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
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
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
