Operation Sea Ghost

6

Aboard The Immaculate Perception

TEAM WHISKEY RETURNED to Aden once they had retrieved Batman.

But they stayed only long enough to make sure their payment from Hollywood had arrived, to wash up and get into clean clothes. Then they flew back to The Immaculate Perception, which by this time was sailing off the southern tip of Yemen again, five Omani warships in tow, providing security overkill.

Whiskey returned to the mega-yacht not for another mission, but for a party. The vessel’s very famous passenger was throwing herself a bash to celebrate her own rescue. The crème de la crème of the Persian Gulf’s wealthiest characters were invited, along with a lot of Euro-trash, as well as a sizable contingent of A-list Hollywood types who happened to be vacationing in Israel, Greece, Italy, even as far away as the Riviera. While the oil people had their own transportation, many of the Hollywood crowd had to make the trek in leased jets and then helicopters, a particularly expensive way to travel. But this was a party no one wanted to miss.

Few of the guests even knew what the party was for; the news of Emma Simms’s dramatic kidnapping and rescue was not yet public knowledge. However, a People magazine correspondent had also been invited to the festivities—and offered an exclusive interview. This guaranteed that Emma’s harrowing adventure would dominate the news cycle around the globe within twenty-four hours. And that meant more headlines, more cover photos, and more need to have that morning toast served at precisely the right temperature.

As for her multimillion-dollar movie shoot in Rome?

That would have to wait at least another week, maybe longer.

* * *

NOLAN FLEW THE OH-6 copter out to the yacht, setting down on the rear helipad, relieved to survive another copter landing.

It was just sunset, not quite twelve hours since the end of the hostage rescue, but already the yacht was full of people ready to celebrate far into the night.

Nolan had barely shut down the copter’s engines when Batman bounded out of the aircraft. The yacht’s stern helipad was elevated about eight feet off the rear deck. Without prompting, Batman stepped to the edge of this pad and launched himself into another spectacular aerial backflip, spinning high in the air before landing with the precision of a trapeze artist, feet first, onto the main deck.

Those guests nearby gave him an enthusiastic round of applause and welcomed him like one of their own—a celebrity. The other Whiskey members were simply bewildered. Batman had been acting extremely strange since he’d been lifted off the Somali beach that morning. First, he hadn’t shut up about his time with Chief Bol Bada and the Ekita clan. They’d heard several times about how the chief had saved him when the Jihad Brotherhood unexpectedly showed up, how the clan had nursed him through the early morning hours, how they’d bathed him, cleansed him, given him all kinds of potions and herbs and tulip bulbs, anointings, on and on.

In the course of this, Batman had become the exact opposite of what he used to be. His cynicism was gone. He was suddenly talkative, trusting and compassionate. The chip was off his shoulder and the bitterness about losing his hand, always bubbling below the surface, was nowhere in evidence.

Nolan wrote it off to the excitement of the rescue mission combined with an overindulgence of the killer pot Batman always seemed to have access to.

But this didn’t explain the twenty-foot aerial backflips.

After his grand entrance, Batman headed straight for the middle of the party. He was absorbed into a clutch of beautiful people who were just oozing with fascination at meeting a real-life pirate hunter, especially one with a mechanical hand.

More typically, Gunner and Twitch made a beeline for the obscenely sumptuous buffet in the process of being served on the second deck. Twelve pheasants, seven cows, four geese and at least one octopus had given their lives for this spread. Mangosteen, African cucumbers and jackfruit were also in abundance, as were large bowls of Chinese black ice cream. Magnums of Krug Clos du Mesnil champagne were lined up like soldiers nearby, waiting to be popped. A vast array of scotch and other liquor was also on hand. Gunner and Twitch were among the first in line for this exquisite feed.

Nolan was just happy to feel his feet on something solid again. He was here only because the other guys wanted to come. Parties were just not his thing. He felt self-conscious about his eye patch and was no good at making chitchat. But he was here now and vowed to make the best of it.

He went down the helipad’s access ladder and walked toward the second deck midships, grabbing a glass of beer along the way. The mega-yacht had looked spectacular as they were flying in; it appeared even more so now. It was lit up stern to bow with thousands of tiny white lights strung in intricate patterns all over. The bridge was bathed in red. The swimming pool was a light green. Each of the vessel’s many cabins had an amber glow coming from within. A fine, rose-perfumed mist was being generated throughout the yacht’s ventilation system, settling on everybody and everything. Live chamber music was playing somewhere.

The middle deck was where the action was; it was about the size of a football field and was overflowing with gorgeous women wearing incredibly sexy party wear. The female wait staff, in miniskirt tuxedos and serving drinks and miniscule bits of food, were knockouts as well. There were even 3-D holographic images being randomly projected throughout the yacht, some showing tranquil aquatic scenes, others depicting clips from famous sci-fi and horror films, still others of Emma Simms in a variety of erotic poses. The sweet scent of pot was also in the air.

Nolan had never seen anything like this. It was like stepping into a real-life movie.

The beer went right to his head and he started to get caught up in the swirl—it was hard not to. The beauty, the glamour, the smell of money mixing with the rose-scented mist and the marijuana; it was intoxicating.

Maybe I’ll like this more than I thought, he mused.

But at that moment, the ship’s headwaiter appeared from nowhere and growled at him in French: “Ne restez pas là imbécile. La cuisine doit être nettoyée!”

As in: “Don’t stand there you fool. The kitchen must be cleaned!”

Nolan looked at the guy like he was insane. But then he realized his bright blue Whiskey fatigues looked exactly like the one-piece suits worn by the yacht’s maintenance crew.

He was instantly pissed. He tossed his beer glass over the side, then grabbed the headwaiter by the collar. He pulled his jacket open to give the guy a peek at the massive Magnum handgun he was carrying. Then he spat back at him: “Je suis le gars qui a sauvé votre patron - tête de merde!”

As in: “I’m the guy who saved your boss, shithead…”

The waiter almost had a myocardial infarction right there on the spot. He began babbling apologies, bowing and scraping as he hastily retreated below decks. But it was too late. Nolan had received the cosmos’ message loud and clear.

Hero or not, he was just another part of the hired help here. This whole scene was way out of his league.

He grabbed another designer beer, then retreated to portside amidships and slipped into the shadows.

* * *

THE ITALIAN PHOTOGRAPHER drew in a lungful of pot and nearly collapsed to the deck.

“My God,” he gasped. “Where did you get such great stuff?”

Batman used his mechanical hand to retrieve the joint and pass it on to the stunning British model. Though she took only a baby toke, she, too, was instantly legless. Her icy demeanor melted away as she became a hopeless ball of laughter.

Batman caught the joint just as she was dropping it and passed it on to the Austrian movie director, who imbibed and then passed it to the two gay French musicians. The doobie made one complete lap around the circle of Batman’s new best friends, being reduced to nothing by the time it reached him again. Everyone had a toke and everyone got quite high—except Batman himself. When the model asked why he wasn’t partaking in his own weed, he replied with a shrug, “I just don’t need it anymore.”

Giggling and chattering, the group commandeered a table up on the top deck where the Italian photographer produced a large vial of cocaine. Once again, everyone in the newly formed coterie partook, but Batman. Yet he seemed the highest of them all.

Between snorts, sniffs and gales of laughter, he regaled them with details of his recent adventure with the Ekita clan. The battle. The rescue. The potions. The cleansing. The tulip bulbs. He even showed them his bare back, where the four bullets stopped by the body armor had left a quartet of huge bruises, contusions that had already vanished.

The Dutch plastic surgeon opined any Ekita potions Batman had ingested were probably coca-based, with some sort of hallucinogenic property added in. He also guessed that the hot cleansing waters he’d simmered in probably contained a significant amount of aloe, or something akin to it that had taken care of his wounds.

But Batman good-naturedly dismissed the explanation.

“I like to think it was pure magic,” he told them.

* * *

BATMAN EVENTUALLY EXCUSED himself from the table and made his way to the tip of the yacht’s extended bow. There was no one up here, which is just as he wanted it.

His spirits were soaring into overdrive. The night sky above seemed to be on fire, with the stars revolving and dancing and moving in elaborate patterns. The air itself smelled glorious. The water below looked like a lake of champagne.

He felt all this, truly and deeply, even though he’d not had a drop of alcohol or any drugs since coming aboard. These things really didn’t interest him anymore. He was naturally high. Feeling like a huge weight had been lifted from him, he was seeing life as it really was for the first time. And life was wonderful.

He whispered under his breath: “Thank you, Chief … thank you for saving me.”

That’s when he sensed someone behind him, someone close enough to touch him. He turned, expecting to find the Italian or the Austrian, looking for another joint.

Instead he saw a strange glowing figure materializing before his eyes. The figure was dressed all in white, yet Batman could see right through him.

A ghost …

Was that possible?

The apparition looked him in the eyes—and Batman felt his knees turn to rubber.

This was no ordinary phantom.

Batman knew him well.…

* * *

NOLAN HAD DRAINED four beers in thirty minutes. He was still hanging back from the rest of the guests and constantly checking his watch.

The encounter with the headwaiter had burst his bubble. Now he was counting the minutes before they could get off this tub.

A woman approached him out of the dark. She was not a model, but then again not unattractive. Maybe in her forties, blond, with a good shape and a nice tan.

California …

Nolan knew it the moment he spotted her.

She introduced herself, but Nolan didn’t really catch her name. She was with People magazine.

“I was just briefed by studio publicity about this rescue mission,” she said. “And someone told me you were involved?”

Nolan was nonchalant. “I was,” he replied.

“Do you know that Miramax is already talking about a movie?”

“Seriously?” he asked.

“You sound shocked.…”

“I shouldn’t be, I guess,” he said. “Things move pretty quick these days.”

She took out a small tape recorder. “So, how did it go?” she asked him. “During the rescue mission?”

Nolan shrugged. “We got the gig, flew in, found the bad guys’ camp, blew it up, rescued the hostages and flew back.”

“And how many pirates did Emma herself take out?” she asked.

Nolan laughed. But then he realized the reporter was serious.

“None that I saw,” he replied. “She was tied up until the battle was over.”

“Interesting,” the reporter said. “Can I use that?”

Nolan shrugged again. “Sure, why not?”

Suddenly all activity on the yacht came to a stop. Everyone’s attention was drawn to the center of the mid deck where a dozen people had been led up from below. None of them were wearing party gear; just the opposite, in fact, many were dressed in rags. Nolan realized who these people were: the twelve other hostages Whiskey had rescued earlier that day.

A half dozen photographers followed them up on deck, all from People. The hostages were made to line up in two awkward rows, the photographers turning them this way and that. Then giant flash reflectors were put in place. Strobes were tested. Light readings taken. Soon enough, they were ready to take a picture.

But someone was missing.

Emma Simms.

Thirty seconds later, she appeared across the deck, making a grand entrance as usual. But to say she looked beautiful was like saying the ocean was wet.

Radiant. Striking. Transcendent …

Even those words didn’t come close.

She was wearing an elegant white gown, with a plunging neckline—but nothing too drastic. Her hair was flowing blond curls. Her face angelic.

But she also looked terminally bored and totally uninterested in her own party.

She was ushered to a spot in the front row of the hostages. Once she was settled, she gave her publicist a curt nod and the photographers started snapping away. A warm smile came across her features, as she looked left and right, up and down. The dozens of strobes flashing on fast advance made for an interesting special effect.

Then, just like that, it was over. The cameras stopped, the strobes died away. Emma stood up and, without a word, disappeared below, a small contingent of handlers following in her wake.

The other hostages were led over to the starboard-side gangway. A small ferry leased out of Aden was waiting below. With no ceremony, the hostages were put aboard and dismissed. The last one to go was the woman who’d been horribly scarred by the Shaka. Once loaded, the ferry pulled away and disappeared into the night.

Nolan couldn’t believe it.

“That might have been the coldest thing I’ve ever seen,” he told the reporter. “Miss Perfect was there for about two hours. Some of those people had been held prisoner for years.”

“Welcome to ‘Emma’s World,’” the reporter said. “And we’re all just visiting.”

She pulled out her small tape recorder and sighed. “Time to go to work. Can’t keep the Princess waiting.”

With that, she, too, disappeared belowdecks.

* * *

NOLAN WENT LOOKING for the rest of Whiskey. He wanted to get off the yacht in the worst way now. But as he was climbing up to the top deck, he ran into Gunner and Twitch on their way down.

Both looked rattled.

“You gotta come with us,” Gunner said. “And I mean, right now.”

Nolan followed them to the forward top deck, probably the only spot on the mega-yacht devoid of guests. They stopped at the starboard lifeboat station and pointed beneath it.

“Take a look under there,” Twitch told him.

“Is this a joke?” Nolan barked back.

“Just look,” Gunner urged him.

Nolan looked under the lifeboat—and saw Batman squeezed into an incredibly small space underneath, curled up in a fetal position and shaking violently.

“What the f*ck…” Nolan gasped.

“We can’t get him to come out,” Gunner said. “Something is wrong with him, big time.”

Nolan reached in, grabbed his colleague by the collar and, with much effort, eventually slid him out. But Batman was still trembling mightily.

“What the f*ck is the matter with you?” Nolan demanded to know.

“I’m not sure,” Batman answered, barely able to speak. “Something very f*cked up just happened.…”

Nolan looked into his eyes. “What did you take tonight?” he asked him. “What kind of drugs?”

“Nothing.…” Batman just managed to whisper. “I swear, no drugs.…”

“How much booze then?”

But Batman was shaking his head no.

“Not a drop,” he insisted. “I’ve been drinking nothing but water since you guys picked me up this morning.”

Nolan detected no stink of alcohol around him. Nor were his pupils dilated or his eyes overly red.

Nolan told Gunner and Twitch to stand fast, and make sure no one, especially the magazine reporter, got past them.

Then Nolan led Batman up to an isolated point of the bow, out of earshot of the others.

“OK, what the hell is going on?” he asked him.

Batman’s face was ashen. His eyes were watery and sunken.

Nolan asked him again: “What is it? Tell me.…”

Batman wiped his brow, cleared his throat, then looked Nolan straight in the eye.

“I just saw Crash,” was all he said.

* * *

CRASH …

The name went through Nolan like a knife.

These days Team Whiskey consisted of four members. But they were once five.

Jack Stacks, aka “Crash,” had been their team’s sniper back when Whiskey was part of Delta Force. A surfer dude from southern California, he’d been a SEAL transfer when he first joined Delta, and eventually wound up fighting with them through the Balkans, Iraq and Afghanistan.

When the team was hung out to dry after their bin Laden debacle, Crash was the only one who stayed in the business, working as a mercenary. It was he who put the team back together; it was he who kept it going. No argument, Crash was the heart and soul of Whiskey.

He was also the first to die, drowned by a renegade SEAL team who’d hijacked a U.S. Navy nuclear sub in the Caribbean. Nolan and Twitch were the ones who’d found him, floating face down near some isolated Bahamian islands, beyond resuscitation. After recovering the hijacked sub, the first thing Whiskey did was bury Crash at a veterans cemetery in Florida, a temporary interment until relatives could claim his body. All that had happened not a month ago. The team hadn’t been the same since.

“So, you’ve lost your mind?” Nolan finally said to Batman. “That’s what you’re telling me?”

Batman was shaking his head. “I saw him, Snake,” he insisted. “Right up there, on the top deck, near the tip of the bow.”

“You know how f*cking crazy that sounds, don’t you?” Nolan growled.

“Of course I do,” Batman shot back, eyes welling up. “But it happened. It just happened. I saw him just as I’m seeing you right now. It was him.”

Nolan knew what was going on. Batman had been tabbed by someone at the party—LSD being the most likely culprit. Either that, or he was suffering delayed side effects of his time with the Ekita Clan back in Somalia. Or an avalanche of PTSD symptoms had just claimed him. Whatever the case, this was not a good situation.

“We’re getting out of here,” Nolan told him. “We’re going back to Aden right now.”

But Batman shook his head. “I can’t fly,” he said. “I can barely walk. And you stink of booze, plus you can barely drive the copter in the daytime. Who’s going to fly it now, in the dead of night?”

Nolan knew he was right. Trying to fly now, in his condition, with his limited sight and high anxiety—he might wind up killing them all.

So, if flying was not an option, then they had no other choice. They’d have to stay on the yacht and baby-sit their troubled colleague all night, making sure he didn’t harm himself or cause a disruption at the party.

Nolan said as much to Batman. But his friend was barely listening. He had his head in hands and was sobbing.

“There’s more,” he said. “Crash told me something. Something very strange.”

Batman looked up at him. “Do you want to know what he said?”

Nolan shrugged wearily. Any buzz he’d had was long gone now. “You mean, do I want to know what this figment of your imagination told you?” he asked.

Batman caught his breath and began slowly. “He said we’re about to be ‘blinded by the light.’ And that you’re going back to jail. And that we should be careful if we ever hear the word ‘moonglow.’”

Nolan just shook his head.

“Dude, climb onto one of the lounges up there and get some sleep,” he said pointing to the unoccupied top deck. “That’s the only way you’re going to come out of this.”