Battlecraft (2006) s-3 Page 11

  Aguilando turned at the sound of footsteps as Turpin came out to join him. The Englishman's gaze was direct, betraying his curiosity. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Turpin. 'Arry Turpin."

  "I am Ferdinand Aguilando," the visitor said. "I am the captain of the patrol boat once commanded by Carlos Batanza."

  "What's 'appened to that bloke Batanza?" Turpin asked, though he knew the exact circumstances of the killing.

  "He had an accident," Aguilando said. "A fatal one, unfortunately. I have been assigned to take over his boat."

  "Right. So wot can I do for you, Captain?"

  "I am taking up where Commander Batanza left off."

  "Right. And?"

  "I shall have more arms for sale quite soon," Aguilando said. "I would like to continue the same arrangement you had with Batanza."

  "I 'ope there ain't no more officers who know about this," Turpin said uneasily. "I always prefer to deal with one bloke at a time as I did with the late Mr. Batanza."

  "I assure you that you will see only me," Aguilando said. "We will rendezvous with your people for the transfer of the cargo, but I shall be alone when we meet to discuss business and make the sales."

  "Right," Turpin said. " 'Ow soon will you 'ave a delivery?"

  "Within a week or so," Aguilando said. "I have some recently acquired arms stowed in a safe place for the time being. I shall contact you when I have an exact date and time."

  "I'll be 'ere," Turpin promised.

  Aguilando finished his beer, shook hands with his host, and went outside for the golf cart ride back to the hotel building. Turpin walked to the window and watched the officer leave. When the Filipino disappeared from view, the Englishman turned. "You can come out now, Mr. Sabah."

  Hafez Sabah stepped out from an adjoining room. "My brothers and I appreciate the very helpful services you are providing us."

  "I don't claim to be sodding ethical," Turpin said. "It would be bad for me business if word got round that I was making a bluddy 'abit of buying back cargoes I sold to somebody else after they was stole."

  "Whatever the reason for your aid in solving this problem, we remain grateful."

  "So wot 'appens to this bloke then?"

  "He will be dealt with in the same manner as was done with Batanza," Sabah said.

  Turpin shrugged. "Then some other orficer will take his place."

  "This time there will be no more Aguilando, Patrol Boat 22, or any of its crew," Sabah said. "Again I thank you, Mr. Turpin. Good-bye."

  "Ma'al salama," Turpin said.

  Sabah smiled. "Ah! You speak some Arabic, do you?"

  "I picked up a bit during me Legion days in Algeria."

  .

  NORTHWEST FRONTIER PROVINCE

  7 0CT0BER

  1400 HOURS LOCAL

  MIKE Assad was now avoiding all places where he might come into contact with people. He had fresh water, ammunition, an ancient Webley .455-caliber revolver, and some chapattis, a flat, round, unleavened wheat bread he had found in the pouch on the back of the harness and belt he had lifted at the police station. The SEAL moved at a slow but steady gait as he traveled through the scrub-brush boondocks toward the Afghan border to the west. Because of a complete CIA orientation and briefing about his OA, Mike knew and appreciated the adventurous history of the land he now trekked through.

  This was where the British fought the warlike tribes of the area in the nineteenth century. A long string of forts were constructed across the territory to contain the native rebels as well as thwart any expansionist activities of Czarist Russia. The biggest problem the British soldiers faced was the fierce resistance of the Pathans. Things got so bad that when the Northwest Province was created, the Pathans were given control of a strip of land along the Afghan border to appease them. This didn't make the warlike people all that happy, and they rebelled in fury at various times, fighting skirmishes with British troops over many decades As late as 1937, the Pathans attacked and massacred an entire British column in one memorable battle.

  Now Mike continued to move cautiously through Pathan territory, the pistol loaded and loosened in the holster. As he kept his vigilance at a high level, he caught sight of the plentiful wildlife. Markhor goats, gazelles, and foxes were in abundance, and he knew the place must be a hunter's paradise. He was well into a long afternoon of travel when he suddenly noticed the absence of animals. Obviously something had frightened them.

  Then he sighted the horsemen.

  Two riders were off to his left, close enough that Mike could see they were interested in him. He opened the holster flap and pulled the pistol out, sticking it in the belt. The thought flashed in his mind of saving one last bullet to put into his own brain like the British soldiers of old used to do if capture were imminent in that part of the world. A movement to his right caught his eye as another pair of riders came into view. Then a few more rode into sight. Mike knew that resistance with a pistol would be futile. The horsemen were all armed with rifles. They could leisurely pick him off without getting within range of the revolver.

  Now they began to close in, and Mike put his hand on the weapon, deciding to sell his life dearly. Within ten minutes they had drawn up close to him, grinning with a menacing sort of amusement. One of them came forward. "Chertha zey?"

  "Asalam aleikum " Mike said uttering the universal Islamic greeting. "Arabi? English?"

  "How do you do? I am speaking English the man said.

  "Yes, you are," Mike said agreeably. "And very well too."

  "Thank you for such kind words," the man said. "I attended a special school in Peshawar to be prepared for the diplomatic service. It is there that I learned to speak English and Urdu. I am called Sarleh Khey."

  "I am called Mikael Assad."

  "I have asked you chertha zey in my language," Khey asked. "It means where do you go."

  "I am returning to friends near the coast," Mike replied. "I must confess that I am not sure of my exact location at this moment. All I know is that I am in the Northwest Frontier Province."

  "It is so named by Englishmen," Khey said. "In actuality, you travel across the territory ruled by my people. We call ourselves Pashtuns, but in the West we are called Pathans."

  Now Mike knew he was having an encounter with a tribe that boasted a long warrior tradition. "Since I have so impolitely intruded onto your land, I shall also refer to you as Pashtuns, if it so pleases you."

  Khey laughed loudly, explaining to his friends what Mike had just said. Their former insolent grins immediately turned friendly. Khey said, "May I ask how it is that you speak English?"

  "I am an American," Mike explained. "It is a long story."

  Khey spoke again to his comrades, who did not mask their surprise. "We Pashtuns love long stories. Would you be so kind as to tell us yours?"

  "My pleasure."

  "Excellent! We invite you to come to our village as our guest. Hop up behind my saddle, Mikael."

  Mike opened up his chador to reveal the pistol belt and accouterments. He smiled widely to appear as amicable as possible as he slowly and carefully pulled the weapon from the belt. He reset it into the holster and snapped the flap shut.

  This made the Pashtuns laugh again and make remarks among themselves.

  "My friends say you were prepared to defend yourself," Khey said. "That is most admirable. You showed no fear."

  I was scared shitless, Mike's mind spoke silently, and that would have been bad news for you fuckers!

  The Pashtun took his foot out of his left stirrup, and Mike stepped into it, swinging himself up on the horse. He settled behind his new friend as the group rode off, turning southwest.

  .

  1530 HOURS LOCAL

  THE Pashtun village was unnamed, but well organized, with the mud buildings laid out in a zigzag pattern to create narrow streets that would suddenly turn ninety degrees, go a short distance, then turn back in the original direction. Mike Assad had seen this arrangement before during a mission to Afghanistan. Su
ch streets would be easy to defend while attackers, unable to see ahead any great distance, would have to slow down at each intersection where ambushes would be waiting to be sprung on them.

  Mike and his escorts went to a central building that was the largest structure in the small community. It appeared primitive on the outside in spite of having glass windows. The interior, however, was much more elaborate. Thick carpeting covered the floor from wall to wall, and several tables, standing no more than eighteen inches high, were arranged in a circular pattern. A raised platform, also carpeted, was at the head of the room. The table on it was twice as long as the others. Mike figured that was where the local board of directors sat during community meetings.

  He and his new friends settled down around a table. Within moments three women appeared carrying an urn of khawa green tea, small cups, and a platter of deep-fried vegetables called pakoras. Mike knew enough not to look at the women, and he kept his eyes on Khey.

  "I appreciate your hospitality," he said.

  "This is a strong Pashtun custom called melmastia," Khey explained. "We are a people who believe in being especially courteous to our guests." He poured a cup of tea, passing it over to Mike. "Many outsiders think of us as murderous barbarians. In truth, we have a civilization unique unto ourselves."

  The platter of pakoras was passed to Mike. Only after the guest had been served did the other men look after their own refreshments. Khey took a sip of the sweetened hot drink. "So, friend Mikael, we are most anxious to hear your story. It must be interesting because you are an Arab, yet an American too."

  "I was born in America," Mike said. "My grandfather came there from Jordan. As an Arab and a follower of Islam, I felt an obligation to fight in the jihad against the West. I am a member of al-Mimkhalif. Have you heard of it?"

  "Indeed," Khey said. He translated the words for his friends around the table, who nodded with approval, uttering words directed toward the American. "My countrymen wish martyrdom for you."

  'Thank you," Mike said, thinking that only in Islam would someone wish death for you in such a way that you would thank him. "At any rate, I was captured by the Pakistani police during a battle." He went on to explain how he was sent to the American Embassy and escaped, then visited the mosque in Rawalpindi, where he was given help, then had to endure yet another arrest by the police during the bus trip. He told of the escape and how he stole the belt with pistol, pouches, and canteens.

  Khey translated it all, and at the conclusion the Pashtuns all applauded and cheered Mike's resourcefulness. Khey clapped him on the shoulder. 'Tonight we will take you to the elders. I am sure they will help you back to al-Mimkhalif.

  Now let us finish the khawa and pakoras, then you may come to my house and rest."

  With the guest's story now told, the group turned their full attention to the refreshments.

  .

  2030 HOURS LOCAL

  AFTER a long restful nap and another meal, Mike Assad was taken back to the same building where he had been entertained that afternoon. But this time all the important men in the village were seated around the tables, and the exalted position at the front of the room was occupied by a quartet of very old males. The SEAL rightly assumed they were the village elders. He and Sarleh Khey were escorted to the table in front of the elderly men.

  The windows were all opened and the faces of lower-ranking males and boys peered in to view the unusual sight of an American having an audience with the council of wise men. The opening ceremonies consisted of a man walking to the front of the elders and delivering a speech that Mike assumed was an announcement of the evening's agenda.

  With this done, Khey stood up and addressed not only the council, but the entire room. He took three quarters of an hour explaining and describing Mike's adventures since the raid on the Pakistani police camp. This made Mike grin inwardly since he had been able to tell the whole tale in under fifteen minutes that afternoon. Khey gestured grandly, referring to Mike with sweeping arms. The words al-Mimkhalif and jihad were repeated within the jumble of Pashto. Mike was pleased to note the nods and smiles toward him. After his encounters in the slums of Rawalpindi, he found the friendliness quite comforting.

  When Khey finished, he sat down. Now the elders spoke among themselves, gesturing as they all talked at once. It was hard for Mike to understand how they were to reach any conclusions in that disruptive manner, but they suddenly stopped speaking as if on cue.

  The youngest of the elders stood up. He appeared to be in his seventies, and he made a half-hour address to the assemblage, also obviously discussing Mike. When he finished, there were murmurs of agreement in the crowd. Khey now took the floor again, speaking only a sentence to the assemblage. He looked down at Mike. "I have told them I shall speak to you in English to explain the decision of the council."

  "Fine," Mike said, slightly worried. In truth, he really didn't know if he should be optimistic or pessimistic. "Thank you."

  "In order for you to return to al-Mimkhalif, you will pass through dangerous territory with many bandits and bad people. They will kill you for the clothes on your back; your knife and pistol would be of great value to them also. Therefore, according to the dictates of our warrior code of Pashtunwali, our clan will provide an escort for you. This way you will be able to safely reach your comrades-in-arms and go to Paradise after you are martyred. We thank Allah he has sent you here to us so that we may serve the cause of your jihad."

  Mike Assad almost felt guilty about fooling these generous people; but not quite.

  Chapter 9.

  KUPANG, TIMOR ISLAND

  OCTOBER 8

  0900 HOURS LOCAL

  BACH AM AN, the old clerk at the Greater Sunda Shipping Line, was a nervous man even during the best of times. Now, with his employer having suffered a forced amputation of his right hand for misbehavior, the elderly man lived in a perpetual state of terror. He feared that even guilt by association could bring him a similar fate. The possibility that the wrath of those outraged clients might be extended to him caused the old fellow sleepless nights, nervous nausea, and a pessimistic outlook that bordered on near paranoiac schizophrenia. When the door to the outer office opened and the Arab Hafez Sabah stepped inside, all those mental disturbances roared up in a psychotic detonation.

  Bachaman screamed and ran out that same door.

  Abduruddin Suhanto rushed from his office to see what had happened. The sight of his hated client further spoiled what was already a terrible day. Not only did the wrist that used to have a hand attached to it throb, but the missing member also felt as if it were still there. He glared at Sabah, asking, "What happened to my clerk?"

  "I do not know," Sabah replied. "I walked in and he screamed like a madman and ran out of the building."

  Suhanto knew exactly how the old fellow felt. "What is it you want?"

  "Let us go into your office for a more intimate chat" Sabah said.

  Suhanto turned and led the way to his desk. He sat down, looking up at Sabah with an undisguised but futile fury in his eyes. "I ask again. What do you want?"

  "I have instructions you are to pass to the Philippine officer Aguilando," Sabah said. "You are to tell him that a shipment of Russian machine guns will be aboard the SS Jakarta bound for al-Mimkhalif. Describe the cargo as very valuable PKM seven-point-six-two-millimeter models. And that is exactly what they will be."

  "Where am I to pick up this shipment?"

  "Follow established procedures," Sabah said. "Make sure those machine guns are aboard the Jakarta. Tell Aguilando that the ship will depart on October tenth at ten hundred hours following the usual course. Interception will be expected in the South China Sea. However, your captain is not to give the weapons to the Filipino when he rendezvous with him."

  "And what happens when Aguilando shows up and Captain Muharno refused to turn over the cargo?" Suhanto asked.

  "That is not your concern," Sabah said.

  "It is my concern!" Suhanto angrily insisted. "I have
already lost one ship."

  "Believe me," Sabah said, "you will not lose the Jakarta. This I swear to you in the name of Allah."

  "Very well," Suhanto said, knowing any further protests would be futile. "How much will I be paid for participating in this deception or whatever it is?"

  "You will be allowed to keep your left hand."

  "My God!" Suhanto cried. "How much more must I endure?"

  "It was your greed that brought you to this sad state of affairs," Sabah reminded him. "Do you have any questions?"

  Suhanto shook his head, wincing as his wrist throbbed again.

  .

  ROYAL YACHT SAYIH

  GULF OF ADEN

  VICINITY 40deg EAST AND 13deg NORTH

  1200 HOURS LOCAL

  SHEIKH Omar Jambarah was not a member of Saudi Arabia's royal family, but his clan enjoyed close relations with the rulers of the kingdom. One of the perks of this friendship was unlimited use of the Royal Yacht Sayih.

  Sheikh Omar's forefathers were no more than country bumpkins from outward appearances; however, during several centuries of intrigues, rebellions, wars, and political infighting on the Arabian Peninsula, the elders of the family always managed to choose the sides and causes that were victorious. Even between 1915 and 1927, when the British claimed the area as a protectorate, the headmen of the Jambarah clan continued to stick with winners, giving them genuine devotion and loyalty. In 1932, when the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia emerged from the chaos, Jambarah's grandfather was granted a sheikdom by the grateful royal family. Eventually, oil was found on the land, and the Jambarah clan became incredibly wealthy. They established a city-state, sending their sons abroad to be educated at the world's finest universities. The latest of these male offspring was the present ruler, Sheikh Omar.

  Jambarah went further than simply taking advantage of excellent schooling. He broke free of his strict Islamic upbringing and fell into the sins of the flesh offered in the West. He dealt with this sinfulness with the rationalization that giving in to his base desires while not actually in a Muslim country meant he was not in conflict with Islamic law. He also used his abundant spare time and personal wealth to form the al-Mimkhalif Warriors of Fury to carry out a special jihad against the infidels. He did this not because of religious fervor, but to create a kingdom of his own that he would claw out of Saudi Arabia.