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Frankle took a last look at the boat as it swung around and headed away from shore toward the larger patrol boat. They were committed, and the team’s fate would depend on the accuracy of their intelligence, their choices and guesses during the planning, and their skills as operators. They arranged their equipment on the sand between them. During the offload from the boat, there was no time to make sure each man had the correct equipment items—they just needed to grab everything and sort it out on land. Each man removed his floatation vest; they were a useless encumbrance now and could be hidden within the tree line for use during the return trip. Hopefully.
Frankle grabbed the satchel he needed and slung it over his shoulder, then picked up and shouldered his personal weapon, in his case, a suppressed Uzi machine pistol. On his belt, he also carried a holstered Sig Sauer P228 and the Ka-Bar fighting knife issued to him when he was in the Marines. Bell also carried a Sig and Ka-Bar, but he favored a SOPMOD Block II-equipped M4 carbine that allowed for long- and short-range fighting. The other two men had standard M4s and Glock nine-millimeter pistols.
Frankle took out the Garman handheld GPS navigator pre-programmed with their route and slipped on the special hood as the others sorted themselves out. The screen would only light up when pressed to his eyes, which would prevent detection if anyone was looking their way. He turned the unit on and looked into the hood. The unit calibrated itself and then displayed a rough topographical map showing their current position and intended route. The Coasties did well: they were within a hundred feet of their planned drop-off point. Frankle looked from the navigator and, through his NVGs, located the gap in the trees that marked their route. He glanced at the others, standing ready with their equipment, and whispered, “Right, let’s go.”
The four men set out slowly with Frankle in the lead, walking from landmark to landmark, guided by the navigator. The lack of moonlight was a blessing in remaining undetected, but it forced them to find their way among the rocks using NVGs. Progress was slow but steady as they progressed north and climbed the sloping high ground to the west of the 252 facility. They reached the rally point three hours and forty-five minutes after landing, a good hour before first light. They each disbursed to their observation points and donned the ghillie suits that would camouflage them through the day.
As Frankle settled into his nook, he placed his Uzi in the satchel and, as the horizon grew light with the coming dawn, also tucked in his NVGs. He had binoculars and a rangefinder scope in the bag, and he would not use those until later when the chance of light reflecting off their lenses was eliminated. There would be plenty of time to make the final observations needed to complete the mission. Frankle adjusted his position to be as comfortable as possible and put his head down to get some sleep. Gerard had the first watch on the compound and would alert them via their encrypted headset radios if it looked like anyone was approaching their position.
As Frankle laid his head down, he noticed for the first time how quiet it was. With the lack of open freshwater sources, there was almost no non-human animal life on the island, so the usual crescendo of bird and terrestrial animal calls that came with the dawn was absent. Likewise, no mosquitos, Frankle thought with satisfaction—there was no blood to be had and nowhere for them to breed. Always with the silver linings, old man, he thought as he fell asleep.
Yevgeny Vladimirovich Rostov adjusted his sunglasses and descended the stairs of the Gulfstream Five business jet leased to a Croatian shell corporation belonging to the 252 Syndicate. It had been a long flight from Zagreb, over ten hours, but an agreeably smooth one. Rostov yawned and stretched, taking in the wonderful warm sunshine under the cloudless sky, tempered by the cool breeze of the easterly trade winds blowing in from the Atlantic, thirty kilometers to the northeast. Not quite a sea breeze and no pleasant odors from the sea or flora, just the familiar stink of diesel and burned jet fuel.
Rostov glanced at the hangar about a hundred meters away and noted a white and green painted CD2 twin-turboprop amphibious seaplane being towed out. A former security officer in the Voyenno-vozdushnye sily Rossii, or Russian Air Force, he was familiar with most aircraft types, particularly those built in Russia. Still, this was the first example he had seen of the late production Chinese version of the Dornier Seastar. This would be the plane that would ferry him and his three companions the remaining hour and a half of their journey to the Chinese base on Ile Ste. Michel. It would be far less comfortable than the luxurious business jet he’d stepped out of, but after a busy night of drinking and sex, he was looking forward to getting some sleep on the way.
Rostov was one of the young turks of the 252 Syndicate, joining after being drummed out of the Air Force for excessive corruption. The founders, the first generation of secret police plotters and torturers turned out when the Warsaw Pact collapsed in the early 1990s, had largely passed from the scene, either through retirement or death. Present ruling cadre, the second generation, were the junior backroom heavies and assassins who rode in behind the founders to fill out the middle ranks of the new syndicate. Young and hungry movers and shakers like Rostov were moving up in the organization, searching for opportunities to shine, be recognized, and move into one of the coveted territory governing chairs. Rostov’s chance came when he got close to Xiaotong Chen, a senior Chinese Communist Party official administering the BRI effort in Moldova. Each recognized a kindred spirit in the other: a rapacious and power-hungry sociopath with a knack for sensing and seizing opportunities for promotion. Their early partnership had cleared several bureaucrats out of the way of BRI projects via the go-to 252 tools of bribery, extortion, and murder.
Chen had been rewarded with a promotion and assignment to clean up a problem with morale on Ile Ste. Michel. The high rates of discipline problems and suicides among the miners assigned there were unacceptable. His predecessor employed the usual, often brutal, disciplinary actions but had failed—the mine was falling well short of even the artificially low targets set to keep the Haitians on the hook. Chen deduced the unrelenting boredom and physical isolation from normal civilization were to blame and evaluated that providing relief in recreational drugs and submissive women was the path out of the problem. He naturally turned to his erstwhile Moldovan partner, Rostov. The latter was quick to respond, negotiating not only an additional revenue stream for the syndicate but a strong base in the western hemisphere under the aegis of the BRI’s Haiti project.
The Miho Dujam’s loss had been a significant setback, both in terms of the loss of revenue from the arms shipment and a blow to the syndicate’s prestige in the late delivery of services to their new Chinese partners. At least the fools running the ship had sunk it rather than letting the cargo or any evidence linking it to the syndicate fall into the Americans’ hands. The chief of the Croatian arm of the syndicate, who had been singing Rostov’s praises before the loss, made it clear his future success in the organization, if not his very life, depended on him cleaning up the mess. Rostov got the message. The women could be delivered by air as soon as they were gathered, and the heavy cargoes of arms and drugs would come later, once the sex services were functional.
Rostov had seen to this first delivery himself, from selecting the women to the transport to the island. Knowing Chen’s fondness for blondes, Rostov had scoured the syndicate-controlled brothels and, unable to find candidates of sufficient “purity,” expedited a couple of ongoing abduction operations to obtain two worthy candidates, one each from Poland and Latvia. He oversaw their indoctrination into their new life and gave each a “test flight” on the trip across the Atlantic. They were still aboard the Gulfstream with his bodyguard, awaiting the call to board the CD2. Rostov was certain Chen would appreciate the personal touch he had put on this first delivery.
Rostov glanced to his right, where his assistant Dmitri was locked in an intense discussion with a local official beside a dated Peugeot sedan with “PNR” lettering. Two soldiers with shouldered AK-47s, also with the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria, watched from the side. Undoubtedly, the advance bribe the organization had paid for a smooth transition through Cuban jurisdiction proved insufficient. Rostov was used to corruption in government—it was a leading tool in the syndicate’s business model—but Cuba was truly in a league of its own. Fortunately, a large cache of currency, both in Euros and U.S. Dollars, was locked in a concealed safe in the Gulfstream. After an appropriately vigorous but futile resistance, Dmitri would re-board the plane, supposedly to collect all the money the crew was carrying on their persons. He would grab a pile of odd dollar and euro bills from the safe and return to the official to learn the amount happened to be the exact shortage in the pre-paid arrival tax. It was comically venal and part of the cost of doing business.
After a few minutes, Dmitri turned, shook his head, and walked over to Rostov. “Time for some theater, Boss,” he said.
Rostov affected an annoyed expression and put his hands on his hips. “Well, we’ll make it look good, Dmitri,” he said, shaking his finger in his assistant’s face and getting a shrug in return. After a good show of indignation, Rostov took a wallet out of his pocket, pulled out 223 Euros in assorted bills, and, after handing the money over to Dmitri, made a significant gesture of shaking it upside down to the smiling Cubans. Dmitri took the bills, then trudged to the Gulfstream to complete the collection effort. Five minutes later, the official pocketed the money Dmitri handed him, and he and the soldiers climbed into the Peugeot and drove away.
As Dmitri stepped over, Rostov said, “Well done, my friend. You can tell the pilots it’s safe to come out now.” The CD2 pilots hid in a hangar storeroom to avoid getting caught up in the impromptu tax collection. They were Cubans running a charter service as a front for one of the 252’s partners. The men were well-paid, and there was no risk of their blackmailing Rostov for more cash—the 252s were reluctant to risk acting against Cuban government agents but wouldn’t hesitate to kill citizens and their families in brutal fashion. Dmitri returned with one man while another walked toward the plane.
“We are ready to depart whenever you wish, seńor,” the man said.
“No reason to delay,” Rostov replied and turned to Dmitri. “Get them on board.”
“I should come with you, Boss,” Dmitri said.
“No, my friend, I need you to look after things here. Besides, Comrade Chen is a nervous man—the fewer of us there are, the better.”
“Yes, Boss,” Dmitri said, turning to walk to the Gulfstream.
Rostov followed the Cuban pilot to the CD2 and climbed aboard. It was configured for VIP transport, and Rostov had just sat in a comfortable rear-facing seat in the cabin’s front when his bodyguard Vasili arrived, each of his massive fists with a firm grip on one woman. They were both lovely and well-dressed, but they were cowering in terror as Vasili dragged them on board and pushed them into two seats in the back. Dmitri followed with two suitcases and handed them to the pilot, who stored them in a baggage compartment, closed and locked the entry door, and then made his way to the cockpit.
As the CD2’s two engines completed their start sequence, Rostov waved out the window at an obviously concerned Dmitri. He regretted leaving the man behind—Dmitri was a clever negotiator, and though Rostov did not expect any issues with Chen, you never knew. Neither man knew the decision had saved Dmitri’s life.
The flight to Ile Ste. Michel took the advertised one-and-a-half hours, and with the beautiful weather and keeping over water absent of heated land updrafts, it was smooth enough for Rostov to nap the entire way. He was startled awake by the touch of the copilot, who said, “We are on final approach to the harbor.”
Rostov stretched and said, “Thank you.” Then he looked out the window to see the island’s brown and tan landscape, surrounded by the deep blue of the Atlantic with the lighter shallows rimming the land. The plane descended and made a smooth landing in the sheltered waters just off the docks of the Chinese port facilities, then taxied ponderously to the boat landing, where the engines labored to push it up the incline. Once on level ground, the pilots shut down the engines, and Rostov watched as four armed Chinese men surrounded the plane.
The copilot stood, made his way to the cabin door, opened it, and stepped out onto the tarmac after showing he was empty-handed. After a moment, he poked his head in and said, “They wish to speak to you, seńor.”
Rostov nodded and stood, then walked back and climbed out of the plane to face two armed Chinese soldiers. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said in English. “I’m here to see Comrade Chen.”
“Comrade Chen is far too busy with government business to visit with wayfarers,” one soldier said. “You may contact your associates to pick you up, but you will remain with the aircraft until they do so. After you depart, the aircraft must as well.”
“Very well,” Rostov said. The cold shoulder was expected—one of the caveats in the treaty establishing the Chinese presence on Ile Ste. Michel was the prohibition against association with international criminal activity. He respected Chen could not be witnessed meeting with Rostov or any other syndicate members. Chen would make his way to the 252 compound after dark. “It will soon get hot within the aircraft with this sun. May my companions and I wait outside?”
The guard glanced inside and noticed the women for the first time. “Yes, but you will remain within five meters of the aircraft, and anyone straying outside that boundary will be arrested.”
“Understood, thank you.” Rostov turned and motioned to Vasili, who seized the women and pulled them through the door and under the shade of the CD2’s narrow wing. The guards stared hungrily at the women, and Rostov was confident that if Chen weren’t looking at them through binoculars from his office right now, he soon would be. Rostov pulled out a satellite phone and contacted the compound for a pickup.
Twenty minutes later, a large blue Chevy Tahoe pulled next to the plane, and, after one guard verified his identity, the driver climbed out and walked over to Rostov. It was Krupin, the supervisor of the compound. “Greetings, Mr. Rostov,” the man said in Russian. “Welcome to our little tropical paradise.” He glanced over at the women with a smile. “Our first attendants. Excellent choices, if I might say so. There is a considerable backlog of orders.”
“They will remain unfilled for the time being, my friend,” Rostov said. “These two lovelies are reserved for Comrade Chen and me tonight.” He turned to Vasili and nodded, prompting him to move the women into the SUV.
“As it should be,” Krupin said, grabbing Rostov’s bag.
As they were driving away from the ramp, Rostov heard the CD2’s engines start. He envied the pilots—they would fly to Puerto Plata in the Dominican Republic and stay overnight in a resort hotel, while he would have to make do with what passed for a VIP suite in a tropical brothel. Such are the privations one has to sustain when you are the boss, Rostov thought. He then glanced at the two women in the rearview mirror and smiled. Of course, it could be worse.
Frankle stretched and rubbed his neck. He never liked this part of the job, laying prone and still for hours at a time, but at least the temperature was pleasant, not too hot or cold. The cold bothered him the most these days, yet another sign that it was time to hang it up. A glint of sunlight on glass caught his eye, and he trained his hooded binoculars on the road leading from the island’s east side. It was the blue SUV returning, hopefully with their quarry on board. Frankle was a little surprised they were returning so quickly—he had noted the passage of a seaplane less than an hour ago he was sure carried Rostov and his bodyguard. He had expected a much longer meeting with the Chinese.
The overflights had tracked three SUVs associated with the 252 compound. Frankle’s men had accounted for two, one sitting in front of the generator building and the other returning down the road. Frankle was disturbed by the fact they had not yet located that third vehicle—no other known 252 activity on the island could account for its absence. He supposed it could be off on the island’s eastern side, working on some activity involving the Chinese. Another variable to be accounted for among too damn many.
He watched as the SUV continued down the coastal road, turned onto the side road leading to the 252 compound, and pulled to a stop beside the barracks/brothel. He moved his gaze to the forward passenger door and adjusted the focus as a man climbed out. It was Rostov, all right, looking like someone in a Sandals ad with his pastel blue shirt, white pants, and sunglasses. The rear door opened, and his hands tightened on the binoculars as another thug climbed out with two women. Dammit, there wasn’t anything about trafficking in the messages! Maybe they’re volunteers; I’d rather be here than in a Croatian cesspool. The thug answered his question by violently wrenching one woman’s arm as he dragged both into the building. Enjoy yourself, King Kong; you haven’t long to live.
Frankle’s headset chirped, and he flipped it on. “Boss, did you see that?” said Bell’s voice.
“Affirmative,” Frankle replied.
“So, what are we going to do?” Bell asked.
“Our mission. Now get off the air.”
Shit-shit-shit! As if it wasn’t tricky enough to get into that compound and kidnap a security officer trained to resist. Bringing along two abused, traumatized, and likely hysterical women pushed it into the impossible category. He glanced over his shoulder south of the island. Although she couldn’t be seen in the sea haze, Kauai was out there, somewhere within their radio range of fifteen miles, making like a typical Coast Guard cutter on a migrant interdiction patrol.
What would they think of a proposed mod to the mission to include the women? He knew what Ben would think, based on his performance on the Miho Dujam: Hell, yes! Reardon was another story—she was a cool customer, unlikely to react emotionally in a way that put the crew and boat at risk. Frankle nodded. Yep, that’s exactly what you need in a CO of a unit like this one.
Frankle took out his tablet and typed a text message for encrypted burst transmission. “To Orchid From Delta, target on-site, observed in company of 2 captive women. Rpt, believe 2 women are prisoners. Unless otherwise directed, will attempt extract of prisoners during egress if willing. Ends.” Frankle took the handheld directional antenna out of his bag, plugged it into the tablet, and scanned the southern horizon until it picked up Kauai’s carrier signal. He tapped the send button, and the tablet did the network negotiation and sent the message in less than half a second. The tablet chat line said, “Msg rec’d OK,” showing the checksum variable transmitted was valid for the message.
Frankle held the antenna pointed in the direction yielding the carrier tone, and, minutes later, received another chirp in his headset indicating an incoming text. He glanced at the tablet. “To Delta From Orchid, prisoner extract approved. Window 2000-0030L. Req rndz time when able. Ends.”
Frankle smiled, pleased but hardly surprised, as the risk to the boat was the same whether the women came along or not. Although it imposed a constraint, he was pleased to see the “window” times for the extract, for it meant Pennington had got them some air support. Hopefully, we won’t need it. He put the antenna down and turned back to his observations of the compound. The boat’s big enough to carry the extra two passengers, but can that crane handle the added two hundred pounds?
Haley looked across her cabin at Ben and Drake. There had been minimal discussion about the response to Frankle’s request to extract the women. There was no added risk to the mission if they wanted to come off, and Haley could hardly refuse, even if she was inclined to do so. The extra weight in the boat was a concern. During the full-load test, the howl of the crane’s hydraulic motors had made her hair stand up, and she wanted assurance it could take the extra weight. “What do you think, COB?” she asked.
“I don’t know, Captain,” Drake answered. “We were nibbling at the red line throughout the lift, and I sure wouldn’t bet a paycheck on it.”
It was not the answer Haley wanted to hear. She looked at Ben.
“We could put a Jacob’s Ladder over, ma’am. One or two DIA guys and I can climb out before the lift to take some of the load off. It will delay the recovery, but that has to be preferable to risking a complete breakdown.”
“Why leave Lopez in the boat?” Haley asked.
“Can’t take the chance of leaving Lee with no help in case we need a Plan B, ma’am.”
“Agreed. OK, let’s plan on that. Rig the ladder and brief your crew.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben replied as he and Drake stood.
After the two left, Haley sat alone in the cabin and contemplated the five-pound ice cube in her stomach. As she had a dozen times in the last couple of days, she went over her decisions relating to the upcoming operation. The message detailing the assignment of the Compass Call C-130 electronic warfare aircraft had been a tremendous relief, and at least they would have a good handle on what the Chinese were doing. It was bad enough to send Ben and Lopez ashore with machine guns (machine guns!) to support the extract. Sitting there ignorant of the actions of an enemy that could blow them all to hell would be unnerving.
She had only talked briefly with Lopez during her familiarization patrol, but found him bright and earnest. Sam had said they were lucky to have him, that Mercier had added an ME3 billet so that they could keep him on board after he graduated from the Maritime Law Enforcement Specialist A-school training. He was on the shortlist of crew members she needed to get to know better, and after this operation, she would make clearing that list a priority.
She pulled open the drawer and took out the picture of her with her father, taken on her graduation day from the Academy. He was wearing one of his finest suits, and she was in her dress whites, both of them smiling proudly. It had been the happiest day of her life until four days ago, when she had taken command of Kauai. She thought, Oh, Daddy. Look at what your little girl is doing now! She stood and put the picture back and closed the drawer.
She stopped on her way to the Bridge to glance in Ben’s open door at the pictures of him and Victoria on his wall. Haley had been concerned when Ben told her they had become engaged the night after the change of command and remained convinced that emotional ties to the shore were liabilities officers could ill afford. Yet, despite this, Ben seemed to be as focused as before, if not more so, and Haley was wondering if it might be time to revisit her philosophy.
