Madrid and Skies over the Ocean

“Are you sure that four of my men are enough?” Carlos asked Craig in an anxiety-filled voice. “I can get more volunteers.”

They were standing on the tarmac at a Spanish Air Force base outside of Madrid, waiting for the fueling of the unmarked plane that would take them to Broome, Australia.

“Thanks, but I like to work lean and mean.”

“Okay, it’s your call.”

Carlos’s cell rang. Craig heard him say, “Good. Send the men out. Take off in fifteen minutes.”

Craig thought about the six volunteers Carlos had sent him early this morning—all of whom had seen action in the recent battle for Southern Spain launched by Musa Ben Abdil. Craig had spent an hour alone with each of them, hearing about their experience before making his selection of four.

Now, standing next to Carlos in the hot midday sun, Craig watched the four with their heavy equipment laden backpacks pass him on the way to the plane.

What struck Craig was how young they were. All between twenty and twenty-five. They could easily have been the children of forty-six year old Craig. In fact, when Craig handed out the equipment an hour ago, Juan, now leading the way to the plane, had called Craig, “Papa.” At first, Craig had been irritated, but then he thought, what the hell, he’d take it as a sign of respect.

Juan, at twenty, was the youngest. His baby face, with black curly hair, made him look even younger. As Craig spoke with Juan, Craig quickly realized he was a tough kid. Juan was the youngest of four, born in a Madrid slum to a mother who worked in a laundry and turned tricks at night to support herself and her children to get away from their father who constantly beat her and the children. Juan had learned to fight with older boys in the slum who called his mother names. With her encouragement, he lied about his age and joined the army at
sixteen to escape from his domestic situation. Despite all this, Juan almost always had a smile. Miraculous, how some kids manage to avoid being scarred by their background.

Next was Julio, the pilot, the oldest at twenty-five. Julio was a child of privilege from Barcelona. His father was a banker, but all Julio ever wanted to do was fly planes. His father, who had wanted Julio to be a banker, refused to pay for flying lessons. So as a teenager, he scrimped and saved and snuck out for flying lessons. Over the bitter opposition of his father, Julio joined the Spanish Air Force. In the attack on Southern Spain, Julio had flown a bomber which tried to stop the landing of Musa Ben Abdil’s troops.

Fredrico, who followed Julio to the plane, was raised on a farm near Granada. He joined the army looking for a different life than raising crops and livestock. Powerfully built, with a dark, almost olive skin, Craig saw in Fredrico, who must have had Moorish blood, the melting pot that was Southern Spain. Perhaps because he was fighting for his homeland, during the battle with Musa Ben Abdil Fredrico had distinguished himself for valor, rescuing one wounded comrade who had been pinned down by enemy fire and going back to rescue a second when Spanish troops tried to block the advance of Musa Ben Abdil’s army. Fredrico was also a crack marksman and had won many awards in training.

Taking up the rear was Manuel, the only one of the four who was married. He had a six-month-old son. Manuel was from the Basque country in the north, the son of a fisherman from a small town near San Sebastian. He was short and stocky with legs that looked like tree trunks. He had the toughness Craig had always associated with Basques. And he had scars from knife wounds that proved he liked to fight. One on his arm and the other on his neck. “Not a good place to catch a blade,” he had told Craig in the interview.

When Craig had asked him why he joined the Spanish Army, he had said, “I wanted to fight. It was a close question of whether to join the Spanish Army or the violent Basque separatist movement. I figured that the movement was about finished. They lost their will to fight. What was the point of hooking up with them.” Manuel was an expert on explosives. Craig suspected he had learned to make bombs as a kid, hanging out with Basque terrorists. In the battle for the Alhambra, Manuel had been sent in undercover to disable any bombs that had been planted.

Their plane to Broome, a port on the northwest corner of Australia, was being flown by two Air Force pilots who would drop them off and wait for their return… if they made it back.

Once they were in the air from Madrid to Broome, Craig gathered the four men in a circle and said, “Let’s go over the logistics. Feel free to interrupt with questions.”

The four were staring at Craig, listening intently as he continued. “An old buddy of mine from my CIA days, who used to be in Australian intelligence, has purchased a seaplane and flown it to Broome, where he’s waiting for us.” Craig turned to Julio. “You ever flown a seaplane?”

“Naw, but a plane is a plane. I’ll figure it out.”

“Well if you need any help, my Aussie buddy is supposed to be knowledgeable.”

“No big deal, Papa. Don’t worry.”

“Okay, assuming Julio gets us to Bali, here’s the plan. General Zhou’s house is at the top of a hill, on a promontory, on an isolated part of the island of Bali. We want the cover of darkness so we’ll land on the southern side of the island at two in the morning when hopefully everyone in the compound will be sleeping.

“Julio will remain in the seaplane. We’ll have a small rubber inflatable boat with a powerful but quiet motor. Manual will steer it into shore on a rocky beach just below Zhou’s compound. And that won’t be easy because there’s plenty of coral. Then Manuel stays in the boat while Fredrico and Juan go up to the compound with me.”

“Why can’t I go, too?” Manuel asked.

“We need you to protect the boat. It’s our only way out. And you’re the only one who knows about boats.”

What Craig didn’t add was that waiting with the boat was the least dangerous part of the operation. Manuel had a wife and child. Craig didn’t want him to be in the fighting.

“How many are you expecting to be in the compound?” Fredrico asked.

“The most recent satellite photos I have were taken two nights ago. According to those photos, in the main building, only General Zhou and Androshka, his mistress, sleeping in one bed. In a small house off to the left as we go up the hill is a building housing the
servants’ quarters. Captain Cheng, the General’s aide, and two servants
from Bali should be in there. At the front west entrance where a road runs into the compound, two uniform guards are in a glass booth.
By coming in from the sea, we’ll circumvent the guards. If we’re quiet and move quickly, they may never know we’re there.”

Juan asked, “What do we do with General Zhou and Androshka?”

“Fredrico and I will each have chloroform. We’ll knock them out. I’ll take General Zhou; Fredrico, Androshka. Then we’ll carry them down the hill and into the boat. Juan, you’ll be covering us the whole way. We have to take both of them. We can’t risk leaving Androshka behind to alert the authorities.”

“And if Captain Cheng or General Zhou wake up and start shooting?”

Craig recalled what Zahara had said. “Then we shoot to kill.”