Brannigan said.

"Course one-eight-seven, aye, sir!" Watkins responded.

The
Battlecraft
kicked up its speed to
two-thirds
, heading homeward at a steady sixty-one miles per hour.

.

RAWALPINDI, PAKISTAN

THE
people of Pakistan speak two dozen languages that are further divided into three hundred dialects. Unfortunately for Mike Assad, he didn't have as much as a working knowledge of any of them. The situation put him at a serious disadvantage as he moved deeper into the country. English is used in the government and the upper reaches of the nation's society, but the SEAL was deeply imbedded in the midst of lower social types, moving among them in an unavoidably conspicuous manner.

And he was still lost.

He could not find his way out of the city and was unable to ask directions. All attempts on his part to address anyone were met with scowls and insulting gestures that he figured either meant to move along or to go fuck a she-goat. A half-dozen instances occurred when he found himself face-to-face with one of the local toughs, unable to respond appropriately to a rough street inquisition. Most of the time he managed to stare them down, but on one occasion the guy pulled a knife and waved it menacingly at him with an evil grin while onlookers ceased their normal activities to urge the local hero on. Mike sneered back, knowing that if he showed any fear at all he was a dead man since others in the crowd would want a piece of him too. He pulled the knife he'd gotten in the fight, and the potential assailant noted that his own weapon was smaller than Mike's. He backed off with a scowl, then made a quick turn and hurried away. When Mike glared at the spectators in a challenging manner, they suddenly discovered they had other things to do.

An hour later, however, the odds caught up with him, and Mike was in a situation where it looked like escape would be impossible. At least two dozen merchants and shoppers in one market place objected to his passing through their neighborhood, and an impromptu mob situation quickly developed. They advanced in a disorganized phalanx, encouraging each other through sheer weight of numbers while shouting insults and threats. Once more Mike went to the knife as he backed down the street. Several times one of them would prove to be a bit braver than the others, and move toward him. In those instances, he had little choice. If he was going to die, Mike was determined that he sure as hell was going to take a few with him, and he made ready to fight with no intention of begging for quarter or giving any. He stopped in his tracks, assumed an aggressive fighting position, then lunged forward, bringing his knife to bear. These counterattacks caused the bolder individuals' courage to fail as they stumbled back to the safety of their buddies. This gave Mike a chance to put a bit more distance between him and the crowd, albeit by walking backward. Eventually, the throng's numbers began to lessen, and the threat slowly subsided as he moved out of their turf.

At that point, Mike was close to abandoning his mission, finding a taxi, and going back to the American Embassy in Islamabad. A reunion with Brannigan's Brigands never seemed so good.

.