Operation Caribe

4

Five days later

SNAKE NOLAN HAD looked forward to crossing the Atlantic.

The weather forecast had promised no storms, calm seas, and warm winds for most of the five days it would take to complete the journey.

Besides bringing him closer to the country he loved but could not enter legally, Nolan had envisioned himself actually relaxing during the trip. Playing poker with the guys, watching DVDs, maybe even doing some reading. The fact that a large Kilos container ship, the Georgia June, was sailing along with them, acting as an enormous floating bodyguard, took some of the uncertainty away from the 4,000-mile voyage west.

That concern came from the team’s own vessel. Rusty, oily, with a single stack and four cargo masts, it looked barely seaworthy. But looks could be deceiving. Technically, it was a DUS-7 coastal freighter, the type of ship used for short trips up and down coastlines, and not normally for transoceanic journeys. Just 120 feet long and twenty-four feet wide, it looked every bit of its fifty-plus years afloat. It was so battered, if it had washed up on a beach somewhere, it wouldn’t have gotten a second look.

In the eyes of Team Whiskey, though, its shabby appearance was an asset. When they first went to war against Zeek the Pirate, Kilos Shipping had offered them one of the company’s “workboats,” a barely disguised, intentionally misnamed vessel that was actually a long-range mega-yacht, full of communications equipment and weapons, like something from a James Bond movie. Though high on the comfort scale, Whiskey knew such a boat would have made them too obvious when operating in Zeek’s Indonesian home waters, an area full of container ships, supertankers, steamers and fishing boats. So, Kilos gave them the DUS-7 instead.

It was exactly what the team needed. Like the Kilos workboats, the small freighter, in its former life, had transported highly sensitive cargos to some of the company’s shadier customers. To this end, the DUS-7 had a so-called rubber room hidden deep within its lower decks. It was a compartment where up to ten tons of cargo—usually arms and ammunition—could be sealed off behind false panels that even the most ardent NATO search party would miss. In this hidden storage cabin now sat Team Whiskey’s small arsenal of weapons, communications equipment and various gadgets of the special operations trade.

The DUS-7 had another important attribute: With not one, but two propulsion systems, the old coastal freighter was much faster than it looked.

Its primary means of motion was a dual diesel-based system that turned twin screws and moved the ship at about eighteen knots in a calm sea. But because the old freighter was specially adapted by Kilos for cargoes that absolutely had to get there—“sensitive shipments,” in the company’s parlance—Kilos engineers had added a small gas turbine as a second propulsion unit. Hundreds of gallons of seawater sucked into huge tanks in the hold of the ship were condensed and, using power from the spinning turbine, shot out the back of the ship at high velocity in the form of jet sprays. When the ship needed some extra speed and the crew turned on these jets, it was like switching on the afterburner in an F-16. With this added power, the freighter could top forty knots, faster than some of the U.S. Navy’s speediest warships.

Along with the ship, Kilos had also provided Whiskey with a crew of five Senegalese nationals. Widely regarded as excellent sailors, these longtime employees of Kilos Shipping were loyal, smart, funny, and could pilot the ship under even the worst circumstances. They also knew their way around combat weaponry. But because their names were just about impossible to pronounce, the team just referred to them as the Senegals.

And the team had a nickname for their ship, too.

They called it the Dustboat.

* * *

AS IT TURNED out, Nolan slept for almost the entire trip west.

From the day they’d set off from southern Italy, the location of their rehab stay, and where the Dustboat had been docked, and went across the western Mediterranean Sea, out past Gibraltar, and into the Atlantic, it was as if he’d been injected with a sedative. He’d sleep, wake up, eat—and then fall right back to sleep again.

He felt so odd, he asked Crash, the team’s medic, about it during one of his few waking moments. Was something wrong with him? Yes, there was, Crash replied. There was something wrong with all of them. Since they’d started their new enterprise three months before, they’d been so busy, none of them had gotten anything resembling a good night’s sleep. The closest thing to it had been alcohol-induced slumber, which inevitably came with a hangover.

Crash’s diagnosis: Nolan was suffering from exhaustion. They all were.

And the cure?

Sleep—and lots of it.

Nolan enjoyed the new experience. No card playing, no DVDs, and definitely no reading. Just deep, peaceful sleep.

Until their fourth night out on the Atlantic.

He had slept that whole day, and had planned to do the same that night. But sometime just after midnight, he suddenly woke up—and this time, when he lay down again, he didn’t instantly fall back to sleep. Instead, his mind started racing, and for him, that was not a good thing. When the past ten years of his life started going through his head, it was like a highlights reel stuck in fast forward. Except these weren’t exactly his favorite memories.

That last day at Tora Bora. Their OK from Higher Authority to pursue bin Laden, the excitement of actually seeing him, catching up to him, chasing him down, only to be called back at the worst moment by the pissheads in Washington—it was a reoccurring nightmare that Nolan couldn’t stop, or even slow down. The battle that followed, unauthorized as it was, cost him his eye and Twitch his leg.

The aftermath. While the others were given dishonorable discharges and immediately booted from the military, Nolan was laid out as the ultimate sacrificial lamb. He had no lawyer, no means of defense, yet he was still court-martialed, found guilty by a secret court, sentenced to prison indefinitely and banned from ever setting foot on American soil again.

Frequent escape attempts followed, which led to him being bounced from prison to prison—Gitmo, Sardinia and finally Baghdad. He busted out twice from the Iraqi prison and was found walking across the desert intent on getting back to Afghanistan, back to Tora Bora, as if there he could resume his pursuit of the mass murderer.

Once he was released by the U.S. military more trouble followed, and Nolan was eventually thrown back into prison, this time in Kuwait. That’s where the rest of the team found him.

Frustration at their subsequent low-paying jobs as security cops in Saudi Arabia led them to form their anti-piracy unit, and there had been no looking back since. But still, all the good things that had happened in the past three months could not erase memories of the horrific events he had experienced in the past ten years. Jailed, homeless, a man without a country? Some scars ran deep, and some wounds would never heal.

And then there was the Dutch Cloud.

His four days of slumber had brought their share of odd dreams, but the subject of the Dutch Cloud was a real-life ghost story. At least for Nolan.

It started with the team’s gig for the Russian mob, to protect a cruise ship trip through the Aegean Sea. Saving the Red Mafia bigwigs from a mass poisoning attack had been a bonanza for Team Whiskey. Not only were they paid handsomely for three days of work, along with a $50,000 tip; their client, a mobster named Bebe, had passed on to the team valuable intelligence, which helped them catch up to and finally kill Zeek the Pirate. And it was Bebe who told Nolan about the Dutch Cloud.

It was a seemingly mythical vessel, a phantom ship said to have gone missing shortly after 9/11 and endlessly sailing the seas ever since, its contents unknown and the subject of much speculation. Bebe said that if the team were to capture the Dutch Cloud, they would be in for a reward of $50 million, payable by none other than the CIA.

It sounded like drunken Russian bullshit—and in truth both Nolan and Bebe were highly intoxicated when the mobster told him the tale. But then Nolan actually saw the ghost ship. It happened while Whiskey was heading toward an island near Zanzibar to help recover buried treasure containing a billion-dollar microchip. One night, he had just awakened from an alcohol-induced dream, when he went out on the deck of the Dustboat in a gale and saw the spectral ship pass about a thousand yards off their port side, only to be quickly lost again in the storm and fog.

Or at least that’s what he thought happened. Because when he woke up that next morning, brutally hung over, he found himself in the care of the Senegals, who for some reason had not seen what he thought he had just seen a few hours earlier.

Another strange memory.

* * *

NOW AFTER MANY days and nights of deep slumber, he was suddenly wide awake, feeling the Atlantic rolling the Dustboat, his heart pounding in his chest. He felt anxious, he needed air, and he was in no mood to contemplate what lay ahead or what had happened before.

So he rolled out of his bunk, grabbed a six-pack from his small fridge and went up on deck.

At the moment their guardian angel, the Georgia June, was sailing about a mile in front of them. The rest of the team was asleep and the Senegals were steering the ship. Nolan walked back to the stern alone, and the beer started going down fast. He quickly quaffed three beers and the darkness engulfed him, and that’s when he saw it again.

The Dutch Cloud. It was moving north just as the Dustboat was moving west. It was about a thousand yards off the stern and looked just as it had the first time he saw it: a long, dark container ship, bearing one yellow, one green and one red light. Painted mostly black, it had a white bridge. But as before, the vessel seemed strangely lifeless, as if there was no one in control, no one on board.

It was a dark night with no moon, and Nolan didn’t have his one-eye electronic telescope with him. He could see the ship with his good eye for only about ten seconds, and then it was gone, covered over once again by the darkness.

In fact, it disappeared so fast that he immediately wondered if he’d seen it at all—or if it was a figment of his imagination or a side effect of his clinical exhaustion.

Or maybe he was still asleep and dreaming.

* * *

HE WALKED UP to the bridge and was greeted warmly by the Senegals.

He hesitated to ask if they’d seen the mystery ship, since the last time this had happened, they’d seen nothing.

So he asked them instead: “Are we and the Georgia June the only ones out here tonight?”

“Just us and the sea monsters,” one Senegal replied in his native French.

Nolan slumped into a seat and another Senegal passed him a cup of mooch, the slightly hallucinogenic liquor favored by many North Africans.

“Drink this and maybe we’ll see some UFOs, too,” one said to him.

Nolan hesitated—but only for a moment.

Maybe this is just what I need, he thought.

* * *

AS USUAL, WHENEVER Nolan drank mooch with the Senegals, he wound up laughing crazily and seeing the stars above light up in different colors—and this time was no different. And then, suddenly—poof!—the next thing he knew, it was morning and he was lying on the bridge’s bunk.

He looked up to see the Senegals were now wearing brightly colored flower shirts, like those sported in the tropics.

One of them handed him a mug of coffee. At that moment, a rain squall passed them by and they were suddenly bathed in brilliant sunshine.

Then, suddenly, Nolan saw Crash go flying past the bridge window, head first, followed by a great splash on the port side. Gunner soon followed—with another huge splash. Batman went past the window next, and on his heels came Twitch, prosthetic leg and all. Two more huge splashes.

Nolan froze. Had his four colleagues had just fallen off the ship?

It was so weird, Nolan was convinced he was still under the influence of the mooch. He struggled to his feet, and through bleary eyes looked out the bridge window.

In front of him was a vision of heaven, a string of tropical islands that stretched forever in both directions. Blue water, white sand, and a breeze gently flowing through the palm trees.

That’s when it finally dawned on Nolan.

His colleagues didn’t fall off the ship—they were diving off the mast to swim in the warm, inviting water. And that could only mean they’d come to the end of their journey.

He just looked at the Senegals, who laughed at his confusion.

“Welcome, mon,” one of them said in a bad imitation of Jamaican-tinged English. “Welcome to the Bahamas.”

* * *

THEY WERE ANCHORED off a small pinprick of land called Denny Cay.

Located at the far eastern edge of the Eleuthera Cays, it was shaped like a quarter moon laid on its side. Barely a half-mile long and mostly covered in tropical flora, it had a white beach dotted by a handful of huts and a single finger dock that reached out into the crystal-clear water. Space for three small boats comprised the entirety of its harbor.

Paradise.

Anchored about a half mile farther offshore was the Georgia June, watching over them like a big brother, as always. Looking out the Dustboat’s bridge window, Nolan could see some of the container ship’s crewmen were diving off its bow, enjoying the warm waters, too.

So, why not him?

He hadn’t been in the water since his near-fatal battle with Zeek the Pirate. Having come as close as one possibly could to drowning, Nolan wasn’t sure he ever wanted to go back in the water again.

But now, with the bright sunshine and the warm Bahamian breeze, he was suddenly obsessed with the idea of jumping off the tallest part of the Dustboat into the crystal-clear bay.

It was not to be, though. In the time it took him to race to his quarters, get on a pair of old shorts, and then climb the mast, a helicopter had appeared, and was circling the ship.

It was a large Bell 430, considered to be among the Cadillacs of helicopters. It was painted blue and light purple, the colors of the islands, with a splash of yellow up around its engine cowlings, representing the sun.

“We got a meeting—and our ride is here,” Batman said just as Nolan reached the top of the deck. Then he looked at Nolan and added: “Are you wearing that?”

* * *

WITHIN FIVE MINUTES after the copter landed, Team Whiskey had climbed aboard. The pilots told them to strap in, then they took off and headed south.

The team was used to doing things on the hush-hush—and except for the gaudy air taxi, this gig was no different. Conley had told them nothing about the job ahead, preferring to let them relax and recharge during the ocean crossing. The team assumed whoever they were meeting would be high on the food chain of some intelligence agency or military organization. And the request that they attend this meeting in civilian clothes was par for the course. They could understand someone not wanting them to stick out in their bright blue combat suits.

“Just as long as they pay us,” Batman said as the chopper streaked through the air. “Preferably in cash.”

The Bell 430 carried them over a long line of Bahamian outer islands. The team, after operating almost exclusively in the Indian Ocean and near the Java Sea, was enchanted as they looked down on the clear blue water at what seemed like another planet. They could actually make out the sea bottom in many places.

During the flight, Batman was particularly animated. He’d lived in the Bahamas just before Whiskey re-formed.

“If we can wrap this up quickly, maybe I can get back to my old digs,” he said, nose pressed against the copter’s window. “I could retrieve some expensive booze I left there. Maybe even crash there and do some bone fishing.”

* * *

THOUGH THE FLIGHT took less than twenty minutes, they had flown a zig-zag course—another nod to security. They finally turned due west and were soon approaching the island of Oyster Cay, in Exuma Sound. About five miles long and half that wide, it was thick with lush, emerald-colored vegetation.

But instead of seeing some staid and hidden military-type building on the isolated island, the team saw instead what looked like a large saucer-shaped resort located on the island’s highest point. The futuristic building was about ten stories high, surrounded by swimming pools, waterfalls, golf courses and hundreds of perfectly shaped palm trees.

“Are we in the right place?” Gunner asked looking down at the island. “This looks like a Disneyland for billionaires.”

“Yeah,” Crash said. “If there was a Disneyland on Mars.”

* * *

THE COPTER SET down on a helipad next to the saucer-shaped building. The team climbed out, expecting to find an escort to lead them to the meeting.

But instead of a person in uniform or a CIA spook type, they were met by a young woman dressed like a high-priced hooker from the future: micro-miniskirt, tight silver top, high heels, platinum blond hair.

“I think I’ve seen this movie before,” Batman said. “Was it Goldfinger … or Thunderball?” Like the ultra-luxurious resort itself, the girl did look like something from a 007 movie.

She ushered them to the rear entrance of the saucer building. Again, here they might have expected to be searched or led through a metal detector, or some other security device. But none was in evidence.

Instead, the team was brought to a large glass-enclosed area that was a cross between an arboretum and an upscale singles bar, with palm trees larger and more carefully manicured than those outside. Tropical birds flew above and a light mist fell from the crystal ceiling; refreshing if almost indiscernible. Tables containing bottles of champagne and dishes of exotic food seemed to stretch on forever.

About a dozen women were sitting around the large rectangular table in the center of the room; others were chatting in small groups nearby. All of them were beautiful; some distractingly so.

As Batman put it: “If they ever make a movie about us, I want all these women to play themselves.”

So the team members were surprised for a third time. Their hosts typically were a gang of military stiffs, CIA spooks in bad suits or some billionaire who wanted his ship back. The only males here were an elderly black gentleman wearing a bright white seersucker suit, sitting at one end of the table, and a bearded man in a pricey three-piece suit, at the other.

The bevy of beauties finally realized Whiskey had arrived. The team was directed to seats at the midpoint of the table, where they found a printed agenda, which included a list of the meeting’s organizers. Only then did the team realize the people they’d sailed across the Atlantic to work for were not someone’s military or the CIA.

They were travel agents. More accurate, they were public relations agents from some of the largest, most prestigious travel agencies in the Bahamas.

There were a couple dozen in all, known collectively as the Bahamian Association for Business Enterprise.

Reading this, Batman leaned over to Nolan and whispered: “They got the acronym right, anyway.”

The person chairing the meeting was a stunning blonde with a lilting British accent. Her name was Jennessa, and she, like the others, looked like she belonged in a fashion catalog. She introduced everyone around the table, but Nolan, dazzled by her beauty, barely heard her.

She read a brief statement highlighting the recent successes Whiskey had enjoyed against international pirates: saving the Saud el-Saud LNG tanker; the battle to take back the Indian warship Vidynut; and the rest.

Her account didn’t get into all the details of these actions, but it didn’t need to. Team Whiskey was successful in thwarting pirate threats of all shapes and sizes, and that’s all the consortium of travel agency reps wanted to hear. Because they had a problem. A pirate problem. And like customers stranded in a resort during a hurricane or enduring bad shrimp on a high-priced cruise ship, they were willing to pay anything to fix it quick.

“We have a huge predicament that’s getting worse by the day,” Jennessa said, finally addressing the team directly. “A pirate gang has been preying on pleasure boats around the Islands. After these pirates attack, police agencies find boats adrift, valuables gone and passengers missing.

“These criminals are brutal, but they’re also smart. They are very careful not to leave any evidence behind. No fingerprints, no footprints; no blood, no bullet casings. This is why they are called the ‘Muy Capaz’ gang. Roughly translated, that means ‘very capable.’ And it’s apt. They know the more careful they are, the harder it will be for law enforcement to catch them or to prove anything if they do.”

She pushed a button and a screen descended out of the mist of the ceiling. She began a PowerPoint presentation showing photographs of vessels suspected to have recently fallen victim to the Muy Capaz.

Most of the photos had the same eerie theme running through them: While they showed obvious ransacking of a particular vessel, each crime scene was devoid of any incriminating evidence. A few marked “ES” even showed boats that were in almost perfect order, as if photographed for a magazine spread.

Jennessa went on. “We’re not really sure what the Muy Capaz do with their victims. They might throw them in the water, maybe with their hands and feet tied, ensuring they will drown quickly. Some of our waters have sharks or other flesh-eating fish in them. Plus, with the Gulf Stream, the currents around here can be so powerful, a body could wind up in the middle of the Atlantic in no time. Whatever the reason, no bodies have ever been found after a Muy Capaz attack. Not a one. And for some reason, the pirates always surprise their victims—and I mean all of their victims, because no one has ever so much as sent out a distress call in any of these cases.”

She ran a few more slides.

“One thing the victims seem to have in common,” she said. “They were all fairly wealthy, or at least well-off. They all either owned a very expensive yacht or they were chartering one at a hefty price. We don’t have a clue of the kind of vessels the pirates are using.”

More slides.

“There’s something else unusual about the Muy Capaz. Their attacks seem to come in waves. They’ll hit a few boats one night—usually no more than three—and then we don’t see them for a while. But whenever they do it, they come and go like demons. No witnesses. No stray radio transmissions. Nothing. That’s why Dr. Robert is here. He’s an expert on this sort of thing.”

Dr. Robert was the man in the natty three-piece suit. He was actually the best-dressed person in the room, the women included. He was in his early thirties and had a breezy arrogance about him.

He rattled off some credentials: a PhD in psychological profiling, a book called The Superstitious Criminal, appearances on many U.S. TV talk shows.

“I can tell you without equivocation that the way this gang operates is connected to a voodoo ritual of some sort,” he announced, as if he were beginning a college lecture. “I can also tell you these attacks are definitely connected to the full moon. My research shows without question that this gang is more active when the full moon is near.

“I call it the ‘Wolfman Complex,’ which happens to be the title of my next book. For instance, the last time the gang hit was a week ago, on Easter Sunday. Three boats were attacked; the moon was full that night. The pattern runs roughly the same through the past year or so. Therefore, the pirates will be active again in about three weeks, which should give you gentlemen enough time to track them down and do something about them.”

He pushed a set of five three-ring binders in the team’s direction.

“It’s all in there,” he said. “My profile, my recommendations, my statistics—and a coupon for 10 percent off my next book.”

With that, Dr. Robert gathered up his briefcase and his paperwork. Overhead, they could hear a helicopter coming in for a landing.

“And now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I’m due back in the States this afternoon. I’m taping Dr. Phil tomorrow.“

And off he went.

Jennessa resumed her slide show. The images began flashing by faster now. According to her figures, the Muy Capaz had attacked more than twenty yachts in the past year or so.

“But in the last few months they’ve been far more aggressive than before,” she told the team. “And that’s why we called you. As it is right now, most of these incidents have been given very little publicity by the Bahamian media. Most people like to think the reporters are simply being lazy, but we know, just as their bosses know, that just like shark attacks and hurricanes, making a big deal out of these incidents would not be good for anyone. The economy, the citizens who live out here, people who work out here, TV and newspaper advertising. No one. If news about these criminals was widespread—especially with all the nasty stuff we hear about the Somali pirates these days—the entire Bahamian tourist industry could crash and burn in a matter of weeks. That’s why we’re reluctant to even call them ‘pirates.’ Even though that’s what they are.”

There was murmured agreement around the table.

“Plus, technically, there are some sticky questions about the jurisdiction of these matters. Bahamian waters. International waters. U.S. waters. Who knows? And with no bodies, there’s no way anyone can really take the lead in going after these killers, again not without making headlines. So, along with our friends in the Organization of American States, we’ve managed to assure a lot of the parties concerned that we will take care of the problem for them. That we will provide the solution. And that solution, gentlemen, is you.”

She took a plain white envelope from her breast pocket. “We are prepared to pay you five million dollars to find these pirate people and eliminate them, quickly and quietly.”

Jennessa motioned to the older black man sitting nearby.

“Our friend, Mr. Jobo here, is a member of the Organization of American States’s law enforcement division. He has special arrest powers in the Bahamas and as a formality he will make you his deputies. But again, the only thing we ask is that you do this job quickly and quietly, as one of our biggest times of year—college Spring Break—is coming up.”

Mr. Jobo stood up.

“I would never suggest to you how to do your job,” he began in a thick Caribbean accent. “But be aware these Muy Capaz people are brutal murderers that the world would be better off without. So, if you find yourself up against them, take the steps necessary to protect yourselves at all costs, and I mean preemptively if you have to. Your rule of thumb should be: ‘gloves off.’ ”

Then Mr. Jobo read a prepared statement, swearing in Team Whiskey as deputies of the OAS. It was more than a little awkward.

When he was done, he passed them a small leather case. Nolan opened it to find five police badges.

“These are for you,” Jobo said. “Just to make it legal. We also have uniforms.”

He passed them a duffle bag. Batman reached inside and took out the shirt and pants of an OAS deputy—they were ugly brown, with red piping. The bag also contained five nightsticks.

“Wear all that in good health and with good luck,” the OAS man concluded. Then he sat down again.

Jennessa walked around to the team’s side of the table and gave Nolan an envelope containing a bundle of documents and a half dozen DVDs.

“You will find a lot of information on the Muy Capaz in there,” she told him directly, brushing up against him on purpose. “Some of it comes from Bahamian law enforcement sources, which won’t be much help, and some of it we generated on our own. The gang’s leader is a man named Charles Black. He’s a descendant of authentic Bahamian pirates and he displays a lot of the same characteristics. Ruthless, bloodthirsty, perverted. We believe he’s also involved in moving large quantities of drugs. In fact, we believe these pirate attacks are simply ways to get money to finance his drug operations.

“The Muy Capaz are also heavily armed, thanks to Cuban weapons dealers. They have a hideout somewhere in the islands that no Bahamian law enforcement agency has been able or willing to find. I think your main goal should be to find this hideout and nip the problem in the bud.”

Jennessa smiled sweetly.

“Any questions?” she asked the team.

Twitch raised his hand. He was usually the least talkative member of Whiskey.

“Can you repeat those slides that were marked ‘ES?’ ” he asked her.

Jennessa did as requested.

“They seem different from the rest,” Twitch said. “The others show disarray—obvious signs of a struggle. If not blood, then at least evidence that the boat’s occupants met with a bad end. Yet, these three vessels don’t have any of that. They’re neat as pins. Any idea why?”

Jennessa shook her head no. “Actually, those slides show the most recent attacks, the ones from Easter Sunday, thus the ‘ES’ tag. It was because of them that we finally decided to contact you. We believe this is proof the Muy Capaz have become more emboldened with this last wave. Three pleasure boats were found drifting on Easter morning, no sign of their passengers, absolutely wiped clean and nothing out of place. Then, a police boat that had investigated all three was later found washed up near Palm Beach—its officers long gone. Now, with these three deputies still officially listed as missing, this hasn’t become a ‘cop-killer thing’ yet, if you know what I mean. But again, in our opinion, these last few slides are telling us that the Muy Capaz is becoming more able, and more efficient in leaving no clues behind.”

Twitch just stared at the slides as they slowly passed across the screen again.

“Or maybe,” he said under his breath, “they’re telling us something else.”