Operation Caribe

3

Port of Aden

Yemen

The next day

MARK CONLEY WAS sitting in the new headquarters of Ocean Security Services, Inc., trying to drink his morning cup of coffee. He was having a hard time of it, though, because the phone would not stop ringing.

Located on the top floor of the Kilos Shipping building, the imposing gray-and-glass skyscraper that looked out on the ancient seaport of Aden, the five-office suite was now home base for Team Whiskey. The vast Kilos Shipping Company had given them their first security job, so it was natural the team would make their patron’s thirty-story building their first official business address. It had been open for exactly a week.

Each of the suite’s five rooms had a specific function. One was devoted to communications. Another was filled with computers for hacking and gathering intelligence. A third room served as a crash pad for the team when they were in town. A fourth held most of their exotic weaponry. The fifth was an office—actually, just a cover for the other four. The sign on the door read: KILOS IMPORT-EXPORT ANALYSIS DIVISION. The suite’s door was kept locked at all times.

Conley was head of Kilos Shipping’s Middle East security department. With more than a hundred of the company’s ships plying the high seas, it was a full-time job for the middle-aged ex-NYPD cop. But with the surprisingly quick success of Whiskey’s anti-pirating unit, Conley had become the team’s de facto booking agent as well. Since he’d arrived here a half hour earlier, more than a dozen people had called the OSS hotline looking to buy Team Whiskey’s services—and it wasn’t even 7 A.M.

His first official duty this morning was to sign for a diplomatic pouch that had been delivered by courier from the Saudi consulate. Inside was an envelope sealed with red wax. When Conley opened the envelope, an international money-wire transfer slip fell out. It was documentation for Prince Saud el-Saud’s $15 million payment to the team for saving his LNG tanker.

Attached to the slip was a plain banker’s check for an additional $1 million—a tip for the team’s efforts. Conley sipped his coffee and smiled. This was the third time the team had done such a good job that the client saw fit to pay a gratuity.

These two payments increased the team’s fortunes to nearly $25 million, tax-free, all of it made in just the past three months. This growing pile of cash was in a special Kilos-controlled vault within the Port of Aden National Bank. Under armed guard 24/7, it was accessible only to Conley and the Team Whiskey members.

Taking a brochure Nolan had left for him from his desk drawer, Conley realized the team’s bank account was almost large enough to enable them to buy what they considered their ultimate anti-pirate weapon: a used British Aerospace Harrier jumpjet.

“Someday,” he thought, returning the brochure to the drawer.

* * *

AROUND 8 A.M., Conley reheated his coffee, hoping for a break, but getting no such thing. In the past hour alone there had been twenty more calls, all of them from people desperate to buy Team Whiskey’s unique protection services.

Luckily, Conley didn’t have to actually answer the phone. He saw the name and company of each caller on his computer screen. After noting each call, he forwarded it directly to his voice mail, where a computer program converted the voice message to text. This way, Conley could read over the job offers without ever talking to anyone. It was categorizing all the information that took time.

At least his method of triaging the offers was simple: The highest-paying jobs that would take the least amount of effort got the most consideration; everything else got a pass. As it was, Whiskey had been released from a U.S. Navy rehab hospital in Italy only a few scant hours before the Saud el-Saud job materialized. Each member was still suffering the aftereffects of their small war against Zeek the Pirate. Batman Bob Graves had lost his hand. Nolan had nearly drowned in the Indian Ocean during a climatic death match with Zeek himself. Crash, Gunner and Twitch were also nursing a bevy of smaller wounds.

Conley knew these things also had to be taken into consideration when choosing the team’s next job. That’s why one particular offer appeared so intriguing. The climate was good. The problem seemed manageable, especially when compared to taking on Zeek’s pirate army or protecting the Russian mob. And the price was right. And Conley thought the team could wrap up the gig in just a few days—a week at the most.

Plus, it was on the other side of the world, also a positive. Conley believed getting the team out of the Indian Ocean for a while was not a bad idea. Technically speaking, what they’d been doing in the area lately—arming cargo ships, running unauthorized combat missions inside sovereign borders—wasn’t exactly legal. With just a little push, any number of seafaring countries could have them locked up for a slew of maritime violations.

“Yes,” Conley thought, checking the job’s details again. “A change of scenery will do them good.”