Uncivil Liberties (13 page)

“About eighteen to twenty hours, unless we have a wind shift for or against.”

“Just before dusk tomorrow, then. That’s plenty of time to prepare. Let’s get Macintosh up on deck and he can brief you on your shore team.” Pug stepped to the cabin entrance and leaned in. “Carlos, Sergeant Macintosh, could you come on deck a moment?”

Macintosh appeared several seconds later, followed by Jenkins and Carlos. Both Aussies stepped aft and sat on the railing. Carlos stood besides Pug, slightly spreading his legs to maintain balance. Full dark had settled over the ocean and the night was silent, broken only by the soft lapping of the waves against
Rainbow Blue’s
bow as she cut through the rippled water. Ambient light came from the sky and the muted running lights of the yacht.

“Never get a full holiday, right, sir?” Macintosh asked, grinning.

“The life of a trooper, I suppose,” Cameron responded.

Pug spoke up. “Sergeant, I’ve told Captain Rossiter that you would brief him on the land phase of the operation. His message to meet the
Rankin
was brief and not informative.”

“Right, General. Wilson and Gunner went ashore a couple days ago. They’ve recce’d the place, gave us a sat com call this afternoon on the sub, and said it looks like there are three people holed up in a remote beachfront cabin about four miles from a small village called Tutuala on the eastern tip of the island. The team’s got an LUP,” he said, referring to a laying up position from which they could observe without being seen, “on a rise about two hundred meters from the cabin. The general said he would coordinate the insertion once we came aboard. When Carlos goes in, Gunner will watch his back and keep the path to the beach clear. The cabin’s about a hundred meters from the spot of water where we’ll beach. If there’s any trouble, or if someone tries to follow Carlos when he leaves, Gunner will top ‘em. If it’s all gone to hell, our boys will come back in the Zodiac. Then it’s just back to the yacht, slip away, and meet up with the
Rankin
again. They’ll take it from there, sir. That’s about it.”

Pug smiled at the casual way in which Macintosh had described the operation, including the possible necessity of killing Wolff’s companions.

“What about the kit, Sean?” Cameron asked.

“Basics. We’ve got four M-4s, didn’t see a need for the 203s on this insertion. We’ve got the Zod for the run to the beach, two re-breathing kits, masks and flippers if we need ’em. That’s about it.”

“Thank you, Sean. Go below and catch some shut-eye. You’ll need it tomorrow.”

Both Australian SAS operatives quickly dropped below the deck and left Cameron, Pug, and Carlos topside. “What’s the American interest in this, Pug? Was this guy involved in the KLM hijacking?” Cameron asked, turning toward Pug.

“I don’t think so. We’re just looking for information primarily.” Pug nodded toward Castro.“Cameron, let me introduce Carlos Castro.” Pug motioned for Carlos to take a seat on the railing. “As I said, he’s deputy director of our office. We’re essentially a domestic. . . well, primarily domestic,” he said, waving his arm outward toward the expanse of the ocean, “anti-terrorism task force within the Homeland Security Department. My source for this operation seems to have been spot-on about this guy. If we can convince the man to talk, he knows quite a lot about terrorist weapons acquisition, and, more to the point, about the buyers. He’s been selling to anyone with money for several years, working both sides of the fence and double-crossing most of them along the way. Your Australian SIS intelligence reports show a rapid increase in Indonesian terror cells. This guy just might have something to do with it.”

 “We’re glad to help, General. I’ve worked with the whole team, including the ground crew. They’re experienced operators. Good lads,” Cameron said, nodding toward the cabin.

“It would seem so. We didn’t talk much—too noisy on the helicopter—but we flew out together on the supply flight to rendezvous with the USS
Abraham Lincoln
a couple of hundred miles northwest of Darwin, and we had a brief chat then.” They all sat silently for several moments with Pug taking in his surroundings until Cameron motioned them to stand by while he brought the yacht around to a port tack. When the wind again filled the sail, he continued.

“Quite a firestorm in the States over the KLM shoot-down,” he  said.

Pug nodded. “Tough choice for a new president. I’m glad it wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t easy on the Air Force pilot either, I suppose, or his family.”

“No. He took some damage from the explosion, lost hydraulic control, and nosed in right after the airliner. He had a full military funeral at Arlington,” Pug said, continuing to voice the public story that the pilot’s plane had sustained damage when the commercial airliner exploded.

“Deservedly so,” Cameron offered. “And the president. What a way to go. His first major decision. With no one to hang it on, your press seems content to lay it all on the new president.”

Pug shook his head, looking out over the darkened ocean. “The press is relentless, and they don’t care about collateral damage. Worse than a bomb run, sometimes. But how these lifetime politicians formulate their positions and skewer each other has always bothered me. If they’re a Democrat, then the Republicans are wrong, no matter what they do. If Republican, the reverse. They never seem to consider whether the action was right or not, just which party label they wear on their sleeve.”

“Same thing in Australia, Pug,” Cameron said. They sliced through the water for several moments in silence, the distant whine of a breaching whale the only sound on the air.” “
Was
the man right to make the call? The president, I mean,” Cameron asked.

“From my vantage point, yes. From theirs . . . I’d hate to have to make the call, or worse, to have been the pilot.”

“Amen to that. Give me a terrorist with an AK-47 charging at me and I’ll take him out . . . or he’ll get me. But I don’t know if I could blow up a hotel full of people to save the city.”

“The enemy has changed color, Cameron. We’ll probably never be able to recognize him again. Carlos has seen the dark side of this business as well as the open, traditional combat role. What do you think, Carlos? Has Cameron got it right?”

Carlos didn’t reply for a few moments, the creaking of the rigging filling the void. “General, the answer to that is above my pay grade,” he replied, “but well within yours. I’ll leave those decisions to flag rank.”

Pug laughed. “Don’t count on it, Mr. Deputy Director. Your new role will take you to heights you never imagined.” Pug raised himself off the railing and stepped toward the entrance to the cabin. “Well, if there’s a bunk below, I think I’ll catch a few hours sleep before final mission planning. See you in the morning, gentlemen.”

“Goodnight, General,” Carlos said. “I think I’ll stay on deck for a bit, get my sea legs back.”

Pug went below, and Carlos and Cameron sat quietly for several minutes. “Care to take the helm, Carlos?”

Carlos hesitated for a moment, then rose and slid in alongside Cameron, who released the wheel and took up a position where Carlos had been sitting.

“I’ve never been on a yacht before. A sub, Gemini, Zodiac, swimmer delivery vehicle, and even a personal flotation device, but no yacht,” Carlos said.

“Not much danger of collision out here, Carlos, other than that whale we heard.” Cameron laughed. “Have you worked with the general long?”

Again, Carlos was quiet for a few moments. “Not recently. It’s a new operation and I’ve only just retired. But we’ve worked together before, some years ago.”

“I was surprised to see a general officer on this type of mission,” Cameron said. “I don’t think any of our Australian generals would be out here.” The unspoken question  seemed to be, ‘
is he capable of a special operations insertion mission?’

Carlos looked at the other man for several seconds, then nodded his head. “I understand what you mean, Captain. The first time I actually worked with General Connor was about fifteen years ago. We met early one morning when he came aboard the U.S.S.
Tarawa
. That’s a U.S. Navy amphibious vessel specifically designed for Marine Corps operations. The following evening we dropped in to Pakistan, low roping out of a helicopter, and commenced the mission. He was a newly promoted captain and I was a new buck sergeant.” Carlos paused, as if recalling the event. “I’ve not doubted him since. He’s an outstanding warrior and he’s earned that star on his collar. I could change places with him on this mission and have no doubt it would go off as planned. Don’t let his rank fool you, Captain. He’s a field operator and only age—or a terrorist bullet—will slow him down.”

“High praise,” Cameron said.

“Perhaps, but not undeserved.”

Sergeant Macintosh and Carlos Castro inflated the Zodiac and lowered it over the side. Macintosh held it tight against the yacht while Carlos and Corporal Jenkins climbed aboard, then attached a small outboard to the transom. Pug passed two M-4s over the side and Macintosh stored them beneath the seats. Carlos had a small backpack and had elected to carry his own HK pistol, with an attached silencer, in a side holster.

Captain Rossiter spoke down to the small group in the inflatable. “Right then, Sean, we’ll anchor nearby and wait for your signal, then we’ll relocate back to this GPS coordinate. If Gunner is correct about activity in the house, you should be back before dawn. You know the emergency signal. If something happens, we can motor closer and pick you up near the beach, but if the Zod is operable, you’ll get out much faster in that. Good luck.”

Once it was full dark, the three men began their run toward shore. Four minutes into the run, the intermittent flashing signal from landward confirmed their contact ashore and indicated that they were on target. Macintosh revved up the engine, and as the rubber inflatable approached the beach, the surf was running low on an outward tide. Ten yards out, Corporal Jenkins and Carlos jumped into the surf, grabbed the side of the raft, and began pulling toward shore.

“Need a hand with that tube, mate?”

The voice out of the darkness startled the three men, and instantly Sean Macintosh had his weapon at the ready until he recognized Gunner striding toward them out of the cover of the brush.

“What’s the word, Gunner?” Sean asked softly.

Gunner was wearing a covert communications device with a throat mike, the earpiece in place. “Hold one, I’ll check.” The stocky, hard-as-nails Aussie faced inland, jabbed the PTT, Push to Talk button, and quietly spoke a few words, waiting for a response. He then turned back to Sean.

“It’s ‘stand by’ at the moment, Sean. Wilson says the place is still dark and quiet.”

“Right, then, let’s get this raft into the bush and you can show Carlos the way. Gunner, this is Carlos Castro, U.S. Marines. He’ll go in alone. You and Wilson are backup, outside security.”

“Right, mate.”

They pulled the raft up on the sandy beach and dragged it into the cover of a small cluster of scrub brush. Gunner took a few steps back toward Sean and Carlos, who were huddled up near the raft, whispering in the dark.

“Ready to go, Carlos? The LUP is about ten minutes over that hill,” he said, nodding in a northwest direction, “and Wilson says ‘all clear,’” he added, tapping his earpiece.

“Let’s do it,” Carlos replied.

Two thousand yards off-shore,
Rainbow Blue
anchored in a calm, outgoing tide. Cameron Rossiter and Pug Connor settled in to wait for the return of the landing party. Cameron went below and retrieved a tin of crackers, diced up a wedge of cheese, and grabbed two plastic bottles of water from the small propane fridge. He returned on deck and handed a bottle of water and a paper napkin with cheese and crackers to Pug. Then he sat on the port railing, and both men began to eat quietly.  Cameron spoke first.

“Have you ever wondered which is worse: waiting for the team to report in, or being part of the team about to go into action?”

Pug nodded his understanding. “You mean,
‘They also serve who sit and wait.’
”

“Something like that,” Cameron laughed, then changed the subject. “Carlos said you and he had served together before, some years ago in Pakistan.”

“We did. He’s an outstanding Marine. I’ve had my life in his hands more than once.”

“Has he always been Muslim?” Cameron asked. “I noticed him in morning prayers earlier, up on deck.”

“No, he was raised Catholic. Embraced Islam about ten or twelve years ago.”

“Do you know what took him down that path?”

“A woman.”

Cameron laughed. “Of course, what else? I’ve got two Muslims in my outfit as well. I’ve wondered how they feel about this increasing religious war. It must be tough to fight your own brothers.”

“Man has been fighting his religious brothers for centuries, but not always under a religious banner. Carlos has a good understanding of the situation,” Pug said, pausing to take a long drink. “He believes the fanatics and their Mullahs have abandoned the faith, perverted their god.”