Don Pendleton - Final Resort

Bateman lowered his binoculars and turned, facing two new arrivals on the bridge. He sometimes welcomed passengers topside, by invitation only, but the swarthy men who stood before him now were strangers, neither members of his crew nor anyone whom Bateman would’ve chosen to observe the inner workings of the ship.

Wearing a corporate smile, he asked, “How may I help you, gentlemen?”

The guns seemed to appear from nowhere, one of them pointed at Bateman’s face.

“If you cooperate with us,” its owner said, “perhaps no one aboard this ship will die today.”

SOHRAB CASPARI THOUGHT, It almost seems too easy. After all the planning, all the risk, the bloody skirmish at Guantanamo, the capture of the Tropic Princess struck him almost as an anticlimax, disappointing in its stark simplicity.

But it was done.

Beside him, Osman Zarghona, his Afghani second in command, covered the bridge crew with his AKSU assault rifle, while Caspari kept his Uzi submachine gun leveled at the gray-haired captain. In addition to their main automatic weapons, both hijackers also carried pistols, hand grenades and knives.

“Is this some kind of joke?” the captain asked.

“Perhaps I should kill one of your men, to see if we are joking. Yes?” Caspari answered.

“No. That won’t be necessary,” the captain said. “What, exactly, do you want?”

“Before we speak of that,” Caspari said, “know that we aren’t alone. I have more men aboard your ship, with weapons and enough explosives to destroy it.”

“I see.” The captain frowned and said, “How many gunmen—”

“Freedom fighters!” Zarghona snapped.

“Yes, of course. How many freedom fighters are there, may I ask?”

“Enough to do the job,” Caspari told him. Fishing in his left-hand pocket for a cell phone, he explained, “I keep in touch through this. The marvels of technology. You only see them—hear them—if and when I say. Follow instructions, and your passengers may suffer no disturbance.”

“As to these instructions,” Captain Bateman said, “what might they be?”

“We have demands,” Caspari answered, “which you will broadcast over your radio. Freedom for comrades wrongfully imprisoned. Reparation payments. Other things. If the Americans defy us, then we will be forced to execute your passengers and crew.”

“Don’t take offense, old chap,” the captain said, “but you’ve been misinformed. This ship is not American. Its owners are Italians, Greeks—one Saudi, I believe. It’s registered in Panama. I doubt that Washington will care what happens to the Tropic Princess. Certainly, they won’t negotiate with…freedom fighters, like yourselves.”

“You think me foolish, yes?” Caspari said, sneering. “That is a serious mistake. We know that half your passengers are from the U.S.A. They cannot visit Cuba from America, so rich pigs fly to Mexico and board your ship. All this is public knowledge. Glory to the Internet.”

“I grant you that we have Americans aboard,” Bateman replied. “I’m simply saying that—”

“You say too much!” Caspari snapped. “Is time for you to listen, now. You will broadcast our very fair and just demands, or face the consequences of defiance. Must I demonstrate by executing someone here and now? That one, perhaps?”

Caspari swung his Uzi toward a young man standing frozen, several paces to the captain’s left. The target blanched and trembled in his crisp white uniform.

“No, please!” the captain blurted. “I’m simply trying to prepare you for the disappointment you will face in bargaining with the Americans.”

“I fear no disappointment,” Caspari said. “I and all my men are quite prepared to die. Your passengers and crew, I think, value their lives and comfort more than principle.”

The captain’s shoulders slumped. “You have a list, for my communications officer?”

“His services are not required,” Caspari said. “Prepare the radio and stand aside, while I address the world.”

“Of course,” Bateman said. “As you wish. About your other men…”

Caspari checked his wristwatch. “I must speak to them in nineteen minutes, and at each half hour after that.” He nodded toward Zarghona and explained, “Should either of us fail to make contact on schedule, it means the destruction of your ship.”

“I understand,” Bateman replied. “We pose no threat to you. Which one of you will follow me to the communications room?”

Washington, D.C.

NABI ULMALHAMA HELD A wooden match precisely one inch below the square-cut tip of his Cuban cigar. He spent a moment savoring the taste of rum-soaked tobacco leaves, then reached out for his glass of twenty-year-old scotch.

Strict Muslim teachings barred the use of alcoholic beverages, but Ulmalhama reckoned that God granted dispensation for selected, special servants of His cause.

Listening to early-evening traffic rumble past his posh Georgetown apartment, Ulmalhama nearly missed the deferential knocking on his study door.

“Enter,” he said.

His houseman crossed the thick carpet silently, half-bowed to Ulmalhama as he said, “Sir, if you care to watch the news?”

“Of course.”

Waiting until the houseman left him, Ulmalhama picked up the remote control and switched on his giant flat-screen television, flicking through the channels until he found CNN. A blond reporter stood before a cruise ship, speaking urgently into a handheld microphone. The dateline banner covering her breasts told Ulmalhama she was in Miami. He pressed another button to increase the volume.

“The ship is much like the one behind me, only somewhat larger. Now, we understand the Tropic Princess is the flagship of the Argos Cruise Line, launched in June 2006. It can accommodate three thousand passengers. And I’m told the ship is booked to full capacity this evening, after taking on new passengers in Cuba. With the crew, we make it four thousand two hundred people presently aboard the Tropic Princess, hijacked in the Straits of Florida.”

The station cut away to a grim-looking anchorman. The newsman said, “We now have audio from the hijackers on the Argos cruise ship, broadcasting a list of their demands over an open frequency. This signal was recorded ten minutes ago, from the Tropic Princess in international waters. We air it now, for the first time.”

Ulmalhama sat and listened, with his eyes closed, to the gruff, familiar voice.

“I am Sohrab Caspari. Yesterday, with comrades from Allah’s Warriors, I was privileged to liberate a number of political prisoners from the American death camp at Cuba’s Guantanamo Bay. Some of those hostages are now with me, aboard the Tropic Princess, a decadent pleasure craft symbolizing all that is wrong with corrupt Western society. We have more than four thousand prisoners on board, whom we will gladly execute unless the following demands are met.

“First, we demand the immediate liberation of all remaining prisoners held at Guantanamo Bay, at Abu Ghraib prison in Baghdad, and throughout the state of Israel. A list of names shall be provided to the White House, but since many of the prisoners are held illegally and incommunicado, we can only estimate their total number. To avoid useless debate, after the prisoners identified by name are freed, we expect the liberation of one martyr for each man, woman and child aboard the Tropic Princess.”

Ulmalhama smiled at that. It was a nice touch, which would get them nowhere.

As intended.

“Second, we demand a ransom of one million dollars for each hostage presently aboard the ship. To spare ourselves the effort of precisely counting them, we shall accept four billion dollars as the total ransom. Payments of one billion dollars each shall be wired to four separate bank accounts, one each in Switzerland, Liechtenstein, the Cayman Islands and in Costa Rica. Relevant transfer information shall be provided upon acceptance of our terms by Washington.”