Operation Sea Ghost (38 page)

It would have to be for Whiskey’s plan to work.

They’d immediately discounted any kind of ship-to-ship boarding action as a way of stopping the
Smoke-Lar
. Though it was more their forte, attempting such an attack would almost definitely cost Murphy’s protégé Li her life, not to mention it would have to be done while both vessels were traveling in excess of 80 mph.

So their idea was this: If they could get within four miles of the
Smoke-Lar,
then they would use the M107 to shoot the terrorist who was piloting the boat, and hopefully his engineer as well.

It seemed crazy, killing the two people who were in control of the high-speed vessel. But in theory it would work because just like
Numero Two
, the
Smoke-Lar
was basically run by a computer. As long as its autopilot was engaged, whether a human was at the helm or not, the boat would continue going where it was supposed to go.

But Whiskey also figured that, with both terrorists dead, the beautiful female hostage would be able to figure out how to take the computer off-line and stop the boat. Or even if that failed, by not changing out the fuel tanks, the vessel would eventually stop on its own.

Another advantage of the plan was that the Jihad Brothers would probably never know what hit them, at least not until the last moment. The roar of the
Smoke-Lar
’s turbine engine would be Whiskey’s ally here. Just as its racket masked the sound of the terrorists killing the Dutch support crew back on the dock in Monte Carlo, so now it would mask the sound of any gunfire being aimed in their direction.

The hope was neither terrorist would realize anyone was even shooting at them until the first sniper bullet hit. And as far as they knew, as the race was still on, the only people following them were the two people trying to beat them to the finish line.

Finally, because they were still about 3,000 miles from the U.S., mainland, Whiskey would have almost forty hours to carry out the scheme.

*   *   *

BUT, AS WAS usually the case when Whiskey took on these high-risk endeavors, there were potential complications.

Though the M107 rifle could indeed hit a target four miles away, that was based on an expert doing the shooting and that expert being on solid ground. A non-expert firing the weapon from a racing yacht going 80 mph over six-foot ocean waves might prove a bit problematical.

The second dilemma was how to get close enough to the
Smoke-Lar
to get off a good shot. The
Numero Two
had already been ten miles behind the Dutch vessel when Whiskey appeared on the scene. The midocean stop took another ten minutes, putting the
Smoke-Lar
another fifteen miles in front, for a total of more than twenty-five miles.

The
Numero Two
would have to somehow make up a lot of that distance if they hoped to get within decent firing range of the lead boat.

*   *   *

BUT ON HEARING the plan, Savoldi,
Numero Two
’s pilot, simply laughed at them.

“
Non si può fare,
” he told them. “It cannot be done.”

The
Shin-1
had departed and the Italian racing boat was climbing back up to 80 mph, its nose pointing northwest. While Savoldi’s main concern was to get moving again, he’d been quickly briefed on who was driving the
Smoke-Lar
and how they had killed the racing yacht’s driver, engineer and support crew. As it turned out, the pilot was intensely sympathetic, as he’d had a close relative slain by al Qaeda gunmen while serving in Iraq. And he wished he could help Whiskey in catching these terrorists.

But, he reiterated, their plan was unworkable. Why? Because the
Numero Two
had become seriously overloaded.

“This boat is built for two people,” he explained to them in rough English, shouting to be heard over the roar of his recharged turbine engine. “And Giuseppe and I are thin on purpose. We diet just to make this trip. The boat goes fast not just because of the engine but because everything else on board is built lightweight or it does not come with us at all. We don’t even have binoculars or sat-phones or more than one radio. We drink energy drinks instead of bringing food and water, and we pop pills so we won’t need a place to lie down and sleep.”

He used his hands to indicate all the equipment Whiskey had brought with them. Their weapons, their ammunition, their heavy battle suits. And the fact that there were now five extra people on the boat.

Savoldi guessed they were at least six hundred pounds overweight. And while there was one extra person on the
Smoke-Lar,
she was probably less than 100 pounds at the most, which equaled Emma’s weight. So the two females were a wash.

But that still left the fact that Nolan, Batman, Twitch and Murphy were all extra poundage, as was all their gear, something that never dawned on them while they were en route, cooking up this plan.

To put it in numbers, Savoldi explained the
Numero Two
’s turbine contained a sensor that, in simple terms, indicated how hard the engine was working. That information could then be translated into how much the boat weighed at any given moment.

When he checked this sensor, it showed they were 575 pounds overweight.

“I am with you one hundred percent in this endeavor,” the surprisingly even-keeled Savoldi concluded. “But we have no hope of catching the lead boat, because we’d have to get rid of almost 600 pounds just to get back to even—and that seems impossible.”

In other words, with the
Shin-1
long gone, and with no way of calling it back, Whiskey was now stuck aboard the racing yacht whether they liked it or not.

So much for off-the-cuff planning.

*   *   *

BUT WHISKEY COULD not just give up.

Once Savoldi’s cold truths sank in, they began accounting for anything aboard the racing boat that was not necessary and could be thrown overboard.

The first to go was most of Whiskey’s weapons. Over the side went their beloved M4s, all their ammunition and their sidearms. Next went the teams’ heavy battle suits, their helmets, utility belts and even their boots.

They knew this was not nearly enough, but still wanted to know how they did. Savoldi checked his sensor

They’d shed only eighty pounds.

Next to go were the two gunny sacks containing MREs, some water, medical supplies, blankets, an assortment of things usually needed by special ops groups.

Another check of the sensor. They’d only lost another thirty pounds. And that was just about all the equipment Whiskey had brought aboard the vessel.

With Savoldi’s blessing, they started searching for items belonging to the boat itself that weren’t necessary. The racing yacht was made up of three basic components: Its extended nose was empty; its main purpose was to provide the aerodynamics of a long narrow snout. The semi-enclosed cockpit, where they were all congregated, was also where all the navigation and steering controls were located, as well as all the computers. The third component was the engine compartment, the claustrophobically small, brutally hot rear space where the turbine sat surrounded by a slew of twenty-five-gallon fuel containers. Once a container was used up, it was thrown overboard, thus making the vessel that much lighter, and making it go just a little bit faster.

Whiskey crawled all over the vessel, inspecting every bit of it. But as Savoldi had said, the intricately designed boat had been built to be lightweight in the first place, so there really wasn’t much on board that could be discarded.

Then Twitch said, “Just before they went to the moon, they discovered the Apollo lander was too heavy. So the first thing they did was get rid of the seats.”

The
Numero Two
had a pair of seats located in front of the control panel. Again, on Savoldi’s OK, Whiskey went about dislodging these seats from the deck, using their combat knives as screwdrivers. It took more than an hour, but they finally came loose and we’re thrown overboard.

Each seat weighed twenty pounds, so an additional forty pounds was gone.

But they were still more than 400 pounds from their goal.

*   *   *

SCOURING COMPARTMENTS ADJACENT to the engine compartment, Nolan found a steel box that contained many unusual and exotic tools. Giuseppe, the engineer, indicated the tools were on hand in case the vessel’s turbine broke down.

This began an extensive discussion. While the chances of the turbine breaking down were remote, it wasn’t impossible, especially considering the many hazards of the sea. Finally they asked Giuseppe what were the most important tools he would need if a problem arose.

He pointed out a handful of ratchet extensions and wrenches, then told them in broken English: “If I can’t fix it with these, then I can’t fix it at all.”

That’s all they needed to hear. Giuseppe took out the tools, then the box went over the side.

Savoldi checked his sensor. It was a total of sixty pounds gone.

But about 350 pounds of dead weight still remained.

*   *   *

THEY SPENT THE next two hours going over the racing yacht yet again, picking up scraps, like deck mats, extra seat cushions, even some lightbulbs.

But discarding things like this had minimal effect; less than ten pounds for all their efforts. Plus, it was getting dark and the
Numero Two
had made up little if any distance separating it from the still out-of-sight
Smoke-Lar.

They’d all worked hard at it—even Emma and Murphy. But slumping back down in the cockpit after yet another hour of searching, the universal feeling was obvious: Their plan wasn’t going to work and the terrorists would probably reach the U.S. unchecked to do their dirty work.

“We still have the option of calling in help,” Twitch said finally, even though Murphy’s sat-phone had run out of juice a long time ago. “If we sent a radio message to someone in a position of responsibility, they could pass the word along and someone can still deal with these guys before they’re within sight of the U.S.”

“But you
know
what that means,” Batman said glumly, having heard the argument before. “The Navy will get involved and more likely than not, they’ll cream that boat and apologize later.”

Twitch just shrugged. “I still think we should consider it,” he said. “Because what we’ve been doing here just ain’t going to work.”

Overhearing the conversation, Murphy slowly got to his feet and calmly made his way over to the boat’s control panel. Without a word, he pulled the small two-way radio out of the console and nonchalantly tossed it overboard.

Then just as calmly he sat back down again.

“That was at least ten pounds,” he said.

*   *   *

ONCE AGAIN, THEY started searching, this time concentrating on the cockpit and the various tiny compartments that ran off it.

Batman found a box tucked way behind the control panel. It was so heavy, he needed Nolan’s help to pull it out.

“This is got to be at least a hundred pounds,” Nolan said. “Maybe more.”

“Actually it weighs almost one hundred and forty pounds,” Savoldi told them.

“Christ—what is it then?” Nolan asked. “Can we toss it?”

That’s when Savoldi pointed out a tag on the side of the box that read: E
MERGENZA
Z
ATTERA

Loosely translated: L
IFE
R
AFT.

There was a slight gasp from the others.

Batman looked up at Nolan. “Remind me again how much we want to do this?” he said. “I mean, no radio, no phones
and
no lifeboat?”

Nolan did a quick calculation. “We’d still be more than two hundred pounds overweight,” he said.

“We should vote,” Twitch said.

But Nolan knew this was hardly the time for democracy. Besides, it really wasn’t their decision to make, especially now that the radio was gone.

He turned back to Savoldi, who’d been amazingly gracious as Whiskey had ripped apart his boat.

Nolan said to him, “You have the right to tell us to stop all this right now,” he said. “Bottom line, you guys are the victims of circumstance here.”

But Savoldi shook his head no. “I want to beat the man in that boat more than anything now. Race or no race. I have trained for something like this my whole life.
He’s
a fraud. Plus, he killed people like me. People who do what I do. It is my duty to help you catch him.”

Giuseppe was vigorously nodding in agreement.

“But this is not something we can do half-ass,” Batman said. “Once it’s gone, that life raft, like the radio, ain’t coming back.”

Strangely, it was Savoldi and Giuseppe themselves who settled the matter. They each took an end of the box and hurled it overboard.

No one said a word. For five long minutes, as they roared along, hammering against the Atlantic waves, everyone was silent.

Savoldi checked his weight sensor. It was down 140 pounds, but still that had only a minimal effect on their speed. They had 200 pounds more to go, and that was just to break even. And according to Savoldi, those 200 pounds were more than enough to prevent them from even seeing the
Smoke-Lar
again, never mind catching up to it.

This had a huge dampening effect on the uninvited passengers. Hearing it, they all collapsed to the deck of the cockpit, tired and beaten, and contemplated this unexpected disaster. They’d been aboard the boat for six hours now. They were wet, they were cold, and there was no food or water for them, only energy drinks for nourishment. And as these were highly caffeinated, they would only serve to put people on edge. It might have been the worst predicament Whiskey had ever found itself in.

His back pressed up against the rear panel, Nolan spied Twitch across the cockpit and could almost feel frustration oozing off of him. Truth be told, he’d been of little help in the weight search because, due to his makeshift umbrella-parts prosthetic leg, he had an especially hard time moving around the boat.

Now Nolan could almost hear him thinking, “If I just throw myself overboard, it might be enough to get close to the terrorist boat.”