Читать книгу Final Resort - Don Pendleton - Страница 10

Straits of Florida

“Full speed ahead,” Captain Arnold Bateman said, peering through his binoculars at open sea before the Tropic Princess. From the giant cruise ship’s bridge, he had the vantage of a man standing atop a twelve-story hotel, with no clouds overhead and nothing to obstruct his view to eastward.

In fact, the Tropic Princess looked like a hotel that had been set adrift somehow, as if by magic, floating on the sea when it should logically be squatting on a corner of Park Avenue or the Las Vegas Strip. The ship measured 960 feet from bow to stern and weighed 115,000 tons. Beneath the captain’s feet, three thousand passengers were anxiously awaiting the vacation of a lifetime, while twelve hundred crew members and entertainers worked around the clock to meet the needs of paying customers—and to keep the behemoth afloat.

During a classic two-week cruise, the British captain’s passengers were treated to a taste of Cuba, the Bahamas, the Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Trinidad-Tobago, Venezuela and Jamaica. Shore excursions granted them the opportunity to browse and carouse in each port.

It was not all island-hopping, though. For those who truly loved to cruise, the ship was self-contained, permitting them to pass the full two weeks in luxury without ever setting foot on dry land. The ship featured seven restaurants, three swimming pools and seven spas, a dinner theater and cabaret, a discotheque, a first-run cinema, three gymnasiums, a fully staffed infirmary and a casino.

Most days, the captain liked his job. Granted, some passengers were no better than spoiled children, posing as adults, but Bateman managed to avoid them for the most part, choosing only a select few for the honored nightly ritual of dining at the captain’s table. Minors were excluded, and his steward had an eye for younger women, well endowed, whose husbands or companions didn’t mind the captain peering at their cleavage over cocktails and filet mignon.

On balance, Bateman worried more about his crew than any of his passengers. Despite the smiling photos the cruise line printed in its various brochures, some of the employees were a surly lot, uneducated, and the screening process left a lot to be desired. Substance abuse and petty theft were more or less routine. Some members of the crew engaged in smuggling; others moonlighted as prostitutes or gigolos.

So far, the present cruise had been smooth sailing, both in terms of weather and the human element. There’d been no quarrels among the passengers or crew, no incidents ashore demanding Bateman’s intervention. If his luck held, they could all relax and—

Bateman lowered his binoculars and turned, facing two new arrivals on the bridge. He sometimes welcomed passengers topside, by invitation only, but the swarthy men who stood before him now were strangers, neither members of his crew nor anyone whom Bateman would’ve chosen to observe the inner workings of the ship.

Wearing a corporate smile, he asked, “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

The guns seemed to appear from nowhere, one of them pointed at Bateman’s face.

“If you cooperate with us,” its owner said, “perhaps no one aboard this ship will die today.”

SOHRAB CASPARI THOUGHT, It almost seems too easy. After all the planning, all the risk, the bloody skirmish at Guantanamo, the capture of the Tropic Princess struck him almost as an anticlimax, disappointing in its stark simplicity.

But it was done.

Beside him, Osman Zarghona, his Afghani second in command, covered the bridge crew with his AKSU assault rifle, while Caspari kept his Uzi submachine gun leveled at the gray-haired captain. In addition to their main automatic weapons, both hijackers also carried pistols, hand grenades and knives.

“Is this some kind of joke?” the captain asked.

“Perhaps I should kill one of your men, to see if we are joking. Yes?” Caspari answered.

“No. That won’t be necessary,” the captain said. “What, exactly, do you want?”

“Before we speak of that,” Caspari said, “know that we aren’t alone. I have more men aboard your ship, with weapons and enough explosives to destroy it.”

“I see.” The captain frowned and said, “How many gunmen—”

“Freedom fighters!” Zarghona snapped.

“Yes, of course. How many freedom fighters are there, may I ask?”

“Enough to do the job,” Caspari told him. Fishing in his left-hand pocket for a cell phone, he explained, “I keep in touch through this. The marvels of technology. You only see them—hear them—if and when I say. Follow instructions, and your passengers may suffer no disturbance.”

“As to these instructions,” Captain Bateman said, “what might they be?”

“We have demands,” Caspari answered, “which you will broadcast over your radio. Freedom for comrades wrongfully imprisoned. Reparation payments. Other things. If the Americans defy us, then we will be forced to execute your passengers and crew.”

“Don’t take offense, old chap,” the captain said, “but you’ve been misinformed. This ship is not American. Its owners are Italians, Greeks—one Saudi, I believe. It’s registered in Panama. I doubt that Washington will care what happens to the Tropic Princess. Certainly, they won’t negotiate with…freedom fighters, like yourselves.”

“You think me foolish, yes?” Caspari said, sneering. “That is a serious mistake. We know that half your passengers are from the U.S.A. They cannot visit Cuba from America, so rich pigs fly to Mexico and board your ship. All this is public knowledge. Glory to the Internet.”

“I grant you that we have Americans aboard,” Bateman replied. “I’m simply saying that—”

“You say too much!” Caspari snapped. “Is time for you to listen, now. You will broadcast our very fair and just demands, or face the consequences of defiance. Must I demonstrate by executing someone here and now? That one, perhaps?”

Caspari swung his Uzi toward a young man standing frozen, several paces to the captain’s left. The target blanched and trembled in his crisp white uniform.

“No, please!” the captain blurted. “I’m simply trying to prepare you for the disappointment you will face in bargaining with the Americans.”

“I fear no disappointment,” Caspari said. “I and all my men are quite prepared to die. Your passengers and crew, I think, value their lives and comfort more than principle.”

The captain’s shoulders slumped. “You have a list, for my communications officer?”

“His services are not required,” Caspari said. “Prepare the radio and stand aside, while I address the world.”

“Of course,” Bateman said. “As you wish. About your other men…”

Caspari checked his wristwatch. “I must speak to them in nineteen minutes, and at each half hour after that.” He nodded toward Zarghona and explained, “Should either of us fail to make contact on schedule, it means the destruction of your ship.”

“I understand,” Bateman replied. “We pose no threat to you. Which one of you will follow me to the communications room?”

Washington, D.C.

NABI ULMALHAMA HELD A wooden match precisely one inch below the square-cut tip of his Cuban cigar. He spent a moment savoring the taste of rum-soaked tobacco leaves, then reached out for his glass of twenty-year-old scotch.

Strict Muslim teachings barred the use of alcoholic beverages, but Ulmalhama reckoned that God granted dispensation for selected, special servants of His cause.

Listening to early-evening traffic rumble past his posh Georgetown apartment, Ulmalhama nearly missed the deferential knocking on his study door.

“Enter,” he said.

His houseman crossed the thick carpet silently, half-bowed to Ulmalhama as he said, “Sir, if you care to watch the news?”

“Of course.”

Waiting until the houseman left him, Ulmalhama picked up the remote control and switched on his giant flat-screen television, flicking through the channels until he found CNN. A blond reporter stood before a cruise ship, speaking urgently into a handheld microphone. The dateline banner covering her breasts told Ulmalhama she was in Miami. He pressed another button to increase the volume.

“The ship is much like the one behind me, only somewhat larger. Now, we understand the Tropic Princess is the flagship of the Argos Cruise Line, launched in June 2006. It can accommodate three thousand passengers. And I’m told the ship is booked to full capacity this evening, after taking on new passengers in Cuba. With the crew, we make it four thousand two hundred people presently aboard the Tropic Princess, hijacked in the Straits of Florida.”

The station cut away to a grim-looking anchorman. The newsman said, “We now have audio from the hijackers on the Argos cruise ship, broadcasting a list of their demands over an open frequency. This signal was recorded ten minutes ago, from the Tropic Princess in international waters. We air it now, for the first time.”

Ulmalhama sat and listened, with his eyes closed, to the gruff, familiar voice.

“I am Sohrab Caspari. Yesterday, with comrades from Allah’s Warriors, I was privileged to liberate a number of political prisoners from the American death camp at Cuba’s Guantanamo Bay. Some of those hostages are now with me, aboard the Tropic Princess, a decadent pleasure craft symbolizing all that is wrong with corrupt Western society. We have more than four thousand prisoners on board, whom we will gladly execute unless the following demands are met.

“First, we demand the immediate liberation of all remaining prisoners held at Guantanamo Bay, at Abu Ghraib prison in Baghdad, and throughout the state of Israel. A list of names shall be provided to the White House, but since many of the prisoners are held illegally and incommunicado, we can only estimate their total number. To avoid useless debate, after the prisoners identified by name are freed, we expect the liberation of one martyr for each man, woman and child aboard the Tropic Princess.”

Ulmalhama smiled at that. It was a nice touch, which would get them nowhere.

As intended.

“Second, we demand a ransom of one million dollars for each hostage presently aboard the ship. To spare ourselves the effort of precisely counting them, we shall accept four billion dollars as the total ransom. Payments of one billion dollars each shall be wired to four separate bank accounts, one each in Switzerland, Liechtenstein, the Cayman Islands and in Costa Rica. Relevant transfer information shall be provided upon acceptance of our terms by Washington.”

Another hopeless cause, Ulmalhama thought. It was perfect.

“Finally, we want a helicopter capable of seating fourteen passengers, in addition to the crew. This aircraft shall be used for our evacuation of the Tropic Princess, with one hostage for each member of my team. The helicopter shall be capable of traveling five hundred miles without refueling.

“If the President of the United States does not agree to meet our terms within four hours of the present time—that is, by 9:00 p.m.—we shall begin to execute the hostages in groups of ten, at thirty-minute intervals. Execution of the final hostages shall thus occur eight days and eighteen hours from the present time. Any attempt at rescue shall, of course, result in the immediate destruction of the ship and all on board. Good day.”

Nabi Ulmalhama switched off his TV set before the long-faced anchor could express his shock and outrage. So far, phase two of his plan was proceeding on schedule.

Well satisfied, the Saudi rose and poured another glass of whiskey to accompany his fine cigar.

MACK BOLAN HAD ALMOST finished packing when the news came over CNN. He’d sat with Barbara Price and Aaron Kurtzman, listening to the recorded voice of terror, emanating from a man he’d just been asked to track down and eliminate.

Fourteen seats aboard the exit chopper, with one hostage for each hijacker, told Bolan that a seven-man crew had seized the Tropic Princess. Their small number was the good news and the bad.

Six targets made the hunting relatively simple, until Bolan realized that they would be dispersed among four thousand innocents, no doubt prepared to kill at random in the face of any challenge. Furthermore, he had to think about Sohrab Caspari’s final threat, immediate destruction of the ship and all on board, in the event of an attempted rescue.

“How much C-4 would they need to sink a ship that size?” he asked Kurtzman. “And how long would it take?”

“I’ll crunch some numbers.”

Brognola’s call came through, and Price put it on the speakerphone. “We’re all here, Hal,” she said.

“Okay. You’ve heard the news, about the Tropic Princess?”

“Watching it right now,” Price said.

“You won’t be shocked to hear the Man is standing firm. We don’t negotiate with terrorists, full stop. In fact, we couldn’t meet their terms in any case. Suppose we cut loose everyone at Camp X-Ray and Abu Ghraib, gave them the cash and chopper. The Israelis still won’t budge on prisoners. The hijackers had to know that, going in.”

“So, what’s the play?” Bolan asked.

“Change of plans,” Brognola said. “You won’t be flying into Cuba after all. We’re putting you on board a submarine. We’ll chopper you to Norfolk Naval Base and let the swabbies carry on from there. Take anything you think you might need, as long as you can carry it and pass the odd police inspection.”

“Well, that trims my shopping list,” Bolan replied.

“Your contact should be current on the local hardware outlets,” Brognola said.

“And where’s the rendezvous?” Bolan asked.

“Ask the Navy,” Brognola replied. “Somewhere mid-Atlantic, I expect. Questions?”

“None from me,” Bolan responded.

“Great. I’ll try to keep you updated en route. After you go ashore, we’ve got the sat phones, but use them sparingly. Try not to tangle with the Cuban army or security police, but if you have to, don’t let them take you.”

“Or you’ll disavow all knowledge,” Bolan finished for him. “Got it.” He broke the link to Washington.

“A submarine?” Price said. “Instead of flying?”

“It’s a rush job,” Bolan said. “The other way, I have to fly to Mexico, then wait for a connecting flight into Havana. This ought to cut the time by half, at least.”

“For just a second there, I thought he wanted them to help you board the Tropic Princess.”

Bolan frowned and shook his head. “Too late for that. They’d see me coming, and I’d never get the shooters sorted out among four thousand passengers and crew before they did their worst.”

“Who do you think will handle it?” Kurtzman asked.

Bolan shrugged, already on his feet and moving toward the exit. “Navy SEALs or Delta Force could try it, but you’ve got a Panamanian ship in international waters.”

“I’ll get the chopper ready,” Price said. “Need any help collecting gear?”

“I’m good,” Bolan said. “See you on the deck in fifteen, tops.”

EMRE MANDIRALI UNDERSTOOD his mission, but he found it difficult to keep a low profile, moving among his fellow passengers as if he was another drone on holiday, smiling and nodding foolishly at strangers, when he longed to let them see the mini-Uzi he carried in his gym bag, or the pistol tucked beneath his baggy, floral-patterned shirt.

To let them hear his weapons, better yet.

How sweet it would have been to rake the decks with automatic fire, watching his targets twitch and fall. Or tossing hand grenades into the restaurants where they lined up to gorge themselves like pigs at the trough.

But Mandirali had his orders, and despite his grueling months in prison, his abiding rage against those who’d caged him, he had discipline enough to do as he was told in combat situations. He could wait, knowing that it would soon be time to kill.

Barring disaster, Mandirali knew his leader, who had liberated him from vile captivity, had to now control the Tropic Princess. He would issue the demands they had agreed upon, and Washington would solemnly announce its policy against rewarding terrorists. Sohrab Caspari’s deadline would elapse, and then the killing could begin in earnest.

Mandirali harbored no illusions where his future was concerned. While in prison, he had prayed to Allah for a chance to strike out once more at his enemies and be avenged, before he claimed his place in Paradise.

He knew there would be no release of prisoners, no ransom payment, certainly no helicopter sent to carry them away. While Mandirali couldn’t guess precisely how he’d die, he guessed that members of some military hostage-rescue team would storm the ship, sparking a chain reaction of events that would be seen as tragic in the Western world, while warriors of the one true faith proclaimed another stunning victory.

With any luck, he thought, the final body count might well exceed the famous 9/11 raids.

Mandirali himself would achieve no such triumph, but he was a part of the team. By now, his comrades should have C-4 charges planted at strategic points below the waterline, where they would detonate in sequence, gut the Princess when her would-be saviors came aboard.

Ideally the event would be broadcast on live television.

As soon as any would-be rescuers appeared, his orders were to fire at will, inflict as many casualties as he could manage in his brief remaining time on Earth.

The plastic explosives would do the worst damage, trapping hundreds belowdecks as seawater flooded the vessel, starting fires that would ignite the ship’s fuel stores, turning the whole vast hulk into a sunken tomb and smorgasbord for scavengers.

It was enough to make him smile in earnest as he passed among the sheep, nodding in mock friendship and wishing they were already in hell.