Battlecraft (2006)

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1315 HOURS LOCAL

THE Marine guards walked Mike Assad ahead of them as they escorted him to Rod Barker's office. The prisoner was handcuffed and both men carried regulation billy clubs that any veteran of a Navy brig would have recognized. The pair of highly disciplined Marines displayed no animosity toward the prisoner other than a properly stern attitude. When they arrived at the door, one took Mike's arm while the other knocked.

'Come in.'

Mike was taken inside to a spot in front of Barker's desk. 'Here's the pris'ner as ordered, Mr. Barker,' the senior Marine reported.

'Fine,' Barker said. 'You can leave us. We're just going to have a little chat.' He smiled at Mike, then nodded to the Marines. 'Let's take off those handcuffs. What do you say?'

'Yes, sir!' the Marine responded. He quickly removed the restraints. 'Anything else, Mr. Barker?'

'I don't think so, guys,' Barker said. He waited for the guards to exit the office before speaking to his unusual guest. 'Sit down.'

Instead of sitting, Mike smiled. 'I'll stand, if you don't mind.'

'Certainly. Suit yourself.'

'What do you do around here?' Mike asked.

'I'm the embassy intelligence officer.'

'All right then,' Mike said. 'I'm an operative in Operation Deep Thrust.'

'Really?' Barker asked. 'What's the weather like?'

'It's a cold day in Hell.'

The words of the recognition phrase were so unexpected that Barker stood up. He started to speak, then went to his safe. It took him a few moments to open the security container, and he withdrew a red folder. He pulled a sheet of paper from it, giving the document a careful read for several moments. When he finished, he turned his attention back to Mike. 'You're inserted into al-Mimkhalif?'

'Yep,' Mike said, now feeling he was very close to getting back to the Brigands. 'The name is Mikael Assad.' Then he added, 'United States Navy SEALs.'

'Good God! This is a hell of a situation, isn't it?'

'Hey, no shit,' Mike commented.

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ACV BATTLECRAFT

USS DAN DALY DOCKING WELL

1500 HOURS LOCAL

LIEUTENANT Jim Cruiser sat in the skipper's chair watching Lieutenant Veronica Rivers run diagnostic tests on the Battlecraft's communication, navigation, and weapons systems. She had been at it for over two hours, using various instruments that read impulses and other evidential data on the condition of each piece of equipment. Although Lieutenant Bill Brannigan had assigned his 2IC additional duties of maintaining the ACV's technical logs, he didn't really have to be there since the results would be printed out. But he was antsy on this day off from patrolling and didn't feel like sitting around in his cabin.

'That¹ s it,' Veronica said, stepping back from the instruments. 'It all checks out A-okay as the astronauts say.'

'All right,' Jim said.

'I'll tell you one thing for sure,' Veronica said cheerfully. 'Those DuBose brothers put together one bad-ass machine when they built this baby.'

'I suppose so,' Jim replied.

'Do you want to read the printouts?'

'Hell, no!' Jim snapped. 'Put the info in the maintenance log and I'll check it out when I sign off on all this shit.'

'Sure,' Veronica said, 'if that's what you want.' She was surprised by her fellow officer's flash of temper. She gathered the printouts and put them in the maintenance folder. 'Is there anything else? If not, I'm going up to the wardroom.'

'Suit yourself,' Jim said grumpily.

He remained seated after she left, staring out the bridge windshield at the activity in the well. They had accomplished nothing during a dozen patrols, but the lack of real achievement in the mission wasn't the biggest thing bugging Jim Cruiser. For the past couple of weeks he had begun feeling a downright boyish awkwardness when he was around Veronica. This was nothing new for the young naval officer. It was always the prelude of his developing an infatuation for a member of the opposite sex. But the last thing he wanted was to find himself in a romantic, sexual relationship with the attractive young woman.

Jim Cruiser was a normal man with normal needs. He existed in a pattern of one-night stands dominated by the unspoken agreement that the coupling was only a temporary, ships-that-pass-in-the-night thing. He even hired call girls from time to time when the opportunity and his financial condition made it possible. All this left him physically satisfied, but emotionally pent up with normal desires for a meaningful relationship dammed like a river. He knew that a romance between him and Veronica Rivers would be a disaster for both of them. But the impelling drive of wanting someone was a hard desire to smother.

Jim abruptly stood up and walked outside, leaping from the deck onto the walkway around the docking well. There was a bottle of Smirnoff's Vodka in his cabin, and he could hear it calling to him.

Chapter 6.

GREEN EMERALD RESORT AND SPA

SINGAPORE

30 SEPTEMBER

1030 HOURS LOCAL

HAFEZ Sabah, the agent for al-Mimkhalif, sat in the back of the cab paying no attention to the beautiful view as he rode across the causeway from the city to Sentora Island. The trip continued until the taxi arrived at the lobby entrance of the Green Emerald Resort and Spa. To casual observers, Sabah appeared to be a down-at-the-heels but respectable Middle Eastern businessman as he paid the fare and exited the vehicle. The doorman, a serious Malayan garbed in a gaudy uniform complete with aiguillettes, epaulets, and a high-peaked cap with a bill sporting an oak-leaf design, stepped forward looking like a comic-opera field marshal. He offered a salute, but the respectful gesture was dimmed by a glare of disapproval at the disheveled visitor.

'May I help you, sir?'

'I have an appointment with Mr. Harry Turpin,' Sabah said. 'I don't know his room number.'

'Let me take care of that, sir,' the doorman said. 'May I have your name, please?'

'I am Sabah; a business associate of Mr. Turpin.'

The doorman walked to a phone at an outside counter and punched a button that alerted security. 'A gentleman by the name of Sabah wishes to visit Mr. Turpin.'

'Wait,' a voice responded. A few moments passed, then the man came back on the line. 'You may send him over.'

Now the doorman hung up and spoke to Sabah with genuine respect. 'Mr. Turpin is in one of our cabanas, sir. I'll arrange transportation for you.' He signaled down to a row of canopied golf carts. A driver immediately got into one and drove up. Sabah got onto the front seat next to the driver. The little vehicle whirred as it was driven away from the main building and out to a narrow street.

They wound around tennis courts, a golf course, driving ranges, and an Olympic-size swimming pool before arriving at a section of Siloso Beach where a long row of luxury cabanas sat along the sand. They came to a stop at the largest, which had a spacious veranda.

Sabah quickly slid off the seat and out of the cart, going straight to the door and knocking. A Chinese houseboy, obviously expecting the caller, opened the door and invited him to enter. The Arab was led across the living room to an outside patio.

'Mr. Turpin will be here presently, sir,' the houseboy said. 'May I get you a drink?'

'An orange juice,' Sabah requested. 'Will Mr. Turpin be long?'

'He should be able to join you within a half hour,' the houseboy said as he went to the bar to pour a glass of