Chapter 18

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.

It turned quickly and, with a great burst of power, took off in a great watery ascent, leaving the three F-10 crew-men stranded on the deserted island below.

 

The crew of the tramp steamer Sea Demon was made up of escaped prisoners from the worst of China’s prisons. Cutthroats, murderers, child kidnappers all, they were also international arms smugglers.

Their ship was out of Shanghai, where it was known as one of the best in the business and its crew as one of the most ruthless. It sailed to the United States an average of once a month, carrying anything from drugs, to illegal combat weapons, to explosives. Everything was unloaded at a certain pier in Los Angeles where nothing, absolutely nothing, was inspected by customs or any other law enforcement agency, just as long as it arrived late at night and the right people were on duty.

So the Sea Demon crew members were experts at this. They knew, from the captain down to the scrub boys, that a successful smuggling operation always began with a clean getaway from the port of origin. That’s why the Sea Demon had a secret. It looked like a regular tramp steamer on the outside, appropriately rusty and grubby. But inside it was simply a cored-out hull, with very few compartments, very little plumbing, and lots of exposed wiring. The crew didn’t even have cabins; they slept out on the deck. All this translated into less weight, several dozen tons of it. Stripped down as it was, once out on the open sea, this bucket of bolts could really push the waves.

Leaving Manila Harbor proved no problem this night. It was dark and the bay was in its usual state of confusion, ships coming and going, big and small. No one hailed them on the radio. The harbormaster knew better than to ask where they were going. After a short trip south, they turned toward the San Bernardino Strait, heading for the deeper waters of Pacific. Once there, they would sail due east, toward America.

Even the captain didn’t know what lay in the belly of the speedy smuggling ship. It did no good for him or the rest of the crew (10 others in all) to know anything more than a crate had to get to the United States quickly. But certainly they suspected something very hot was stored in their voluminous cargo hatch.

This was not the first time they’d worked for Palm Tree, either.

Besides its quickness the Sea Demon also had some advanced radar on its bridge, all the better to make sure no one was following you. Or, if they were, it told you it was time to pour on the coals. This was why there was such surprise when the radar operator, who was also the cook, spotted a large surface object about ten miles in back of them. It had appeared on-screen very quickly—that was the weird thing. One second the radar field was clear; the next it was showing this enormous blip coming up on their tail.

The cook called the captain and they both stared at the screen a moment. Even in that short time frame, the blip had gained another mile on them. This didn’t make sense. Nothing that big could move that fast.

They called for the first officer. He knew a bit about things nautical. By the time he looked at the radar screen, the blip was just eight miles away and moving as if the Sea Demon were standing still.

The first officer, a drunk and an addict, actually looked worried. He had no idea what this thing could be.

“Secret navy ship, maybe?” was his only guess.

At that moment, they got a radio call. It was from the man on stern watch. He’d spotted running lights out at 11,000 yards. They were getting bigger even as he was speaking.

This was getting scary. The three men at the radar set looked back down at the screen. The blip was now just five miles out.

“It could be a very fast-moving yacht,” the cook said. “And it might be distorting our read-out for some reason.”

The captain turned to the first officer and said: “Break out the personal weapons and the fifty-caliber. Whoever the hell this is, we don’t want anyone to know what we’ve got below. You understand?”

The first officer drew a finger across his throat. He understood.

The Sea Demon actually had a formidable arsenal onboard. These men were veteran arms smugglers, and as such they were not above picking off a few of the larder when it suited them. Each man was issued an AK-47 or an M16, leftovers from Vietnam. Each would also get a.45 pistol and a machete.

The big fifty-caliber was also a ghost of Vietnam, a powerful one. Mounted on a capson pod attached to the stern point, it fired a round so large, just one could take off a head, blow a hole clear through a stomach, or tear into the side of a tank. Or a ship. They had plenty of ammunition onboard as well. Toe to toe they could take a military patrol boat, maybe even a small frigate. A fast yacht they would blow out of the water.

The crew was cranked now as word went through the ranks that this was some kind of sports boat gaining on them. The night was dark here, stars and moon hidden by a very low overcast. At 5,000 yards, the crew could only make out the fast-moving light, and nothing of the shape around it. Still they were hungry for a kill.

Weapons were checked. The big 50 test-fired. The captain left only the helmsmen up on the bridge. The Sea Demon was still plowing along at full speed, so the orders to the helm were simple: don’t stop for anything less than a direct order.

The captain himself carried a slightly newer model M16, one equipped with a removable and very rudimentary “star scope.” It gave him a limited capability to see in the dark, a version of night vision from 30 years ago. He was standing now on the stern railing, fiddling with this scope. The wind was up and they were taking some spray. He finally got the device to blink on, this just as he heard the first officer call out: “One thousand yards…”

This was convenient, as the old star scope had a range of about that far. The captain put the rifle up on the rail, aimed it at the light, and finally looked through the scope.

The next thing he knew, the first officer was picking him up off the deck.

“What’s the problem?” the first officer asked him harshly.

The captain could not speak. He simply pointed to the night scope now lying on the deck nearby, then pointed to his eye. Then he started to crawl away.

The first officer picked up the scope, took one look, and then wanted to join the captain. What he saw in the hazy light of night vision wasn’t possible. It looked like something from a bad dream.

What was gaining so rapidly on them was not a top-secret military vessel or a sporting yacht. It was an enormous, old, and very ugly containership, much uglier than the Sea Demon. And it was making at least 50 knots.

Before the first officer could say anything, the big ship was just 300 yards off their starboard.

So the first officer shouted one word: “Fire!”

The resulting fusillade was five seconds long and only served to light up the night. Now the crew could see what the captain and his first officer had seen.

The enormous ship. Moving impossibly fast.

Everyone aboard the smuggling ship was highly superstitious; they all believed in spirits and devils. The crew fired again because now they just assumed this ship was actually from hell and was here to take them down to the depths with it. But before they could end the second volley the ghost ship was right beside them, not 100 yards away. It was actually slowing down to keep pace with the swiftly moving cargo freighter. Up close, it looked like a monster. It was at least five times the size of the smuggling ship in length and width and more than six decks higher.

Foolishly the crew started firing their weapons again. The first officer became coherent enough to shout orders to the 50-caliber-machine-gun crew; they started firing furiously as well. Their huge rounds just bounced off the side of the containership, though—literally bounced off and back toward the Sea Demon.

The huge ship then moved in even closer. Suddenly one of the containers on its bow dropped its walls. Inside was a weird igloolike object, with a long barrel sticking out of it. Officially this was known as a CIWS—for close-in weapons system. In reality it was a Gatling gun. Computer controlled, aimed, and driven, it could fire 600 rounds a second.

Gatling guns made a very strange sound when they were fired. A sort of electrical burping. That’s what the Sea Demon’s crew heard now as the CIWS gun opened up and, in a single two-second barrage, took out the freighter’s mast, all of its antennas, and half the flying bridge. As this was happening, another container down on the ghost ship’s stern dropped its walls, too. It also contained a CIWS. This gun opened up on the freighter’s rear quarters, its barrage going over the crew’s heads, snapping metal stanchions and running hooks and walking right down the rear end to where the ship’s turnscrews lay. It continued its massive fusillade until something somewhere below the waterline was heard to crack!

The smuggling ship shook from one end to the other. Below the waterline, both its propellers had been blown away.

Those who dared to look up from the deck of the smuggler in the next few seconds saw the strangest sight of all. The huge containership had come up right next to the freighter and, still moving at 25 knots, brutally side-swiped them. The noise of the collision was deafening, the sparks blinding. Then in the midst of this, the smugglers saw armed men swinging over on ropes, as if this were a Ship of the Main being taken over by pirates. What was wrong with this picture? It was the men cowering on the deck who were supposed to be the buccaneers.

The first two soldiers to reach the smuggling ship fired a long stream of tracers over the heads of the frightened crew. Again no translation was needed here. Every crew-man threw his weapon as far away as he could. The two raiders were then joined by two more. Then two more. Then four. Then eight. Most were wearing some version of the same combat uniform: black, with a huge helmet and many weapon posts. Many wore a patch on the left shoulder showing the New York City Twin Towers with the Stars and Stripes behind. Upon seeing this, the crew of the smuggling ship moaned as one. They knew they were doomed now. These were the Crazy Americans.

And they were the real demons of the sea.

 

Fox and Bingham both hurt their backs swinging over from the Ocean Voyager to the smuggling ship.

“We’re too old for this shit, Bingo!” Fox yelled, catching his breath after a slippery landing around middecks. Meanwhile the younger Navy guys and even a few of the Spooks were swinging between the two ships with moves smoother than Zorro.

Bingham yelled back in agreement but then straightened himself out. The deck was chaotic. The bridge of the smuggler had been blown away by both Gatling guns. The noise being made by the two ships slamming into each other was earsplitting. Back on the stern, the Navy guys were solving the problem of POWs. There wouldn’t be any. They cut the Sea Demon’s only lifeboat loose from its mooring and then one by one threw the members of the smuggling crew over the side. It would be up to them to sink or swim after that.

Both ships had just about come to a stop by now. The Sea Demon’s captain was the last guy to get tossed over the railing; then Fox, Bingo, and a squad of sailors and SDS guards bounded below decks.

They soon found themselves in the very large, nearly empty cargo hold. The Sea Demon really was little more than a hull with engines. “Is this the same as hollowing out your wheel well to move some grass into Laredo?” Fox asked enigmatically.

“Absolutely,” Bingo replied, spraying his flashlight all over the darkened chamber.

There was only one piece of cargo in the hold—it was the second crate.

The Americans swarmed all over it, yanking nails out with their trench knives, small crowbars, and, in at least one instance, teeth.

There was no rhyme or reason to it, but enough nails were removed at the right time for the four walls of the big coffin to fall down simultaneously.

“God damn!” Fox cursed. “Did we chase the wrong horse…”

The crate was empty.

 

It was called Katang Bay.

One of many dirty inlet beaches found south of Manila Airport, it was about a mile from the seaside slums of Makak. Katang Bay was bordered on three sides by enormous debris-strewn sand dunes. Windswept and foreboding, these dunes seemed as tall as skyscrapers in the darkness.

This was where Ryder found himself now, atop of one of these monsters. Looking over the edge, it seemed like a mile down to the bottom and the beach below. Small waves were lapping up against the shore nearby. Rodents scurried about as the water splashed in, then retreated back into the bay. A torch was burning atop a small jetty that extended out into the water. A few boats were bobbing nearby.

And the third crate was there, too, sitting in the oily sand about twenty feet from the water’s edge. Just as they had been told, it had been dumped here on the beach closest to the airport, or, more accurately, thrown off the back of a truck without ever stopping. An obstacle course of refuse and filth stood between the crate and the dunes. The beach was a disposal ground for several shantytowns nearby, a kind of combination junkyard and garbage dump. If the smugglers wanted to put the crate someplace where it would never be found, they’d dumped it in the right spot.

Martinez and the B-2 pilot John “Atlas” were with him. Ryder knew this was a bit of a fool’s errand, coming here to look for the insignificant third box. But he felt it was necessary for reasons other than the mission. Martinez’s mental condition had deteriorated badly over the past week or so. Sure, he’d popped Aboos with the rest of them during their island-hopping campaign to Manila. But at the same time he’d become more remote than ever, at times almost catatonic. Ryder had to get him home, back to the United States to his family and proper psychological care, before he slipped any further into the abyss. So this was his solution: take Martinez here, giving him a sense that he was helping out but at the same time keeping him out of the line of fire.

It was the same for Atlas. He, too, had fought aggressively against the Aboos, but the ordeal of his plane crash and the horrific imprisonment that followed had also taken its toll. Plus, he was a pilot, not a special-ops guy, and it was just a matter of time before he got hurt or even killed. So Ryder had suggested he come with him, too. They’d been up here for about ten minutes. All they had to do now was sit and wait for the others to call.

Ryder shifted over Atlas and slid up next to Martinez. No surprise the Army officer had been silent since arriving here.

“What do you think, Colonel?” Ryder asked him. “All quiet on the Western Front?”

Martinez just looked out on the beach. Though there was a lot of hustle and bustle happening nearby, the beach itself was very much away from it all, isolated on the edge of the sprawling dirty, grungy metropolis of Manila. Martinez said nothing.

“Don’t worry, Marty,” Ryder told him. “We’ll be going home soon. We’ve done everything these people expected us to do and more. No matter how this ends, we fulfilled our promise, so they have to fulfill theirs. I think we could all use a few burgers and some good hooch, don’t you?”

Finally Martinez smiled, probably for the the first time since the events at Hormuz. Maybe burgers and beer was all that the shell-shocked Delta officer needed, Ryder thought. He patted Martinez on the shoulder. “And when we get back,” he said, “I’ll even let you buy the first round.”

Martinez began to reply…but the words wouldn’t come out. And he wasn’t smiling anymore. Suddenly he was pointing frantically down to the beach.

“What is it?” Atlas asked, right next to him.

Ryder slipped on his night-vision goggles again. He saw first one, then two, then three human images on the scope. They seemed to have marched right out of the water. Ryder relayed all this to the other two.

“Could be pearl divers,” Atlas said. “That’s a big business around here.”

Ryder tried to focus in on the figures, but the glare of the city lights nearby made them look ghostly and indefinable on the night scope. At least one of them was carrying a combat rifle, though.

“Diving for pearls—or shooting clams?” he murmured.

At that moment, their cell phone rang. Ryder answered it. It was Ozzi.

“Did the guys on Ocean Voyager call you?” the DSA officer asked him urgently.

“Not yet,” was Ryder’s reply.

“Well, they called us,” Ozzi told him excitedly, “and they came up negative with the cargo ship.”

Ryder had to take a moment to let this sink in. Just as they had suspected, a mysterious plane had left Manila Airport shortly before the Kai team burst into the warehouse. An equally mysterious freighter had left Manila Bay earlier in the same time frame. The split American teams had taken off in hot pursuit.

“You mean they got the Buddhas?” Ryder finally asked Ozzi.

“No,” Ozzi replied hastily. “We got the Buddhas; that’s all the airplane was carrying. The crate aboard the cargo ship was empty….”

Ryder looked over at Martinez and Atlas. They could hear Ozzi’s voice because he was yelling so loudly into the phone. Atlas started to say: “But if the Kai got the Buddhas, and the cargo ship’s crate was empty…”

Then he stopped. They all looked back at the crate on the dirty beach. The decoy that really wasn’t a decoy at all….

“Sh-i-i-i-t!” Ryder cried, dropping the phone. He yanked his weapon off his back and went over the top, rolling down the mountain of sand. Atlas and Martinez were right behind him. All three were slipping and sliding down, so out of control at one point both Martinez and Atlas overtook Ryder in the confused race to the bottom.

Just as the three landed at the foot of the dune, they saw a flare go up about fifteen hundred feet offshore. It was followed by a great boom! An object came flying out of the night from the same direction where the flare was launched. It was a grappling hook; they could see the reflection off its prongs as it landed with a thud on the beach. It was attached to a rope that disappeared into the dark water. No sooner had it come down than the three ghostly figures retrieved it and hooked it onto the crate.

The Americans got to their feet and began running. Helmets flying, ammo belts falling off, they were like three soldiers who’d overslept and missed the start of the battle. They’d been fooled again, the smugglers’ shell game sucking them right in. And now, if they let this crate escape, the Stinger missiles would be on their way to the United States, with no way to stop them.

The crate started to move. It was on a skid made of eight pontoons, which had lain hidden under the wet sand. The crate was being pulled right into the water, the three men who’d done the attaching casually riding on top of it. It started to sink at first but then bobbed back up and leveled off. By the time the Americans reached the spot where the crate had stood, it was already disappearing into the darkness.

Ryder came to a slippery halt, pulled his weapon up, pulled his night goggles down, and started firing. His tracers lit up the night. The three men riding atop the crate had to hastily dive into the water, his bullets came so near. For the first time they realized someone had seen what they had done. They were soon swimming madly alongside the big floating box.

Meanwhile Atlas and Martinez had plunged right into the water, firing as they went, and kept on going. Ryder followed, still shooting his weapon. He did not stop firing until he was up to his neck in the water and holding the rifle over his head.

But God damn! it wasn’t enough. The crate was at least a couple hundred feet away by now and was being pulled away very quickly. And he couldn’t swim and shoot at the same time.

Ryder finally stopped and looked around. Atlas was beside him. But where was Martinez?

Then came a throaty roar from behind. Ryder and Atlas turned to see a motorboat heading for them at high speed. Was it here to run them over and drown them? No—Martinez was at the wheel!

He stopped in a great whoosh of dirty water, and Ryder and Atlas quickly climbed aboard. Where did Martinez find the boat? How was he able to start it up and get it going so quickly? There was no time to ask and at the moment it didn’t matter. In seconds they were in hot pursuit of the disappearing crate.

Now it was water flying, tracers disappearing into the night. Ryder was shooting wildly, but what was he shooting at? He didn’t know. He was confused. Things were happening fast, yet they were unfolding like a dream.

Martinez was driving the boat like a madman. Atlas was firing his M16 wildly as well. Ryder flipped his night-vision goggles down again. He was surprised they still worked after being soaked. The boat was a dilapidated 12-footer, its engine sputtering and laying down an unintentional smoke screen behind them. They roared out of the inlet and were nearly blinded by the lights of Manila now. The brightness above just made for more darkness below, turning the water especially black. Now they couldn’t see anything more than 20 feet in front of them. Atlas was still propped up against the windshield, though, firing round after round into the murk. Occasionally they caught a brief glimpse of the crate and the pontoon raft bouncing in the waves. It didn’t seem to be moving any faster than they were. How could it stay ahead of them for so long? It didn’t make sense.

Martinez gunned the motorboat’s engine, but instead of responding it began coughing badly. Ryder looked back at it. Not only was it smoking heavily, but licks of flames were shooting from under the outboard cover. No doubt it was going to crap out in a matter of seconds. Doomed again….

That’s when he heard Atlas shout: “There they are!”

Ryder was back at the windshield in a flash, M16 up, night scope leveled. Atlas was really cranked—cranked and angry. He had a right to be a little nuts, though. To his mind, anyone who came within the sights of his rifle at that moment was just as bad as the person who had pushed the button that launched the SAM that killed the guys in the tanker and shot him down that night. He took it all very personally.

“See them!” he was yelling in Ryder’s ear. And suddenly Ryder saw what Atlas saw.

In the green glow of night vision about a half-mile ahead was what at first looked to be nothing more than a diving platform, something that might be found floating in the old swimming hole back home, just a lot bigger. There were six more scuba divers standing on top of it. They had an electric winch, and with it were reeling in the crate and its pontoon float. Ryder had seen one of these things before. It was an SLP-I, for surface loading platform, inflatable. It was a kind of temporary docking place used by waterborne special ops soldiers to tie up small raiding boats, store fuel, set up communications. SLPs had been used a lot in the Persian Gulf over the years, especially during the secret war against Iran.

The crate was quickly up on this platform and indeed frogmen were unloading the Stingers within. Other people on the inflatable platform were in the process of stacking the weapons. The speedboat was only about 1,200 feet away by this time, but then the engine really started chugging. At the worst possible moment, they began slowing down.

“Son of a bitch!” Ryder and Atlas screamed in unison.

The engine died completely a few seconds later. They were still 1,000 feet away from the floating platform and their forward momentum carried them another 100 feet or so. But then they stopped for good. Atlas went nuts. He pushed a new clip into his M16, sighted through the night scope, and let loose another volley. Meanwhile Ryder and Martinez were looking at the engine to see if anything could be done.

Suddenly Atlas cried out: “Jesus Christmas! I got one of the bastards.”

Ryder leaped back up to the front of the motorboat. He didn’t need his night scope to see that indeed, Atlas had shot one of the men on the platform and he had fallen into the water. He was struggling even as he was caught in a current pushing him away from the float and toward the motorboat. He appeared to be gravely wounded. Atlas was not satisfied, though. He kept firing at the man, sending ripples of bullets all around him. Soon enough the man stopped struggling. Then he stopped moving altogether.

Atlas was quickly hanging over the side; Ryder was right beside him. Together they reached down and grabbed the body. They had pulled him halfway into the boat…when suddenly Atlas let out a chilling scream.

“This is fucking impossible!” he cried.

He looked at Ryder as if he’d seen a ghost, which in a way he had. The body was that of Atlas’s former flight partner, the guy they called Teddy Ballgame.

At that moment, before Atlas could utter one more word of exclamation, Ryder felt the motor boat suddenly rising below his feet. One moment they were on the surface of the water; the next they were 15 feet above it. Then 20, then 25.

What was happening? All of them grabbed for something to hold on to, startled for their lives. Somehow Ryder was able to look down and see a large black mass had surfaced right below them. It had come up so sharply, it was carrying them up with it.

The first thought through his head—crazy, as he knew it could be his last—was: Is this a fucking whale?

The motorboat was shattered by the impact from below. Ryder, Atlas, and Martinez were thrown into the air; it was like they were weightless. The boat’s motor blew apart, sending burning gasoline everywhere. In his last conscious memory, as he was falling into the water surrounded by flaming debris, Ryder saw that this was not some great black whale sent by the devil to kill them.

It was a submarine.

A big one.

 

The Kai found them the next morning, floating 20 miles out in the South China Sea.

Ryder, Martinez, and Atlas were all clinging to the coffin-shaped packing crate, barely alive. Their encounter with the huge submarine had nearly killed them. The discarded crate was the only piece of debris large enough to save their lives; it had floated right up to them in the hell that followed the sub’s sudden appearance. As they drifted away, half-drowned, they saw the weapons being loaded into the sub by men in dark naval uniforms. Once done, the divers on the floating platform climbed onto the sub themselves. Then it disappeared, vanishing beneath the waves.

Ryder remembered little after that. He’d been hit on the head by something after crashing back down into the water. He barely recalled Martinez pulling him up to the top of the crate. But then sometime during the long night he’d pulled Martinez back up after he’d fallen over.

Throughout this, Atlas just held on, blank look on his face, never quite recovering from finding his ex-partner floating in the water, torn apart by his bullets. Why would Teddy be in league with the people stealing the missiles? How could he possibly be involved? There was no way to tell. But now Atlas had the same haunted look in his eyes as Martinez.

The sun had just come up when the Kai appeared overhead. Ryder had emerged from his haziness by this time. The big flying boat was a welcome sight as it orbited them once before coming in for a landing.

The coffin-shaped crate rode the swells over to it, and soon helping hands were pulling the three men aboard. Ryder went first, glad to get off the crate. But both Atlas and Martinez seemed reluctant to go. Finally they, too, were hauled aboard the big Kai. The empty box, their strange lifeboat, was then allowed to drift away.

It was only when the plane’s door was closed and Ryder’s eyes adjusted to the faint light inside the Kai’s cabin that he saw the other members of the American team were aboard. Both the group who’d pursued the F-10 cargo plane and those who’d chased down the smuggling ship the Sea Demon.

But the Americans were not flying the plane. The people at the controls were members of the Japanese Maritime Forces, its original owners. The Americans were sitting in rows inside the cargo compartment. All of them were in handcuffs.

Watching over them were several squads of heavily armed, rock-jawed Green Berets. Standing on the flight deck above everyone else, dressed in brand-new, never-been-worn combat camos, was General James Rushton, presidential advisor for special operations.

He did not look happy.