Battlecraft (2006) (21 page)

ROYAL YACHT
SAYIH

1800 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE
Assad and Hafez Sabah lay on the bunks in their shared cabin. Sabah was morose and inconsolable, not speaking or acknowledging his companion as he stared up at the overhead. All the work he had done in building up a foolproof transportation and smuggling system for al-Mimkhalif had gone completely to hell. Any further attempts to get arms to the terrorist group would be risky since the one sure oceangoing protection they once enjoyed had been blown away under the guns of the United States Navy.

Mike was in a well-concealed good mood about that particular situation. For all intents and purposes, al-Mimkhalif would slowly deteriorate like melting snow as their resources were used up. On the other hand, the SEAL was not exactly elated about his own situation. His mind churned with one unworkable idea after the other as he tried to figure out a way to get the hell off the yacht to find an opportunity to make contact with American intelligence. Unfortunately, Sheikh Omar Jambarah could bring the terrorist movement back to life within a year or so. Mike had to get the word out on the guy to knock out al-Mimkhalif once and for all. Once they knew who he was, the CIA could dispatch some real nasty types to kidnap him. Sweating the bastard out in Guantanamo Bay would produce a lot of useful information.

There was even a possibility that a large percentage of other terrorist programs could be eradicated permanently. That would be a giant leap forward in eliminating the worldwide threat.

Mike glanced over at Sabah, who continued to gaze forlornly at the overhead, a frown frozen on his features. One thing for sure; if the SEAL could make a clean break from the yacht, the last thing he would do before disembarking would be to cut the son of a bitch's throat.

The door suddenly came open and the large bulk of the bodyguard Alif filled the exit. He pointed directly at Mike.
"Inta! Ta'al mail!"

Sabah turned his head to look at Mike. "He wants you to go with him."

Mike frowned. "What for?"

"I wouldn't ask," Sabah advised. "He is undoubtedly following orders from Sheikh Omar."

Mike got to his feet and joined the bodyguard. Alif turned and began walking down the passageway. Mike followed, noting that the Arab wasn't watching him closely. Evidently, this was not a summons involving anything too serious. They went up to the bridge deck and down to the sheikh's cabin. Alif knocked on the door, then opened it and peered inside. He turned back and nodded for Mike to enter.

The sheikh sat on a sofa, dressed in a tropical shirt, slacks, and sandals. For all intents and purposes, he looked like a wealthy Latin-American about to go out on a hot summer evening. "Come in, Mikael. Sit down."

"Thanks," Mike said, taking an indicated nearby chair.

"I wanted to have a chat with you," Sheikh Omar said. "I thought it might be beneficial for both of us if we became better acquainted."

"Sounds fine to me."

"Are you particularly religious?"

Mike thought that an odd question, and he responded in a manner that would not put him in an awkward position. "Not really, sir. My family, except for my grandfather, did not attend the mosque regularly. I haven't had a lot of religious education except for when I was at the training camp."

"That is interesting," the sheikh said. "I am not a devout person either. I suppose my lifestyle has made me more pragmatic and worldly than spiritual." He chuckled. "Well, since we are both fallen Muslims, could I offer you a drink?"

"You sure could," Mike said, grinning.

"Please go over to those panel doors. If you open them you will find a completely stocked wet bar. I would appreciate it very much if you would pour me a Grey Goose and tonic. Fix whatever you wish for yourself."

Mike went over and slid the doors open. A small but efficient bar was exposed, and he went around it. The* shelf was fully stocked with the finest and most expensive of international liquor. He mixed a strong vodka tonic for the sheikh and grabbed a beer out of the small fridge for himself. He checked the label and noted it was a Spanish brand called Cristal.

Mike returned to the sheikh and gave him the mixed drink, then sat down. Mike raised his beer to display it. "I'm a bit of a lowbrow."

"There is nothing wrong with enjoying beer," the sheikh said, "though I prefer the European over those watery American brands." He took a sip of the drink. "Ah! You do know how to throw a good drink together."

"Glad you like it, Sheikh Omar."

The sheikh took a couple of sips, smacked his lips, and smiled. "By the way, you did say that you did not accompany Commodore Mahamat to the battle with the American Navy, correct?"

"Sabah and I both stayed behind at the naval base."

"I see," the sheikh said. 'Tell me truthfully, Mike. What do you think of his version of the events?"

Mike had to be careful how he responded. If he were too glib and precise, it would reveal his own naval background. "Well, Sheikh Omar, I got to admit that it seemed kind of far-fetched. I ain't any kind of expert on this sort of thing, but I know from watching news on TV that the U. S. Navy ain't got near that kind of a force in this part of the world."

The sheikh chuckled. "My thoughts exactly. I believe the commodore is doing what you Americans refer to as covering his ass. Right?"

"Prob'ly."

"What do you know about the types of air-cushioned boats called hovercraft?"

"Well, they're real fast," Mike responded. "And can go just about anywhere since they raise above the water. I even seen pictures of Marines bringing them up on the beach. But I don't think there's a whole lot of 'em being used."

"You strike me as being particularly bright, Mikael. Perhaps if you had been raised in a part of the world where Muslims reign, you would have been given a chance to get a complete and advanced education."

Mike saw an opening. "As a matter of fact, I made good grades quite a lot when I was in school. But somehow, I just couldn't get along. It's hard to explain."

"I understand perfectly, my friend," the sheikh said. "I tell you what I would like to do, Mikael. I want you to become an advisor of sorts to me. I need a sharp fellow who is completely familiar with Americans and the ways they talk, think, and act. Do you think you could help me out?"

"Jesus! I'd be real happy to."

The sheikh chuckled. "You said 'Jesus!' Are you aware he is in the Koran? He is called Isa, and was not a messiah. He was a prophet according to Islam, and not the Son of God. Nor was he crucified and resurrected in Muslim beliefs."

"I have some vague knowledge of that," Mike responded.

The sheikh looked at his watch. "We shall be getting under way within a half hour. We are going to a place I use as a stronghold. It's a fortified port on the borders of Oman and Yemen. I call the place Mikhbayi. That name is Arabic for Hiding Place. We will figure out your job description when we get there. That's another American expression, is it not? Job description?"

"Yes, Sheikh Omar."

"I am going to move you into a cabin on this deck level. You will not have to share it with anybody else "

"That'd be nice," Mike said.

"And we shall get you some decent clothing and proper grooming at Mikhbayi," the sheikh added. "How does that sound?"

"Fantastic!"

Sheikh Omar pressed a button located in the arm of the sofa. An instant later, Alif stepped into the room. The sheikh spoke to him, then nodded to Mike. "Alif will take you to your new quarters. Make yourself comfortable and feel free to come out on the stem deck anytime you wish."

Mike recognized the dismissal, and he stood up. "Thank you, Sheikh Omar. Fm really happy you gave me this chance." He finished the beer and set the empty bottle on the bar. "Good evening."

"Good evening, Mikael. I shall see you tomorrow."

Mike followed Alif out the door.

.

2100 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE
couldn't believe his good luck. He glanced around his new cabin with its own private head, a large bed, a wardrobe, a table suitable for intimate dining, a desk, and a settee and a couple of easy chairs. Twenty minutes after he arrived, two stewards showed up at the door. One had his suitcase from the quarters he had shared with Sabah, and the other carried a large silver bucket containing ice and a dozen bottles of Cristal beer.

Mike unpacked, noting that his attire looked drab and cheap in comparison to the plush surroundings. It would be nice to get some proper modem clothing when they arrived at that hiding place of the sheikh. The right garb would also help in any escape and evasion activities that might loom in the future.

The SEAL opened a bottle of beer, then settled on the settee to relax and think. The real plus side was that it appeared that a great opportunity for him to cut and run had just presented itself. However, over in the minus column of the situation was the time factor. Unless he could get back to American contacts quickly, the information he had to pass on could well be outdated. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. "Come in."

When the door opened, Mike's jaw dropped. A beautiful blond woman, carrying a liquor bottle and wearing a beach towel wrapped around her shapely body, stepped inside. She smiled, speaking English in a heavy German accent. "Hello. My name is Hildegard. Sheikh Omar sent me to see that bored you did not get tonight."

Mike Assad was a healthy young robust man with the appetites common to that breed of male humans. He had not seen his girlfriend in California since early September and here it was closing in on November. All his natural hominess surfaced in the first split second of Hildegard's appearance. His mouth was dry and it took him a moment to respond to the surprise. "Well...
now ... uh ... hello ...
Hildegard."

"I brought a bottle of cognac," she said. "I do not know what is your favorite drink. But I always thought cognac well serving."

"Oh, yeah! Cognac is great."

She walked across the cabin, completely familiar with the interior, having entertained guests there many times. Some glasses were available in a cabinet next to the head, and she got a couple, then turned to give him a wink as she dropped the towel. After allowing him a moment to feast his eyes on her beauty, Hildegard walked over and joined him on the settee. She handed him the cognac to open, holding out the glasses. Mike quickly tended to the chore, pouring them each a generous serving.

Hildegard smiled and raised her libation. "Here is to a wonderful evening for the both of us."

"I'll drink to that," Mike said happily.

.

2330 HOURS LOCAL

MIKE
Assad and Hildegard Keppler sat up in the bed leaning back against the padded headboard. Both were satiated from an intense period of sex that had carried the woman beyond her whore's immunity all the way to genuine passion as she experienced a trio of multiple orgasms. The physical release left her susceptible to both alcohol and emotion.

The original bottle of cognac Hildegard had brought with her to the cabin was long gone. More had been sent for, and now another had also been turned into a dead soldier and a third was being shared by the couple. This time they didn't bother with glasses, simply passing the bottle back and forth between them. Although Mike was tipsy, he was still under control. He needed information and here was a good source. "Have you ever been to Mikhbayi?"

"Sure, darling," she said. "Many times have I been there."

"What's it like?"

"It is like a castle near the water with guards," she said. "Inside is a little town. But we women on the yacht to go there are not allowed. We must stay aboard the yacht at the docks."

Mike had already figured the place boasted a waterfront since the sheikh was sailing the
Sayih
to the facility. "Are there lots of boats?"

"Oh,
ja"
Hildegard said. "The big freighter and passenger ships cannot come in close, so they are having boats that go out and get people and bring them to the dock."

Mike's mind was completely sober now. That meant good-sized harbor craft that would not only have to fetch in people, but cargo too. The German woman's mood began to ease down into a depression to the point where she suddenly burst out into tears..

Mike was alarmed. "What's the matter, Hildy?"

She snuffed and turned her face to his. "The sheikh--that
verdammen
sheikh--he killed my best friend Franziska."

Mike was impressed by the information and wanted to leam more, but it might be dangerous for the woman to speak aloud. He gently put his finger on her lips. "Shhh, sweetie," he whispered. He got up and went over to the CD player on the dresser, slipping in a French jazz disk. After going back to the bed, he got in beside her.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, whispering because he was.

"We mustn't be overheard," he said, gendy putting his fingers on her lips. "This place is prob'ly bugged. Microphones."

"Oh, yes," she said. "And cameras too. The rotter likes to look at tapes of his guests having sex."

"No shit?"

"All we women have watched them with him," Hildegard whispered. "So excited he gets."

"Strange dude," Mike said. He reached over and turned out the lights. "Listen to me. Why do you say the sheikh murdered your friend?"

"I know she got on this ship and then she is gone away," Hildegard said. "She did not go back to shore. She is dead and thrown into the ocean. No other thing could have happened to her."

"Can you prove this?"

"A
Jein
--no, I cannot."

Mike thought a moment. "Would you like to get revenge on him?"

"Rache
--revenge. Oh, yes!" Hildegard said, beginning to sob again.

"You got to listen very carefully," Mike said. "I can help you with this. But you must do everything I tell you."

Now it was Hildegard's turn to come out of the haze of alcohol. The words just uttered to her brought a sharp stab of angry satisfaction into her consciousness. "What do you want me to do?"

"At first nothing," Mike said, "except to not speak of this friend again. Make no reference to the incident, understand?"

"Yes!" she said enthusiastically. "Are you going to kill him, Mike?"

"What I can do could result in something he would consider much worse than death," Mike said.

She looked around the room. "We better do sex again so there will be no suspicion." She turned the lamp back on.

Mike did what he had to do.

Chapter 15.