Battlecraft (2006) (7 page)

PATROL BOAT 22

SOUTH CHINA SEA

VICINITY OF 7deg NORTH AND 110deg EAST

25 SEPTEMBER

1600 HOURS LOCAL

COMMANDER
Carlos Batanza sat on the bridge of Patrol Boat 22 waiting patiently for the expected contact with the SS
Jakarta
and its arms shipment. He leisurely smoked a cigarette as his executive officer supervised the watch on duty.

Batanza was proud of his vessel even though she was a third-hand purchase by the Filipino government. She had begun her career as a minesweeper in the Royal Navy, where she proved her worth to the Queen's sailors during ten years of service done mostly in the North Sea. Eventually she was sold to Singapore, who converted her to a support ship for mine-countermeasures missions. After a short but useful career in that nation's navy, she was purchased by the Philippines and redesignated a patrol boat to be used in antismuggling operations on the Philippine Sea, the South China Sea, the Pacific Ocean, and the Celebes Sea.

Her only Filipino commander had been Batanza and during his five years as the skipper, he'd accomplished several self-benefiting goals. His primary fait accompli had been developing a successful program of stopping and robbing various smugglers on the high seas. His father-in-law, a Manila police inspector, had all the contacts necessary for the profitable disposal of goods and narcotics that the son-in-law brought in from his patrols. The family fortune flourished through these illegal enterprises, sending sons, daughters, nieces, and nephews to college or setting them up in business.

Batanza had chosen a crew consisting of a trio of close officer friends and fifteen ratings of long-service sailors with whom he and his cohorts had established a close rapport. This comradeship had been developed through all that mutual support and sharing of spoils. They knew Abduruddin Suhanto's Greater Sunda Shipping Line well, having repeatedly plundered his four ships over a period of a decade and a half. There were other targets of opportunity as well, and all members of the Patrol Boat 22 crew could realistically expect a much richer retirement when their personal riches were combined with pensions from the Philippine Navy. All drove big American cars and were able to provide well for their families, as well as maintain attractive mistresses on the side.

"Contact!" the radar operator called out. "Zero-one-one. Five kilometers."

^<4
That must be the
Jakarta
," the executive officer said. This was Lieutenant Commander Ferdinand Aguinaldo, Batanza's best friend.

"And right on schedule," Batanza said in happy satisfaction as he checked his watch. "Make the interception, Number One."

"Aye, aye, sir," Aguinaldo replied.

The distance between Patrol Boat 22 and the
Jakarta
narrowed rapidly, and in less than a half hour visual contact was made. Aguinaldo got on the radio and ordered the merchant vessel to heave to and prepare to transfer cargo. Captain Bacharahman Muharno's voice came back with an affirmative reply. His good humor was evident over the radio speaker. This time there would be no piracy involved. This was a business deal that would benefit everyone on both ships.

The sea was calm and the maneuvering to bring the vessels close enough for the transfer of goods went smoothly and quickly. Batanza went out on the signal bridge with a bullhorn, waving to Muharno.

"Ahoy, the
Jakarta
!" the commander said, speaking through the device. "How are you this afternoon, Captain?"

Muharno, using his own bullhorn, waved back. "It is a beautiful day, is it not, Commander?"

"Indeed! What have you brought us?"

"An excellent shipment!" Muharno answered. "Stinger antiaircraft missile launchers. Sixty to be exact, along with one hundred missiles. That is two tons worth of cargo. Can your ship handle that much?"

"Easily! What we can't get in the hold, we can stack on the deck," Batanza assured him. "We have taken much larger loads in the past."

"I should have remembered," Muharno replied with a laugh. "This is not the first time cargo has been lifted from the
Jakarta
to your boat."

By then the cargo nets bearing crates of Stingers were being hoisted up from the hold of the civilian vessel. They were swung over the portion of the deck just aft of the patrol boat's bridge, and then gently lowered to the waiting Philippine sailors. These men quickly picked up the weapons to pass them to other hands formed up in a line that led down to the hold of the patrol vessel.

In less than a half hour the entire shipment was aboard Batanza's boat. Batanza waved the all-clear signal to Muharno that everything was aboard.

"See you next trip, my friend!" he said through the bullhorn.

"I shall look forward to it!" Muharno replied.

Connecting lines were cast off and the two craft carefully worked their way apart, before turning onto the proper courses that led to their next destinations.

.

POLICE HEADQUARTERS

BALBANDIN, PAKISTAN

27 SEPTEMBER

1045 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE
Assad had lost track of how much time had passed since he was thrown into the solitary confinement cell. It was hard to tell if it was day or night since the only light came from a wall lamp in the corridor that shone through the small viewing port in the door. This provided a weak illumination, but it eventually improved somewhat as Mike's eyes got used to the dimness. There was nothing but a small straw mat on the floor, and his toilet consisted of a rusty bucket that leaked. But at least he had been provided with water and a glutinous meal of mutton and rice.

It was obvious the fact that he was an American had put him in a special category. It seemed his companions from al-Mimkhalif were going to suffer more deprivation and mistreatment. A lot of information would be given up on the terrorist organization before their ordeal ended. To make it worse for them, their future in the Pakistani penal system seemed to offer nothing but the bleakest of prospects.

Mike lay on the mat with his eyes closed, doing deep-breathing exercises to dispel the tension and nervousness that threatened his self-control. He missed Brannigan's Brigands and the comradeship he shared with them. He wasn't used to being off on his own. The company of those great guys gave him confidence and courage in the most dangerous of situations. He wondered what his best buddy, Dave Leibowitz, was doing. Mike and Dave were called the "Odd Couple" by the other SEALs. They were the closest of friends even though one was Jewish-American and the other Arab-American. Both were Americans first, and fiercely loyal to the U. S. A. The fact they served together in the U. S. Navy's most elite unit reinforced that friendship and patriotism.

Mike turned his thoughts from Brannigan's Brigands to his life before enlistment. He remembered prom nights, winning the district wrestling championship in his junior year of high school, kissing Kathy Mubarak the first time, and eating his mother's specialty,
kabab samak
, a grilled-fish dish with tomatoes and green peppers.

"American!"

The sound of the jailer's voice out in the corridor jolted Mike out of his reverie. He sat up just as the door opened. The jailer motioned him to step out of the cell. Mike complied and was taken by the arm and walked down to the egress. From there they crossed a small exercise yard and went into another building. The enforced stroll ended up in an office, where he was unceremoniously pushed down onto a chair. Then he was left alone. Since he hadn't been tied up, Mike hoped it meant no more beatings.

Almost a half hour passed before the door to the room opened again. This time a Pakistani police lieutenant and two men in sports shirts and slacks came in. The casually dressed pair walked to the front of the prisoner and stared down at him. They were a real Mutt-and-Jeff pair. The white guy was a short, blond man with a stocky build, while the black guy was a tall, willowy African-American who looked like he should have been in the NBA.

'This isn't a Johnny Jihad," the white guy said. "He's a fucking towel-head."

"Yeah," the black guy agreed. He glared at Mike. "We figured you were one of those poor little Anglo rich boys who turned to Islam because you've lost your fucking faith in the local Episcopal church in Beverly Hills where you were born. Or maybe you're from the Hamptons in Long Island and grew disillusioned by your wealthy father's greed in making money. But you don't fit into those molds at all. So where are you from, ass-face?"

"Buffalo," Mike replied.

"Were you born in the States?" the white guy asked.

"Yeah," Mike replied. "Who are you guys?"

"Shut your fucking mouth, ass-face," the black guy said. "Where's your American passport?"

"My name ain't ass-face," Mike said defiantly.

The white guy leaned down, glaring straight into Mike's eyes. "Listen up good, ass-face. From this point on, you're in the gentle custody of the United States fucking Government. Got it? You're either going home for a trial where your rights will be observed, or you'll be on your fucking way to Guantanamo Bay in Cuba where your fucking rights
won't
be observed. It all depends on how cooperative and courteous you are."

"I'm an American citizen," Mike said, feigning fear and anger since he didn't feel it proper to reveal his true identification at that point in the proceedings. "You can't send me down to Cuba."

"Oh, ass-face, you're such a bad boy," the black guy said in pseudo-disappointment. "I guess we'll just hold you incognito since there'll be no records of your arrest. That will give us plenty of time to sweat what we want out of you."

"Yeah," the white guy said. "You're up that ol' shit creek without a paddle at this point. I personally hope you keep shooting off your mouth about your Constitutional rights. We've got some boys who'll give you a great big fucking attitude adjustment."

The Pakistani policeman laid a document down on the desk. "Please to sign here, gentlemen. Then you may take this scum and do what you wish with him."

The paperwork was quickly taken care of; then Mike was stood up and cuffed with his hands behind his back. They walked him from the building out to the street, where a van waited. The side door was opened and the prisoner was pushed inside. The rear area was bare, and Mike had to sit on the floor with his back up against the side of the vehicle. Within moments his escorts were in the front seat, ready to go.

They remained silent as they drove out of town, and turned onto a macadam highway, heading east. After a few minutes, the black guy, who sat in the passenger seat, turned to look at Mike. "How're you doing, ass-face?"

Mike declined to answer.

The black guy swung his hand up, holding a Beretta 9-millimeter automatic. He pointed it straight at Mike's head, saying, "Give me just one fucking excuse and I'll put a bullet straight into that thick traitorous skull of yours."

The white guy chuckled. "Let's stop somewhere along the way and shoot the son of a bitch. We can say he tried to escape."

Mike turned his face away to stare at the back door. This situation was something he'd never expected when he volunteered for the SEALs.

.

KUPANE, TIMOR ISLAND

29 SEPTEMBER

0900 HOURS LOCAL

ABDURUDDIN
Suhanto sat in his office, smoking a cigar and taking nips from a pocket flask containing Johnny Walker Black scotch whiskey. His swollen feet were up on a padded stool as he gazed unseeing out of the window at the usual waterfront activity. One of his tubs, the SS
Surabaya
, sat in rusty squalor at a dock where its cargo of Taiwanese sewing machines was being offloaded. They were destined for a sweatshop in Bandung where a line of clothing bearing the name of a famous English actress was manufactured. It seemed that even Suhanto's occasional legitimate shipping activities were destined to be tainted by some sort of controversy.

The old clerk Bachaman rapped lightly on the door in his usual timid style.

"Come in!" Suhanto said loudly, irritated by the interruption.

The skinny little old man stepped into the office, his eyes opened wide in worry. "Mr. Sabah has arrived as per your invitation, sir."

"Send the gentleman in," Suhanto said. He quickly assumed what he considered a sad, regretful expression on his round face and waited for his guest to appear.

When Sabah entered, he walked directly to the front of the desk and glared down at the shipping company owner. "What is the bad news you have for me?"

"Oh, Mr. Sabah," Suhanto said, looking as if he were about to break out in cries of incalculable lamentation.
"Thasart k'tir
--I regret it very much! But your last shipment was stolen from us at sea."

"Do not tell me that!"

"Alas! I have no choice!" Suhanto wailed.

"How did such a thing happen? And who did it?"

"It was a warship," Suhanto said. "And my captain, Muharno, said it flew no flag. They simply came alongside and threatened to sink the
Jakarta
if they did not obey the order to heave to."

Sabah sat down in a nearby chair, looking suspiciously at Suhanto. "What language was this warship crew speaking?"

"Unfortunately, it was one Captain Muharno did not know," Suhanto said. 'To my own thinking it might have been a Singaporean naval vessel. They speak many languages in that country. Malay, Chinese--"

"I know what languages are spoken in Singapore!" Sabah interrupted in a furious tone of voice. 'There must be some way of identifying the thief!"

"Oh, I was very stern with Captain Muharno," Suhanto said. "I spoke to him in great anger, demanding that he remember more." He shrugged. "But I am afraid all he knows is that it was a warship "

"What sorts of uniforms and insignia was the crew wearing?" Sabah demanded to know.

'That is what is so strange," Suhanto said. 'They were dressed in civilian clothing as is typical of merchant seamen. But their vessel was armed and well equipped as are those of navies."

Sabah's teeth were bared like those of a growling dog. "How did they know the
Jakarta
carried an arms shipment?"

Suhanto shrugged. "They probably did not know. They were after whatever cargo was aboard."

Sabah got angrily to his feet. "We shall look into this. Our organization has contacts in many places." He walked toward the door, jerking it open. Before leaving, he turned back toward Suhanto. "The loss of those weapons has been a hard blow to our antiaircraft capabilities. This is not the end of this incident!" Then he made an abrupt exit.

Suhanto smiled, speaking to himself under his breath. "That is right, you arrogant Arab bastard! This is just the beginning!" He reached for his flask and took another slug of the excellent scotch.

.