Three of those are obviously for landing craft, LCM-6s if I'm not mistaken. They're too narrow to be for LCM-8s. But the fourth and fifth?'
'One is for a patrol boat,' Kosciusko said. 'The other's for a small submarine. Don't worry about the sub; it comes with its own cradle. We just need something to hold that.'
'I thought so about the patrol boat. The submarine was within the realm of the possible. But we have a problem, skipper.'
'Which is.'
'We need more exact dimensions for both, patrol boat and minisub cradle, or we risk damaging their hulls if . . . when . . . we hit bad seas.'
'I don't have them yet.'
'Then, Captain, we need a lot more lumber and some hardware and we need to redesign the cradles to allow us to tighten them down on the things they're supposed to hold secure. Also some tires we can chop up.'
'You have an idea?'
'As it so happens.'
I don't know, thought Kosciusko, whether I ought to be insulted this guy knows my job-parts of it, anyway- better than I do, or pleased that he does.
'And we need some additional structural steel, I-beams, Captain,' Chin added, 'W10x22s. Mmmm . . . say . . . two hundred and forty meters' worth in twelve meter long sections.'
'What for?' Ed asked.
'Helicopter landing pads off of the main deck. And you need a lot of paint stored. And sprayers, and . . . '
'How are we going to get you and your people out of here?' Kosciusko asked. 'If your departure would be a security concern . . . '
'I am the only real problem. Well, myself and my wife, Kai-ying. Most of my people and their families can be smuggled aboard. For us, we'll have to meet you somewhere on the water. I . . . we . . . have a small boat. It wouldn't do to take us out very far to sea, but it would do to link up with you somewhere past, say, Lamma Island.'
'That should work,' Kosciusko agreed. 'Assuming, of course.'
'Yes, assuming.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Forbid a man to think for himself or to act
for himself and you may add the joy of piracy and
the zest of smuggling to his life.
-Elbert Hubbard
D-112, Mae Hong Song Province, Thailand
Outside the hut in which the former Special Forces and Spetznaz men rested, Mike Cruz and Artur Borsakov supervised as their ground crew repainted the helicopters from World Food Bank colors to new ones, with the words 'Exploratory Mining and Drilling Support, Inc.'
Inside, with the snores of his rescuers droning in his ears, Victor Inning was mildly insulted. Not a word, not a blessed word. Here I am, the most notorious arms dealer at large in the world and the bloody Burmese never even announced my escape. Oh, maybe they told their neighbors, on the sly, but as far as a public announcement goes, nothing. What's the use of smuggling arms to half the countries in the world, and every continent, when no one appreciates you for the master of the trade you are? Why, it's almost enough to make me give up the calling.
He snorted softly. Nah. This is too much fun. Where I'm going to come up with everything on the requisition list, however . . . ?
Inning stopped scribbling in the note book in front of him and asked Welch, 'This patrol boat your people are picking up in Helsinki, how big is it?'
'Good size,' Welch replied, 'eighty feet and change. Why?'
'Well . . . for reasons best kept to myself, I've got a number of equipment and supply sets stashed in various places. They're generally set up to equip a squad, or a platoon, or a company. One of these, for a small platoon, is near Tallinn, Estonia. So they'd have little trouble picking it up with a big enough boat, sailing from Finland. But.'
'But?'
'It's a twenty-four man set. Has everything. Arms-suppressed submachine guns, Kalashnikovs, PKs, Dragunovs, and RPGs, in this case-plus ammunition, night vision-yes, with batteries-individual equipment, body armor, uniforms. Even combat rations, though they may not be to taste.'
Konstantin made a ugly face, which earned him a dirty look from Inning. 'Well, Jesus, Victor,' the major said, 'the meat in the things is fifty percent fat. Okay to make a soup with, maybe, but straight out of the can it's vile,' he further explained to Terry. 'I'd strongly recommend that your people stock up on canned or smoked meat, cheese, and fish in Finland.'
'What's so bad about it?' Welch asked.
'Ever have a dog?' Konstantin answered. 'Well . . . think of what you fed your dog.'
Other than the dirty look, Victor ignored him. 'Plus one 60mm mortar and eighty rounds, mixed, HE, HC, and illuminating. Also one 30mm automatic grenade launcher. One heavy machine gun. There's a demolition kit, plus another two hundred kilograms of SEMTEX. It even has scuba-actually rebreathers-since it's near the sea, and two rubber boats, big enough to carry a dozen men each, with small engines. But if I crack it, it's gone to me. It either all goes or none of it does. You people will have to buy the whole set and guarantee to move it all out.'
'Wherever did you get 60mm mortars?' Welch asked. 'The Soviets never made them.'
'Portugal via Mozambique,' Victor said, further explaining, 'They're short range commando types. Eight hundred meters range, max.'
'Cost?' Terry asked. 'For the set, I mean.'
Victor seemed to consider that for a while, possibly subtracting from his initial asking price the value of one rescue from a Burmese hell hole. 'One hundred and eighty thousand USD. Trust me; it's a bargain.'
'Where do you hide something like that?' Welch asked.
'Baltiyski. The locals call it Paldiski. Or did you mean specifically? That you won't know until the money transfers.'
