Battlecraft (2006) (11 page)

1100
HOURS LOCAL

MIKE
Assad wasn't hungry enough to consider the situation critical, but he knew that in another twenty-four hours, he would begin to experience a physical weakness and fatigue that would get worse before it got better if he didn't take in any nutrition.

He reached what seemed to be an active thoroughfare with both motorized and animal-drawn vehicular activity. He walked to an intersection that showed some promise. There were street signs in both English and Urdu that identified the site as the meeting of Adamjee and Kashmir Roads. Mike glanced down the street and sighted a mosque. He hurried toward it and entered through the gate, exploring the interior until he came to the
rassal
area. This was where the faithful washed before going into prayers. He went over to a bench and sat down. Here was a chance to catch his breath and organize his thoughts. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

"Asalam aleikum "

The voice startled him, and Mike leaped to his feet and turned around. A young cleric with a pleasant smile regarded him in a friendly manner. Mike nodded and replied,
"Wa aleikum salam,"
as he had been taught in the al-Mimkhalif camp.
"Arabi?
English?" he asked.

"I speak English," the cleric said. "I am called Zaid."

"I am called Mikael."

"So your father named you after the archangel, did he?" the cleric asked. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mikael? You seem to be distressed."

"I seek
amniyi
," Mike said, asking for sanctuary.

"From whom do you flee, Mikael?"

"I am an Arab-American," he explained, knowing that he had no choice but to turn to his cover story and hope for the best. "I have escaped from captivity in the American Embassy." He pulled back his sleeve and revealed the handcuff locked around his left wrist.

'This is extraordinary;' Zaid the cleric said. "How did such an unusual event come about?"

"I left America to return to the lands and faith of my forefathers to offer up my life in a jihad," Mike said. "I am a mujahideen and fight with al-Mimkhalif. I was captured during an attack on a Pakistani police post. When they discovered I was an American, they sent for people from the United States Embassy to take me back to America for punishment. But I escaped and I am now lost."

"So you are in peril from infidels,
la,
Brother Mikael? In that case we will help you. What is it that you wish?"

"I desire to return to al-Mimkhalif to fight again," Mike said. "My band is in the mountains of Baluchistan Province." He shrugged apologetically. "And I am very hungry."

"Come with me," Zaid the cleric said. "We will give you food, and I shall send for a
hiddad
--a blacksmith--to remove the restraint from your wrist."

"Allah will reward you for your kindness," Mike replied properly.

He was taken into the interior of the mosque, where other clerics came to meet him. Zaid left to send for the blacksmith, and Mike was invited by the others to sit at a table where he was served with
gosht
and
ghobi
. This combination of mutton and cabbage took the wrinkles out of his stomach. He ate three large helpings, washing it all down with a milky tea called
dudh cha.
He had learned during his SERE training that if you are in a situation requiring long hours of tough physical exertion, you should eat and drink as much as you can to build strength for the ordeal ahead. Mike Assad followed that dictum to the letter.

By the time his appetite was appeased, a blacksmith with hammer, chisel, and hacksaw was brought in. It took the man only ten minutes to free him from the handcuffs. The smithy gathered up his tools and departed without a word, passing Zaid, who entered the room with an envelope.

"Here are bus tickets and a little money, Mikael," the cleric said. "You will be able to leave the bus station on Haider Road early tomorrow morning. It will take you to Baluchistan Province. After that you will be on your own."

"Shukriya"
Mike said.

The cleric laughed. "At least you can express your gratitude in Urdu, Brother Mikael."

"I have picked up a little in the camp."

"Perhaps you will know much more when we meet again, if Allah wills it," Zaid said. "We have something else for you." He handed Mike a chador. This was the wool blanket used by Pakistani men as shawls, coverings, and pillows as the situation might dictate. 'This will keep you more comfortable during the cool nights."

"Allah ikafik anni
--may Allah reward you for me," Mike said.

"Perhaps Allah shall," Zaid the cleric said. "Now we will find a place for you to sleep. Do not worry. You will be awakened early enough in the morning to catch your bus."

A wave of fatigue suddenly swept over Mike Assad at the mention of rest and relaxation. Now he could sleep undisturbed for a few hours. Between that and the food he had eaten, he would be in excellent condition for the ordeal ahead.

He felt like a SEAL again.

.

PATROL BOAT 22

INDIAN OCEAN

VICINITY OF 5deg NORTH AND 100deg EAST

1615 HOURS LOCAL

THE
Philippine Navy vessel cut through the waves with her throttle set at
full speed
. She was fast on an interception course with a slow-moving signal on the radarscope. The boat's new skipper, Lieutenant Commander Ferdinand Aguinaldo, knew exactly what vessel the blip on the screen represented. It was the SS
Yogyakarta
of the Greater Sunda Shipping Line on one of her regular runs across that part of the ocean.

This was more than just a routine mission as far as Aguinaldo was concerned; this was the day he would begin a concentrated program of harassment to avenge the death of his best friend, Commander Carlos Batanza.

"Closing in fast, sir," the radar operator reported. "Estimate visual contact in ten minutes."

Aguinaldo put his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon to the direct front. The waves were placid that day, allowing the patrol boat to attain more than the usual speed. The new skipper spotted the smudge of the target within eight minutes. He considered that a good omen. He picked up the intercom to the radio operator. "Contact the ship on the international frequency and order her to heave to."

"Aye, aye, sir!" The radioman turned to his set and began broadcasting the demand.

The helmsman had plenty of experience in bringing the patrol boat alongside ships, and he gauged both the interception speed and angle accurately. By the time the old freighter was almost stopped, he had the naval craft in position at the accommodation ladder. Aguinaldo, with drawn pistol, led a team of a dozen armed sailors on board the target vessel. They scrambled upward to the main deck. When they arrived, the ship's crew was already opening the hatches in anticipation of a search and seizure. This generally meant the loss of a third to a half of the cargo.

The captain, an old seafarer named Wiranto, seemed confused. "I was not expecting this," he said to Aguinaldo. "Mr. Suhanto told me nothing of the delivery of this cargo being delayed."

"It is not being delayed, Captain," Aguinaldo said. "It is being confiscated."

"But there has been no arrangement for such a thing," Wiranto protested. "I am to deliver this to our customer. That's what Mr. Suhanto told me."

Aguinaldo turned to his senior petty officer. "Organize this tub's crew and begin transporting all cargo over to the patrol boat." He turned back to Wiranto. "Things have changed since Batanza's treacherous murder. We are going to continue to intercept all the arms shipments until Suhanto delivers twenty-five hundred kilos of cocaine to me. Then we will go back to the original agreement."

"I know nothing of Batanza," Wiranto protested. "Are you aware that Mr. Suhanto suffered the amputation of his right hand for betraying the Arabs?"

"I did not know," Aguinaldo said. "Nor do I care. You deliver the message to him. And tell him to inform his Arab colleagues that we are well prepared for any more crude murders. We will be looking out for them."

Wiranto took a deep breath and shuddered. "Sir, you are creating a situation that will cause much trouble for all of us."

"I am only starting to make trouble," Aguilando said.

Wiranto sighed, then turned to his boatswain to issue the necessary orders.

The crew of the
Yogyakarta
strained with the heavy crates containing various types of small arms and ammunition, passing them up from the hold, then carrying them down to the accommodation ladder to be lowered onto the patrol boat. The job took an hour and a half. When it was finished, the Indonesians were dripping wet with sweat and grimacing from strained back and shoulder muscles.

Aguinaldo and Wiranto looked over the side to see the cargo stacked neatly and properly on the boat's fore and stern decks. "Excellent," the Philippine officer said. "Now lower your lifeboats and man them."

"What?" Wiranto asked.

"I'm not going to give you a lot of time," Aguinaldo warned him. "I am about to send a party belowdecks to open your sea cocks."

"You are going to scuttle my ship?" Wiranto said. "I do not understand this."

"I wish to emphasize to Suhanto and his Arab friends that I mean business," Aguinaldo said. "Now do as I say or I shall further demonstrate my determination by shooting you dead this very moment!" He aimed the pistol between Wiranto's eyes.

The elderly captain turned to his crew. "Abandon ship!"

"Do not forget to mention that little matter of twenty-five hundred kilos of cocaine the next time you see Suhanto" Aguinaldo said with a smile. He gestured to the petty officer. "Send some men below to scuttle this rusty piece of shit."

Chapter 8.

PAKISTAN

ON THE ROAD

5 OCTOBER

1445 HOURS LOCAL

THE
bus rumbled down the two-lane dirt highway, swaying badly, as Mike Assad sat hunched on the rear seat. The vehicle was crowded not only with people, but a pair of goats and a sheep were in the center of the aisle along with three cages of live chickens. All men with women were seated in the front seats, while males traveling alone had taken the rear accommodations.

Mike couldn't determine the make of the bus; it seemed to be assembled from two or perhaps three other vehicles. It was gaudily decorated on the outside with colorful swirl and scroll designs painted on in brilliant scarlets, yellows, and blues. Some of the windows were stuck shut, others stuck open, and a couple were missing altogether. The vehicle's shock absorbers were shot to hell, and each lurch and bounce was emphasized with jarring regularity. Mike had eaten a couple of
samosas
during a rest stop in Kohat, and now the potato-and-chickpea-filled pastries were sitting heavy in his stomach.

The tiresome journey continued with an annoying number of stops at which more people got on than got off, causing the crowding to increase markedly. The dusty, stifling heat inside the bus, combined with the smells of animals, humans, and the exhaust, caused Mike to seriously consider getting off and walking. But he had to travel far and fast if he was to get back to his mission in a timely manner. The sooner it was wrapped up, the sooner he could return to the Naval Amphibious Base in Coronado to renew his real career with Brannigan's Brigands.

.

NORTHWEST FRONTIER PROVINCE

1735 HOURS LOCAL

THE
bus had passed through Bannu, moving closer toward the Afghanistan border, when the brakes suddenly squealed, snapping Mike out of a restless nap. He glanced through the dusty window glass, noting they were out in the open country. His attention was diverted to the front of the bus when a policeman suddenly got on board, shouting orders in Urdu. Mike didn't understand the words, but the quick evacuation of the vehicle was a strong indication the passengers had been ordered off.

He was one of the last to step down to the ground, and he did so with feelings of strong misgiving. The immediate area was encircled by a half-dozen uniformed officers, each holding an American M16 rifle. A man wearing the chevrons of a police sergeant went to the male passengers, speaking to them while ignoring the women. The men produced papers that he examined carefully and individually before moving on to the next person. Mike knew this was bad news. He had no papers and could not speak the language, which would lead the boss cop into assuming he was a refugee from Afghanistan. The fact he was traveling made it appear as if he had made an unauthorized departure from his assigned camp. When the civil war across the border broke out, the Pakistanis had welcomed the unfortunate people who had been forced to flee for their lives across the international border. Camps were set up for the miserable refugees where food and shelter were furnished to them. But the situation soon grew uncomfortable for Pakistan when these heavily armed foreigners began competing for jobs and bringing about an alarming state of inflation. Clashes between the refugees and the native population led the Pakistani government to severely curtail the visitors' ability to move around the country.

Mike stood passively as the sergeant made his way down the line. The SEAL decided it was imperative that he not reveal his nationality. One more trip back to the American Embassy in Islamabad, and the effectiveness of Operation Deep Thrust would be seriously diminished. A full three quarters of an hour passed before the policeman reached him. The cop barked orders that Mike could only respond to with shrugs to show his inability to understand. After about three of these gestures of incomprehension, the sergeant signaled for a couple of men. Mike was unceremoniously grabbed, his hands tied behind his back, and he was frog-marched to a waiting van.

This was one type of vehicle he was beginning to hate with a vengeance.

.

THE
police station was a rural setup with one room used as an office across from the cell on the other side of the building. The place was old, dilapidated, and dirty. It was obvious Mike was going to be held here for a spell, then possibly passed up to higher headquarters at the next opportunity. They pushed and pummeled him into the main office from the van, then untied him before locking him up in the cell. The wandering SEAL was relieved to discover he wasn't going to be punched around during this confinement.

These cops evidently weren't all that pissed off at him.

Mike still had the knife under his chador, and he was happy these members of the local gendarmerie were sloppy and ill-trained enough not to give him a thorough search. He looked out the bars at his captors, who were now filling out a report on his detainment. He studied the cell door, glancing down at the lock. Using skills acquired in his recent CIA training, Mike could see it was a worn ancient variety. The hole into which the bolt slid was enlarged through usage, and the bolt itself was badly worn. He reached down and pushed against the lock, shaking it. The policemen snapped their heads his way, and the sergeant growled something at him.

Mike smiled apologetically and stepped back. He walked to the rear of the cell and took off the chador, folded it neatly, and put it on the floor. He settled onto its softness, grinning inwardly to himself. The tumblers in the lock had rattled loosely when they were shaken. The lock had been used countless times over decades, and should have been replaced long before.

.