Strike Force Bravo (25 page)

But how were the weapons being moved? That was the big question. The combined Gitmo/Spook/Navy crash team told the Kais everything they could recall hearing during the final packing and shipping process. Again, not just Ozzi had been paying attention; others had, too. But to everyone's dismay, these reports turned out to have a severe case of
rashamons
—many different versions of the same story. Some of the Americans were convinced they saw Buddhas being repacked around the missiles. Others said the bad guys had discarded the Buddhas and just packed the weapons cold. Some insisted the missiles and the Buddhas were put in a crate that went on one of the trucks. Others swore the Buddhas only went on the truck and the weapons crate was put onto the weird-looking airplane. Just about the only thing everyone agreed on was that one of the crates had been carried away empty, to be dumped on a beach nearby. But if that was the case, then why have three crates in the first place? Having an empty one didn't make sense.

“Thirty-six missiles, thirty-six launchers, two thousand Buddhas, and three crates,” Fox moaned. “Who knows what it all means?”

“None of us do,” Curry replied. “Because none of us could see the whole thing.”

“Wait a minute,” Ozzi said suddenly. “
He
knows….”

He was pointing at Uni.

 

Ryder needed a cigarette. Actually, he needed a carton of them. Along with a couple bottles of Jack Daniel's, a pool, some sunblock, and a slew of babes.

He
was
getting too old for this. Schlepping all over Fuggu Island was one thing. But he'd trooped across so many other islands in the past week, he'd lost count. All of them darker, scarier, and with more prehistoric animals than Kong Island. Until they got the lead on the young DSA officer's cell phone, it had been a long, dirty, bloody trip. He was just happy that his feet were back on concrete again—and not stuck in the jungle muck.

But now what? They'd saved their colleagues—but the Stingers had slipped away and were heading for States, and the only guy who knew how was a certified block-head.

But if there was one thing all of the American team members were good at, it was extricating information from people who would rather keep their mouths shut. And they were all convinced that the
shuka
knew something. The trouble was the
shuka
looked like he'd already had the shit kicked out of him—twice. He was battered and bleeding in many places; half his tongue had been cut out. His clothes were soiled and covered with many unidentifiable substances. Though he was somehow able to pull himself up to his knees, he didn't seem to be in any shape to be “persuaded” about anything.

That's why they were all so surprised when the
shuka
indicated he wanted to make a deal.

 

It took Uni a while to make this understandable to the Americans, for he was now a simpleton without a tongue. He first tried waving a rag as a white flag. Then he kissed Hunn's American flag, the same one the Delta soldier had stuffed into his mouth just minutes before. Only when he pantomimed pledging allegiance to it did he get his point across. Yes, he wanted to “talk.”

He had a simple proposition for them.
I'll tell you anything you want to know,
he indicated.
Just don't kill me.
It was only because Uni looked half-dead already that the Americans agreed.

But then began 10 long minutes of excruciating confusion. The translation gap was not just wide; it was a chasm. No one could really understand what the hell the tongue-less, beaten Uni was trying to tell them. He was gesturing weakly, trying to use crude sign language to get his point across. He even wrote down some things in fractured, unreadable Arabic. But it was sheer torture trying to follow along.

The Americans managed to get some of it. Uni's two trips to Manila. Palm Tree. Ramosa. Marcos. The frightening ride in the yacht. The weapons themselves and the three different sets of orders on how to pack them. Of course, half the rogue team knew some of this already. But it was a road they all had to take, for the
shuka
didn't know any other way to tell a story except from the beginning, and whenever he felt stymied in his rendition, he went right back to square one and started all over again.

Finally, though, he approached some sort of climax: Why were three crates built instead of just two? they asked him. Or even just one? Had they and the Buddhas been part of a diversion all along?

Uni seemed to confirm this deflating possibility. The Gitmo contingent hadn't been subtle in announcing their impending arrival in Manila, nor had they laid low once their boots were on the ground. If Palm Tree
knew
the Crazy Americans were coming all along, just as Uni, Ramosa,
et al.,
had, that meant time was of the essence. While the American team was off killing the Buddha man and the coffin maker, the bad guys were sewing up loose ends. By the time the Americans finally zeroed in on Uni, the bad guys had bought just enough time to send the missiles on their way, making the narrowest of escapes.

This news didn't sit well with the Americans; shooting first and asking questions later was almost an occupational hazard of the 9/11 team, most especially Hunn's men. They'd blown opportunities in the past simply by being too trigger-happy while moving about as gracefully as a herd of elephants. It had happened right before Hormuz and now it had apparently happened again.

Finally Curry spoke up: “OK—so we were duped. Misdirected, outright fooled, or whatever. And we still don't know what went where or how. But why in God's name were they pulling all those switcheroos with the crates?”

They besieged Uni to spill this one last piece of information—and it was something that he knew, something he
wanted
to tell them. But there was just no way he could communicate it to them. Words failed him, as always, and he could not speak with his hands to any satisfaction or write it out in any legible way.

Desperate, as he was sure the Crazy Americans would indeed kill him if he didn't please them, he scrambled around the floor gathering up the remnants from the overturned trash can. Locating three Styrofoam coffee cups, he set them upside down on the dirty floor. Then he painfully rifled through his pockets, finally coming out with an American half dollar—a favorite in the Impatient Parrot—and two Pepsi bottle caps he'd saved from his days at the Xagat.

As the Americans watched, totally mystified, Uni put the coin underneath one cup and the bottle caps underneath the other two—then began moving the cups around crazily. After a few seconds he stopped and lifted one cup to reveal a bottle cap. He moved the cups again, then stopped again, lifting a cup to reveal another bottle cap. He did all this a third time—but this time he lifted the third cup to reveal the coin.

Gathered tightly around him, the Americans were convinced he'd gone completely mad.

But then Ryder got it.

“It's a shell game,” he said, out of the blue. “That's what he's trying to tell us.”

The
shuka
jumped back to his feet and staggered toward Ryder, arms outstretched as if to kiss him. Two dozen raised weapons prevented such a thing. But the meaning now was clear for all to see.

“A freaking shell game?” Puglisi cried. “
That's
what they're playing here?”

“Changing the rules right up to the last minute?” Bingo said. “Not that bad an idea, especially if you think people are looking in on you—or hot on your trail. They knew we were just hours, then minutes behind them. They knew if they kept switching the crates around, the chances were good we'd pick the wrong one to chase once we—or someone else—finally got this close to them.”

“The bastards,” Curry swore. He was a native New Yorker. He'd seen hustlers on 42nd Street play shell games hundreds of times while growing up. They were the ultimate suckers' bet.

“So how will we ever figure out which shell is the prize, then?” Hunn asked. “Which crate has the weapons? Which ones have the duds?”

They went over the many different versions of the packing episode again, trying to track the logic. If the crucial crate was being shipped by air, were the two trucks on hand then just to carry the “empty” shells? Or, if the weapons crate was being sent by sea and one of the trucks was just a way to get it to a ship, was the airplane just another diversion?

Ryder tried to noodle it out. “If Curly here is right and it's a shell game, then there has to be a diversion of some kind,” he said. “So, maybe they put the weapons crate on the airplane and put a dud crate on one truck to be driven to a ship. Then the third crate was put on the second truck, to be dumped on the beach.”

“Or, they could have put two crates on the airplane,” Curry said. “One a fake, one that was real. Then they used one truck to dump the bogus crate on the beach. And the second truck was a backup.”

“Or maybe the airplane is the diversion,” Bingham offered. “They put the weapons crate on a slow boat, while making it seem the real delivery is going airborne.”

“Well,
however
they did it,” Fox said, with no little frustration, “the question remains, how in hell are we ever going to track them from here?”

Ozzi stepped up again. He was on fire now, angry that the bad guys were winning again.

“How about we go to the airport manager here and find out if any unusual flights took off in the past twenty minutes,” he said. “He must know
something
weird has been going on. And if he doesn't want to cooperate, we beat his ass until he does. Same thing goes for the Manila harbormaster. Let's haul his ass out of bed and see if any suspicious ships were due to leave in the same time frame. They surely ain't driving the missiles to the states. So air and sea are the only ways to go.”

Everyone was paying attention to him now. “Are you saying what I think you're saying, Lieutenant?” Fox asked.

Ozzi was checking the clip in his M16 magazine.

“Yes, sir, I am,” he replied. “It means we've got to split up. Again.”

It was an odd plane with an odd name.

The F-10 “Babuska” was a German-designed aircraft built in Slovakia by a Hungarian airplane manufacturer. It was just about the size of the venerable C-47 but looked more like a boxcar with wings. Its landing gear was fixed to its undercarriage, and struts held up the large rear stabilizer. It was powered by only one propeller, strange for an aircraft of its girth. The prop was stuck on the aircraft's nose like someone's idea of a practical joke. But while the plane looked ugly, and flew the same way, it could lift more than 20 tons of cargo, outrageous for an aircraft with only one engine. That engine was a power-house, though, a big 20,000 horsepower CAD/CAM vision of Prussian efficiency. In many ways it was more sophisticated than some jet turbines.

The plane's wings were thick and gangly, which only added to its quirky appearance. But they also allowed the plane to make short takeoffs and landings. Amazingly short. Under the right conditions, the F-10 could set down on a small runway, a road, or even a dirt path just a few hundred feet long. It could also carry a lot of fuel onboard, and with just that one engine it could fly forever.

Simple, strong, fuel-efficient, expert at getting in and out of tight spots. It was the perfect smuggling plane.

 

This one was being flown by an outfit called Trans-Pacific Air. After leaving the dirty, noisy hangar, the plane had taken off from Manila Airport's lone auxiliary runway, an airstrip usually reserved for diplomatic aircraft. In its hold was one of Palm Tree's three crates.

The three-man crew had worked for him before. They were legitimate cargo haulers out of Brisbane. One crew-man was even an American. But when Palm Tree called, they made sure to answer. There was no limit to funding when Palm Tree wanted something done. He'd made their living a very good one.

They weren't sure where they were flying to this night, not exactly anyway. That was another Palm Tree trademark. As a way of maintaining security, he would frequently give them their orders piecemeal. They were going across the Pacific; that much they knew. To do this, the plane would have to make two refueling stops, the first being Mili Atoll in the Marshall Islands. Further instructions would be waiting for them there, most likely the go-ahead to proceed to their second fuel stop, Ducie Island, 600 miles east of Tahiti and more than halfway to South America. If that was the case, then they were sure their third and final stop would be Medelín, Colombia.

While other people in Palm Tree's employ would handle the cargo from there, the crew of the Babuska knew whatever they dropped off in Colombia would be inside the United States in just a matter of hours.

Free of any scrutiny, it would enter the States under the cloak of diplomatic immunity. This courtesy of Palm Tree's country of origin.

 

It was a clear night for flying and the stars were in their full glory. Leaving Philippines airspace was no problem. No flight plan had to be filed; their radio call sign was of the same type used by the Filipino military. The F-10 had a great autopilot. Not unlike the B-2 Spirit bomber, on extra-long flights the crew could just sit back and let the computer fly the plane. Occasionally they played cutthroat poker to pass the time. Mostly, though, two of the crew napped while the third kept an eye on things.

They had no idea what was inside the crate strapped into their cargo bay. It was not their business to know—and the crew was smart enough not to hazard a peek. You didn't screw around with a guy like Palm Tree; he could make people like them disappear. Suffice to say whatever was inside was red-hot and they were better off not knowing anything more than that.

They started playing cards once they reached their cruising altitude of 13,000 feet, but the copilot quickly ran out of funds and the game ended abruptly. He was delegated to take the first watch. While the other two lay down on cots set up right next to the crate, the copilot strapped into his seat and ran a check of the instruments. Everything came back green. He sat back and stared out at the heavens above and the ocean below. He'd have to endure all this beauty for at least another three hours, for him a dreadfully boring prospect.

He cursed himself for not bringing more money.

It was strange how it happened. The copilot was no big fan of viewing the sights on these long nights over water, but about one hour into the flight he'd noticed a very odd cloud formation about a mile below and two miles back to starboard. They were just passing over the Philippine Sea; the weather around them was crystal clear, all except this mass of condensation behind them. It looked like a lone thunder-cloud, suspended in this night of fair weather. Weird….

But then, as he was looking back at this strange formation, he saw a light moving inside it. Yellowish, pulsating, getting stronger. He turned around completely in his seat now; the light grew and grew, its beam becoming very intense.
What the fuck was this?

The F-10 had only a rudimentary radar, certainly nothing along the lines of an air defense suite. So there was no way they could get a sweep on this thing. Certainly they'd seen a lot of strange shit flying around at night, especially over this part of the South Pacific, which some people thought of as the Asian version of the Bermuda Triangle. But he'd never seen anything like this.

The copilot was about to wake his crewmates when suddenly the light burst out of cloud. It was just a mile behind them now and climbing very fast. The light was almost blinding. It was as intense as a searchlight used by SAR aircraft to look for downed or missing aircraft, but such things weren't used at these altitudes.

Instinct told the copilot to knock the plane off automatic, which he did. At the same time, he yelled for his cohorts to wake up. By the time he looked back at the light, it was right on their tail.

A second later, it went right over them.

The copilot slammed the F-10 into a steep dive, this as he watched an enormous shadow go over the top of their nose. Whatever this thing was, it was so big, it was creating a powerful wake. The turbulence began shaking the F-10's tail wing even as it was dropping in altitude.

The sudden dive put the two groggy crew members into fast motion. They scrambled up to their positions and hastily strapped in. At this point the huge object was seen to be climbing and turning, no light coming from it now.

The copilot tried to explain to the others what had happened, but his words were cut short, as he had to help the pilot regain control of the aircraft. They leveled off at 6,000 feet, after plunging more than a mile. When they looked up, the Phantom was coming down at them again.

The pilot was now flying the plane—but he didn't know what to do. This big black thing was dropping so fast, he thought it was going to crash into them. He froze at the controls; the crate groaned in the back. The object went screaming past their nose a moment later. The three cargo haulers watched it go by with a mix of horror and befuddlement. Suddenly it was gone again, leaving behind a wake that tossed them around for another few terrifying seconds. Only when both the pilot and the copilot were able to right the F-10 did they look at each other and say the same thing:
“Was that a seaplane?”

Before either could answer, it went by them again, unexpectedly, right off their left wing. It was so close and its engines so loud, the K-10 shuddered from its spinning prop all the way back to its big booty tail. That's when the three men aboard saw that this was indeed a seaplane—or better put, a flying boat.

A Kai flying boat. Easily twice the size of the F-10.

And it was turning toward them again.

The pilot dived once more; there was nothing else he could do. He had no idea why the huge amphib was acting like this. A stray thought came to him, that the plane was somehow out of control, that the men in its cockpit were dead and that's why it was gyrating all over the sky. But just as quickly he knew this was impossible. Someone was flying the huge aircraft, wildly, recklessly, very dangerously.

And for some reason, they wanted to scare the shit out of the F-10 crew. And were doing a great job of it.

The big airplane went by their nose again, and once more the turbulence rolled over them like a tsunami. It rocked the F-10 right down to its German-engineered nuts. They all bent a little in protest.

Then the engine started to kick, and God damn! the prop began to flutter. The pilot and copilot both grabbed the controls now and turned them violently to the right. The plane was going into a stall, the curse of any single-engine aircraft, and would soon leave the flight envelope completely. After that, they wouldn't be able to control it at all.

Below them was the island of Talua, the scene of a small but bloody battle during World War II. It was isolated and uninhabited. It had no runway, never mind one that would work at night. At this point, though, the flying boat was intentionally preventing the smugglers from flying any farther. So the only place they could go was down.

Talua was actually a lagoon with a large half moon of heavy jungle bordering it. The beach on the inside of the lagoon was flat, or as flat as it was ever going to get. It was the F-10 crew's only chance. Their plane was not an amphibious aircraft. But because of its wide wings and boxy air-filled compartment it could float, maybe long enough for them to get out, if they went down in shallow water, or they could land on the beach itself. In any case, the pilot vented all their fuel. They would not be making Ducie Island tonight, or ever….

“Hang on,” he yelled. “This could get ugly.”

They hit the beach 20 seconds later, not 10 feet from the roiling surf. The engine let out a high-pitched screech as the big propeller dug itself into the sand at 3,600 RPM. The plane bounced once, then twice. Only after the third time did it stay down for good. It skidded for another 500 feet, swerving wildly and nearly tipping over. Finally it came to rest right at the water's edge.

Some remaining fuel vapors in the left wing ignited, lighting up the dark night for miles around. The crew somehow kicked open the cockpit hatch and each man fell out into the shallow water. A wave came along and smashed into all three of them. Somehow they dragged themselves up onto shore.

From this unpleasant vantage point they saw the Kai land just off the beach. The flying boat gunned its engines and crawled up onto the shore just 50 yards away. Soldiers in black uniforms jumped from the plane even before it came to a halt. Five of them ran directly to the three floundering cargo haulers, who were still too dazed to contemplate what was happening. The rest headed for the wrecked F-10.

The left side of the plane's fuselage had been torn away and the crate was hanging halfway out. A little muscle power from the soldiers and it came crashing down to the surf. Its wood splintered and, after being hit by another wave it came apart completely, spilling its contents into the water.

“Damn!”
someone cried out.

The soldiers couldn't believe it. The Babuska crew was astonished as well. Rolling in the heavy surf were hundreds of red and yellow Buddha statues.

Suddenly all the soldiers were standing over the F-10 crew. One picked up the copilot with his bare hands and held him three feet above the sand. The copilot began choking even as he became aware of this man's shoulder patch. It was red, white, and blue with a silhouette of the New York Twin Towers on it.

“Oh, crap…” the copilot coughed. He knew of the Crazy Americans.

It was Dave Hunn holding him up. And he was as angry as ever.

“Where are the missiles?”
he screamed at the copilot.

But the copilot couldn't really speak, as his voice box was being crushed. He tried to mumble something, but it was not quick enough or clear enough for Hunn. He tossed the copilot way out into the surf; the man hit the top of a wave like a broken doll. Hunn then turned his attention to the pilot—he was the American, ex–Army Aviation, in fact. Hunn bellowed the same question at him, this while pushing the man's face into the wet sand with his boot. But the pilot couldn't breathe, never mind talk. Hunn finally picked him up and let him catch a breath.

The pilot kept shaking his head. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” he gasped. “We just got paid to move a big box. That's all we know….”

By this time, Ozzi had run up to them. Still buzzing from the heart-stopping aerial pursuit, he'd inspected the broken airplane and the plastic statues bobbing in the waves.

“These guys are just mules,” Ozzi said to Hunn now. “They probably
don't
know what the fuck is going on here.”

He looked back at the dozens of Buddhas washing up on the beach. “
We're
the real suckers here,” he said. “We just looked under the wrong shell.”

Hunn reluctantly agreed. He dropped the pilot back into the sand, kicking him in the nuts for good measure. Then he started barking orders. A few of the statues were gathered up and loaded onto the Kai. Then the American soldiers themselves climbed aboard the flying boat. Soon the big airplane was backing out into the growing tide.