Chapter Twenty-Six

Seabury and Lois climbed out of the chopper at 10:05 p.m. They touched down in Berau inside a wide parking area near a row of warehouses closed for the night. They exchanged glances and looked down below. A small freighter docked at the pier unloaded cargo. Seabury saw the string of lights from the ship’s mast blinking on and off in the distance.

Inside a circle of bright light, deckhands labored out on deck. Cargo winched from the deep holds lining the belly of the ship landed heavily on the pier below. Beyond the light, darkness settled over the port. The air smelled salty and full of diesel fuel. The water near the pier swirled by in a sea of debris. Sticks, chunks of wet, matted straw, rumpled paper, crush boxes, condoms, and crayon husks bobbed up and down on the oil-slick surface.

Seabury barely heard Rio Reinhart and Naomi coming across the lot toward him. They had gone over and came back with another man. He slipped from the shadows of the warehouse, secured by heavy grated doors, and led the way across.

Rio introduced Lois and Seabury to the SWAT Team commander. Seabury shook his hand. It was big—almost the same size as his—with hard, bony knuckles and a powerful grip. He wore jungle green fatigues, a black beret, and black combat boots. Medals and insignias appeared all over his uniform. He wore a chrome-plated, AK-47 assault rifle with a wooden stock strapped to his shoulder.

“We need to hurry.” The commander pointed to the Swedish CB90 assault boat tied to the pier below. “The cargo ship we’re looking for is out in the gulf three hours away. It’s due to arrive at Derawan Island at midnight. We just received confirmation from GPS. It’s the same ship that left the Port of Vinh Long, Vietnam two days ago. They’ll anchor out in a remote cove near the northern tip, far away from the tourist crowd on the south side of the island.”

Checking his watch, the commander looked worried. “I’m afraid we’ll never make it in time,” he said in English. “We should have been there already. I don’t want them dumping off a load of stone with smuggled contraband and then disappearing into the night. I’ve called the Coast Guard for backup. So, everything’s set. Let’s go.”

A horn sounded on the bay. “It’s the gunboat,” he called back to the others. “They’re ready.”

Ten military policemen jumped out of the back of a truck and scampered down to the pier. A ladder dropped from the gunboat. The soldiers got in, followed by the Commander, Lois, Seabury, Naomi, and Rio.

The CB90 growled back from the pier, swung around, and headed out to sea. The boat was exceptionally fast and agile. Light weight, shallow draught, and twin water jets trailing out the back. Twin 625 hp Scania V8 Diesels powered the craft like a missile across the water, at speeds up to forty knots. It could execute sharp turns at high speeds, and then decelerate from top speed to a full stop in 2.5 boat lengths. Armaments included three Browning M2HB machine guns, one MK 19 grenade launcher, four naval mines, and six depth charges. The latest search and navigational radar, portable radio, and transceiver were standard issue.

In the moonlit night, it powered north out of the harbor into the Makassar Strait. A plume of water splashed back over the bullet, olive green nose as the assault boat roared out toward the open sea. Seabury and Lois, dressed in combat gear, saw searchlights skimming over the water in front of them as they rocked and bucked over the waves.

Three hours later, they arrived on the northern tip of Derawan Island, located in the island archipelago of East Kalimantan. At a point north of Rocky Bay, they saw the black silhouetted shape of a bulky cargo ship anchored out from shore.

A few minutes before, the commander had cut the vessel’s lights and engine, allowing inertia to glide them into a small lagoon where a wooden dock jutted out over the water. A fishing village appeared beyond the lagoon, twenty yards up a flat, desolate beach.

At a window in the upper bedroom of a house up the beach, a blocky, snubbed-nosed Indonesian bodyguard saw movement stirring in the darkness down below. He removed his nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson from a holster tied to the lip of a closet door nearby and moved past a queen-sized bed to the front door. Cyril Barat must have heard the noise too, because he tapped twice on the bedroom door and then entered.

“Trouble?”

“Assault team positioned down the beach, near the jetty.”

Barat asked, “Can we get out?” His voice rose hysterically. “Is there still time? I can’t get arrested. Not here. Not with all the stone on the vessel.”

Unresponsive, the bodyguard entered the hall and called back to Barat. “Come on. We’ll try to get out the back door.”

The commander’s Alpha Team positioned themselves in a stand of tall, dark trees ten yards to the right of a fishing dock. Attempting a rear assault, they got out quickly and entered the jungle. They crept around the lagoon and kept to the right until they circled around in back of a cluster of small village huts.

Soon, gunfire erupted, shattering the silence. Off to his right, inside the trees, Seabury saw muzzle fire. Tiny lights like flames at the end of a welding torch flashed on and off in the distance. Despite protests, Lois was ordered to stay inside the gunboat for her own safety.

Now, all at once, three soldiers from Bravo Team jumped from the gunboat and sprinted up the narrow beach to a window on the left side of a two-story cinder block home, built with a wide front porch.

Nodding their heads, Rio, Naomi, and Seabury signaled to each other. Then, they raced up the beach, keeping low to the ground in combat crouches, and stopped on both sides of the front door, their weapons cocked and ready.

Seconds later, Alpha Team—minus two men—broke through a clearing at the back of the house and pressed up to a side window on the right side of the building.

The commander radioed the team leader, and the soldier said, “Two down. Sector clear.”

Sighing, the commander grimaced in pain over the loss of his men. “Acknowledged. Continue Assault Fox Fire. Over,” he radioed back.

A moment later, the teams at the side windows of the house sprang into action. Two incendiary devices slammed in through the side windows, and the interior of the home filled with smoke. Gunfire erupted back out the side windows. Shards of glass exploded. Bullets ripped chunks of wood from the window pane and hurled them high into the air.

The incoming fire continued. Rifles, with hot, sporadic flashes of muzzle fire, jerked and sputtered in the soldier’s arms. The sound cracked and splintered off into the night. A loud crash came from the back of the house. A door kicked open. Two soldiers crashed through. Rifle-fire strafed the air, turned the room red. The mournful cry of dying men filled the air.

“Sector clear,” the team leader radioed to the commander from the back of the house. The commander responded, then nodded to Seabury, who crashed in through the front door, with Rio and Naomi right behind him.

Seabury hit the floor rolling and fired his Beretta at the man who had fired at him from the landing at the top of the stairs. The bodyguard, dressed in black pants and a gray shirt opened at the throat, toppled over and rolled down to the bottom of the stairs dead. Blood leaked from a hole in the middle of his chest.

Seconds flew by. Glancing around quickly through a layer of smoke, Seabury noticed a light on the opposite side of the room. It spilled out in a long, slender band from a back bedroom and wormed onto the top of a black leather sofa.

All of a sudden, the door in back swung open. A man fired at Seabury. The bullet tore into the hardwood floor inches to his left. It ricocheted off the bronze statue of an elephant that sat to the right of a glass coffee table. A cobalt blue floor vase stuffed with red orchids splattered across the floor.

Moving quickly, Seabury dove to his right, scooted along the floor to the edge of the sofa, and got into position to fire his weapon. He knew that the man inside the back bedroom was not a soldier. Probably a security guard. He could tell by the way he had fired his gun. Nervous, excitable, a true amateur. A soldier would never fire a gun that way. A soldier would have crouched low, entered the room, out of the light, out of a direct line of fire, and would have waited patiently for the enemy to make the next move.

Now, as Seabury inched around the corner of the sofa, the door to the back bedroom cracked open. Seabury saw a hand come out followed by a body framed in the doorway.

He squeezed off, and instantly, the room exploded in gunfire. The man blew up against the side of the door, his head flying back as he grabbed his chest, his gun going off in a rat-a-tat discharge of spraying bullets. They exploded against the doorjamb and sent chips of wood flying in all directions. Slowly, he sank to the floor, leaving a trail of blood splattered across the white, glossy surface of the door.

Smoke poured out through the bedroom now, filling the living room with a layer of white haze. Coughing, Naomi stepped over and opened the front door, allowing a wave of smoke to escape outside. Then, she flicked a wall switch, and the room flooded with light.

A tall, thin figure dressed in dark slacks and a yellow cotton shirt stood at the top of the stairs. Cyril Barat stared down below with a look of outrage and tramped downstairs.

“Who’s in charge here?” Barat demanded. He searched the room with cold, dark eyes.

Removing a handkerchief from his nose and mouth, the commander stepped into the middle of the room. “Okay, Barat,” he said, his eyes locked on him. “The game’s over.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“I know who you are,” the commander said. “I also know about your smuggling operation. What?” He scoffed a little. “The coal mining business hit a sharp decline?” The commander’s sarcasm filled the air. “Now, I won’t ask twice. Where’s the contraband?” He stepped closer to the Indonesian and leveled his service revolver on him.

Barat didn’t answer. His face flushed. He glared at the commander with a look of contempt and scorn.

Swinging his hand in a short, compact arch, the commander cracked Barat hard across the face with the barrel of his gun. The sound of bones cracking and a sharp cry of pain filled the room. Doubling over and screaming in pain, Barat twisted to the side and then stood straight up. A large, purple lump ballooned his left cheekbone. His face swelled. The skin broke open. A stream of blood trickled down his face, stopping at the edge of his bristled jaw.

“How dare you?” Barat shouted.

Eyes riveted on Barat. The commander calmly turned aside and motioned with his revolver. Seabury, Naomi, and two soldiers raced upstairs. A moment later, a Malay teen appeared at the top of the stairs. Behind her stood two young Vietnamese women. They came down into the living room wearing cotton bathrobes, looking sick, tired, and emotionally drained.

Naomi sat them down on the sofa and pulled up chairs. She talked to them in a quiet voice, telling them not to be afraid. They continued to stare down wearily, eyes to the floor, their bodies quivering.

Meanwhile, Seabury had come downstairs. He handed the spy camera to the commander. The commander held it up in front of Barat. Barat’s voice sprang from beneath the tiny plastic screen. “Yes, the big guy, Seabury and the others. Kill them all.”

Seabury’s steely gaze froze Barat in his tracks. “You’re lucky the commander got to you before I did,” Seabury said.

“You’re under arrest.” The commander’s abrasive tone snapped Barat’s head back. “Get moving.”

Nostrils flared inside Barat’s sullen face. His skin furrowed in a mass of brown wrinkles. Rio exchanged glances with Seabury. Seabury cuffed Barat’s slender wrists behind his back and heard him squeal in protest.

“You’ll pay for this…all of you,” he shouted. “I’m well-connected politically. Your careers are ruined. Do you hear me? Ruined!”

Naomi and Seabury stepped outside. Just beyond the front door, Naomi said to him, “I’m glad it’s over.” No apology, no sense of remorse for accusing him of murder.

“Next time, don’t jump to conclusions so fast,” he said. The sharp edge to his voice caught her off guard, and she turned away. “I value my life,” he said. “Much of the last few days, it’s been on the line. I know how due process works in Jakarta. There isn’t any.”

Naomi’s lower lip jutted out. She stood motionless and said nothing. Seabury could feel the heat of anger and resentment coming off her body. Wind blew in off the ocean and scattered a plume of dust across the yard. It rattled tree branches at the side of the house. Seabury moved away from her, stood in silence, and stared out to sea.

A while later, two soldiers came out with Barat, the older women, and the teen. They changed into fresh clothes and carried overnight bags with what meager belongings they had in their possession. Barat stopped for a moment and gazed across at Seabury. Dark circles lined his eyes. They were narrow slits filled with hatred and scorn.

“I know who you are,” he said to Seabury. “I have a long memory. I won’t forget.”

Naomi crossed the narrow space between them and pushed her face up to Barat’s. “Is that a threat?” she asked. “Because if it is, it’s one you won’t carry out. You’re going away for a long time, Barat. Do you hear me, you creep?” She took a step back. Her face bristled, hands shaking. “I hope you rot in prison,” she said and turned away, as if repulsed by the sight of him.

One of the soldiers stepped forward and motioned toward the assault boat tied to the dock down below. Barat and the girls were led away. The commander exchanged words with Reinhart and Naomi, and he watched them stroll down to the pier. A moment later, he crossed over to Seabury. He extended his hand. Seabury shook it. “Fine work,” he said. “At first, I had my doubts about taking you along. It’s against the rules, but what the hell. It worked out fine, didn’t it?”

“I guess so,” Seabury said. “Barat’s in custody, and I’m no longer a fugitive. It can’t get any better than that.”

They walked down to the pier together. Lois stood there waiting. “Did I miss out on all the fun?” she asked.

Seabury grinned. “Not really. If you consider shooting up the bad guys fun, next time, I’ll gladly exchange places with you.”

The commander looked at Lois. “He’s much too modest.” He shook his head as if in disbelief. “I never saw such a sharpshooter.” Then, to Seabury. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“Alcatraz.”

“Alcatraz.” He gave Seabury a funny look. “Are you joking?”

Seabury smiled. “No…really. I’m a merchant seaman. Once we dredged the estuary near the port of Oakland. Alcatraz is across the bay. The prison’s long since been abandoned, but they had a firing range over there. I used to go over and practice.”

“A man of mystery,” Lois said, grabbing Seabury by the arm.

By now, the gunboat had gone over and back to the cargo ship. The driver cut the engines, and the boat pulled up to the edge of the pier. Rio and Naomi got in first while the commander, Lois, and Seabury sat down in back of a group of soldiers. Seabury sensed a cold chill in the air. Rio and Naomi sat brooding in the seat in back of him. Seabury looked straight ahead, out to sea.

Hmmmm. Can’t admit they made a mistake, he thought.

Meanwhile, the combat team secured the cargo ship with skilled efficiency. Soldiers boarded and seized control of the vessel. Seabury saw a few of them out on deck now. Overhead lights, from bow to stern, were turned on. Black, sticklike figures moved along the deck, silhouetted against the ship’s graying mass.

The gunboat ignited in a roar, shuddered in the water, and then zoomed off toward the ship anchored a quarter mile away. For the first time since he’d discovered the papyrus map, and the subsequent journey to the Indonesian part of Borneo, Seabury began to relax.