Jack Terral - Battlecraft (2006)

They remained silent as they drove out of town, and turned onto a macadam highway, heading east. After a few minutes, the black guy, who sat in the passenger seat, turned to look at Mike. "How're you doing, ass-face?"

Mike declined to answer.

The black guy swung his hand up, holding a Beretta 9-millimeter automatic. He pointed it straight at Mike's head, saying, "Give me just one fucking excuse and I'll put a bullet straight into that thick traitorous skull of yours."

The white guy chuckled. "Let's stop somewhere along the way and shoot the son of a bitch. We can say he tried to escape."

Mike turned his face away to stare at the back door. This situation was something he'd never expected when he volunteered for the SEALs.

.

KUPANE, TIMOR ISLAND

29 SEPTEMBER

0900 HOURS LOCAL

ABDURUDDINSuhanto sat in his office, smoking a cigar and taking nips from a pocket flask containing Johnny Walker Black scotch whiskey. His swollen feet were up on a padded stool as he gazed unseeing out of the window at the usual waterfront activity. One of his tubs, the SS Surabaya , sat in rusty squalor at a dock where its cargo of Taiwanese sewing machines was being offloaded. They were destined for a sweatshop in Bandung where a line of clothing bearing the name of a famous English actress was manufactured. It seemed that even Suhanto's occasional legitimate shipping activities were destined to be tainted by some sort of controversy.

The old clerk Bachaman rapped lightly on the door in his usual timid style.

"Come in!" Suhanto said loudly, irritated by the interruption.

The skinny little old man stepped into the office, his eyes opened wide in worry. "Mr. Sabah has arrived as per your invitation, sir."

"Send the gentleman in," Suhanto said. He quickly assumed what he considered a sad, regretful expression on his round face and waited for his guest to appear.

When Sabah entered, he walked directly to the front of the desk and glared down at the shipping company owner. "What is the bad news you have for me?"

"Oh, Mr. Sabah," Suhanto said, looking as if he were about to break out in cries of incalculable lamentation. "Thasart k'tir --I regret it very much! But your last shipment was stolen from us at sea."

"Do not tell me that!"

"Alas! I have no choice!" Suhanto wailed.

"How did such a thing happen? And who did it?"

"It was a warship," Suhanto said. "And my captain, Muharno, said it flew no flag. They simply came alongside and threatened to sink the Jakarta if they did not obey the order to heave to."

Sabah sat down in a nearby chair, looking suspiciously at Suhanto. "What language was this warship crew speaking?"

"Unfortunately, it was one Captain Muharno did not know," Suhanto said. 'To my own thinking it might have been a Singaporean naval vessel. They speak many languages in that country. Malay, Chinese--"

"I know what languages are spoken in Singapore!" Sabah interrupted in a furious tone of voice. 'There must be some way of identifying the thief!"

"Oh, I was very stern with Captain Muharno," Suhanto said. "I spoke to him in great anger, demanding that he remember more." He shrugged. "But I am afraid all he knows is that it was a warship "

"What sorts of uniforms and insignia was the crew wearing?" Sabah demanded to know.

'That is what is so strange," Suhanto said. 'They were dressed in civilian clothing as is typical of merchant seamen. But their vessel was armed and well equipped as are those of navies."

Sabah's teeth were bared like those of a growling dog. "How did they know the Jakarta carried an arms shipment?"

Suhanto shrugged. "They probably did not know. They were after whatever cargo was aboard."

Sabah got angrily to his feet. "We shall look into this. Our organization has contacts in many places." He walked toward the door, jerking it open. Before leaving, he turned back toward Suhanto. "The loss of those weapons has been a hard blow to our antiaircraft capabilities. This is not the end of this incident!" Then he made an abrupt exit.

Suhanto smiled, speaking to himself under his breath. "That is right, you arrogant Arab bastard! This is just the beginning!" He reached for his flask and took another slug of the excellent scotch.

.

UNITED STATES EMBASSY

ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN

1030 HOURS LOCAL

THEMarine guards on gate duty recognized the van as it turned off Embassy Road and onto Second Road. They waited alertly for the subtle all-clear signal to be flashed to them by the white driver, Mulvaney. He held the steering wheel with one hand at the top center. If there was a problem, both hands would have been in that position. If the situation was serious enough, such as being held hostage by a potential assassin or suicide bomber, the driver's hands would have been at ten o'clock and two o'clock. That would be the gesture to signal the sentries to stop the vehicle at all costs. Either way, the black guy, Wheatfall, in the passenger seat would have his arms crossed over his chest to indicate he concurred with the signal.

The vehicle slowed as the gate was opened, then sped through the opening and across the parking lot to continue around the building to an area that was blocked from view by a thick grove of chestnut trees. The van came to a stop at the same time that another pair of Marines stepped from the embassy building to meet them. Mulvaney and Wheatfall got out of the vehicle and walked around to open the sliding door on the side. They reached in and grabbed Mike Assad, dragging him bodily from the interior.

Mulvaney pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs, removing them from Mike's wrists. He grabbed the prisoner by the collar and shoved him toward the Marines, who each took an arm. Mulvaney laughed. "Why don't you guys turn him loose? I've been wanting to kill the turncoat son of a bitch ever since we picked him up over in Delbandin."

One of the Marines grinned. "We'd love to, Mr. Mulvaney. But we've got orders to lock him up in the detention cell all safe and secure."

Mulvaney and Wheatfall waited until Mike was taken into the building before they entered through another door. The pair went down a corridor and upstairs to the office of their boss, the embassy's chief intelligence officer, Rod Barker. They rapped on the door and stepped inside.

Barker was a slim, clean-shaven man with longish hair. He looked up from the SITREP he was reading. "I take it you've brought in the prisoner as arranged."

"Right," Wheatfall replied. "And he's an American all right."

"The son of a bitch!" Mulvaney exclaimed. "God! I wanted to--"

"Never mind," Barker said. "What kind of shape was he in?"

"He'd gotten a few knocks from the Pakos " Wheatfall said. "But he's in fine fettle "

"Yeah " Mulvaney said. "When do we start interrogating him? This guy should be able to cough up some great intel."

"I'm going to start with a friendly introduction" Barker said. "Y'know what I mean. Where's he from. What's his family like. All that kind of shit. I'll make friends with him."

"If you want to play good cop and bad cop, I'm volunteering for bad cop," Mulvaney said.

Wheatfall laughed. "And I'm volunteering for worst cop!"

"We'll get serious with him tomorrow," Barker said. "But, like I said, I'm going to be nice at first. I'll even let him have some lunch. I want to start with the impression that I'm more or less welcoming him home. Y'know what I mean? The old interrogation scam that the prodigal son returneth to understanding and forgiveness."

"Don't be too nice," Mulvaney said. "We can violate the hell out of his Constitutional rights over here. Once the bastard's back in the States, he'll have an attorney."

"Don't worry," Barker said. "I'm not going to be his butt boy."