Jack Terral - Battlecraft (2006)

The traffic thinned out as Batanza approached the suburbs, and by the time he turned onto MacArthur Boulevard he was able to move along at a steady pace. The only thing that slowed him down was a stoplight, and he came to a halt when it turned red. A Vespa motor scooter came up beside him and halted. Batanza glanced disinterestedly at the two young men sitting on it, then turned his attention back to the light. He didn't see the guy on the backseat pull the MAC-10 from a gym bag.

The bullets streamed out in one long burst as the thirty-two 9-millimeter bullets in the magazine were fired into Batanza's car window. The naval officer was buffeted across the front seat as his flesh and bones were pulverized in the hail of heavy steel slugs. His foot slipped off the brake, and the Accord rolled into the intersection, where an oncoming bus slammed into it.

The Vespa made a quick U-turn, and sped away.

.

RAWALPINDI, PAKISTAN

2330 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE Assad wasn't sure where he was. He knew he was in Rawalpindi, but he had gotten turned around in futile attempts to find a way out of the city. He ended up in a rundown area where the locals were obviously hostile toward outsiders. These definitely were not the city's leading citizens. Many of the women were unveiled, and the men glared at Mike as if daring him to start something. He noted a few unfortunate individuals with notches cut in their ears. This was the police method of not only punishing petty criminals, but marking them for easy identification when making roundups of suspicious persons.

Now, instead of concentrating on getting out of the city, Mike was more concerned about getting out of that slum neighborhood to a safer area. He moved uneasily in the dim lights cast from windows onto the dirt street as he tried to find a route that would take him back to lighted surroundings. He caught himself passing a couple of places twice, which meant he had begun to wander in circles. Even the best orienteer in the world would start getting sloppy when in dark urban environs that had a sameness about them.

The four goons seemed to materialize in front of him out of the gloom.

He quickly sized them up as the local tough guys; a quartet of miserable buffoons who shared the same qualities and quantities of stupidity and meanness. They would happily kill him to strip his corpse to get a few rupees for his clothing. They had picked the spot for the murder and robbery with some skill. The street was narrow and long with no side outlets for at least fifty meters. Mike began walking slowly backward so that none could get behind him. They pulled knives from beneath their chadors, and grinned.

"Ap khairiyat se hait?" Mike greeted them in the only words he knew in the Urdu language. Next he tried Arabic. "Kayfa halik?"

They didn't waste time in launching their attack. The leader, a long stringbean, with lean whipping arms, led his buddies into the fray. Mike sidestepped, and the guy was sent sprawling with a wicked wakite karate punch to the kidneys as he went by. A quick yubi punch to the second dropped him straight down to the dirt, while a vicious marui kick knocked the third over on his back. The fourth, who had been bringing up the rear, wisely kept charging, jumping over his prostrate buddies and going down the street to disappear into the darkness.

Mike stopped long enough to take a long, calming breath, then gathered up the three knives. He chose the best to keep, then threw the others up on the top of the nearby mud huts.

He quickly left the scene in case there were backup robbers or the fourth guy returned with the rest of the gang. He walked rapidly and quietly away until discovering a street that led out into an open area that smelled like a garbage dump. He found the remnants of a mud wall to hide behind, and settled down to wait for daylight.

.

KUPANG, TIMOR ISLAND

3 OCTOBER

0315 HOURS LOCAL

THEcar pulled off the main street and rolled into the ambulance entrance of the City Hospital. The man in the passenger seat quickly got out and opened the back door. He reached in and pulled Abduruddin Suhanto from the automobile, and shoved him toward the emergency room. The shipping line owner staggered backward a few steps as the man returned to the vehicle, which quickly sped back to the streets.

A tourniquet had been applied to Suhanto's right wrist where the hand had been severed. He sobbed aloud in shock and pain, almost fainting, but he gathered enough strength to lurch toward the medical help available in the building.

.

In the name of Allah, the Beneficent, the Merciful: If a man or a woman steals, cut off their hands as a punishment for what they have done. They deserve this exemplary punishment from Allah, and Allah is Mighty and Wise.

--as it is written in the Holy Qu'ran

.

Suhanto, like Batanza, had now paid for his part in the robbery of al-Mimkhalif's weapons. From that time on, he would have to eat with the same hand he wiped his rectum with after defecating. A supreme embarrassment in the Islamic world.

Chapter 7.

ACV BATTLECRAFT

INDIAN OCEAN

VICINITY OF 5deg NORTH AND 60deg EAST

4 OCTOBER

0730 HOURS LOCAL

THE Battlecraft skimmed over the placid surface of the ocean at a steady clip of forty-five miles an hour with the throttle set at half speed. Petty Officer First Class Paul Watkins had an easy time maintaining a course of zero-four-five, while to his right Lieutenant (JG) Veronica Rivers kept a constant vigil on her radar instrumentation, eagerly scanning the scope for contacts.

Lieutenant Bill Brannigan had now grown completely disenchanted with this assignment. Every day was the same. Get up early for chow, launch the ACV from the USS Dan Daly's docking well, and spend some empty hours cruising the Indian Ocean finding absolutely nothing. Then return to the ship, pull any necessary maintenance, fill out the logs, report in to Commander Tom Carey, and end another dreary tour of duty that had accomplished absolutely nothing. Higher command echelons could not provide any leads on terrorist activities to investigate. Brannigan wished that some staff weenie would get at least an inkling of information to give them the impression there was something out there on the Indian Ocean or the Arabian Sea worth finding. Whatever the bad guys were doing was either out of sight or not happening on the Battlecraft 9 s watch.

The entire Second Assault Section was topside, taking in the sun and reading field and technical manuals in anticipation of MOS proficiency tests. Sometimes they broke the monotony by doing push-ups and deep knee bends to keep their muscles supple for any potential boarding of suspicious ships.

Down in the office, Veronica Rivers broke the silence. "I have a contact. Zero-one-niner at ten miles."

The announcement did not cause any excitement since there were always plenty of contacts during the reconnaissance tours. Merchant ships, oil tankers, and miscellaneous naval vessels of nearby nations constantly cruised to and fro as they went about their business in the area.

"Course zero-one-niner," Brannigan said to Watkins. He leaned toward Veronica. "What's it look like?"

"It's a weak contact, sir," Veronica answered. "Something out there is constructed of a minimum amount of metal."

"Great!" Brannigan said sarcastically. "From all indications it's probably a rowboat."

"It's under power," Veronica said. "Moving approximately seven to eight knots on an easterly course."

"Maybe it's the Pakistani rowing team going so fast they sped out into the open ocean," Watkins said, grinning.

"In that case," Veronica said, "they're a cinch to win a gold medal in the next Olympics."