Second Strike

CHAPTER 2

After fi ve minutes of waiting beneath the starboard stern, Maddo whispered ‘Smithee,’ and jerked a thumb upwards. The sled rose through the clear water, Pharaoh and Maddo standing as it emerged into the light. Putting their gloved hands up on the grey sides of Penang Princess, they eased the sled into place.

‘That’s enough, mate,’ murmured Maddo, and Smithee killed the pumps but left the props turning over to keep the vessel in place.

Mac pulled his mask down, slid out of his fi ns, then released the central buckle on the rebreather unit before wriggling out of it, strapping the whole kit on to his seat with the sled’s Velcro-fastener seatbelt. Looking up at the rust-streaked sides of the vessel – a classic Indonesian coastal donkey – he tried to calm his nerves. All it would take was one tango to look over the side and they’d be blown. He hoped the Indon Navy boys knew what they were doing. It was crucial to the mission that the whole crew were assembled on Penang Princess ‘s deck for at least ten minutes.

Mac checked his weapon: a Heckler amp; Koch P9S with a suppressor.

The Heckler was unfashionable because it only used a seven-round mag and its four-inch barrel was considered inaccurate over more than twenty metres, but Mac liked the fl atness of the German handgun and the fact that it was possibly the most robust pistol ever made.

Beside Mac, Maddo had freed himself of his diving kit, knee-deep in water, while drawing his marinised SIG Sauer handgun from his webbing holster and checking it for load, mag and safety.

Behind Mac, Pharaoh swung the grappling hook on the end of a black ten-mil rope and got the bottom railing on the fi rst go. It was only ten, eleven metres away. He put his weight on it and pulled, bringing the sled closer in to the side of the small freighter.

Maddo pointed at Pharaoh with one thick fi nger, then at Mac with two fi ngers and indicated himself with three fi ngers against his own chest. Pharaoh grabbed the rope with both hands and swung to the steel side, which was curved at the stern. He got to the top of his climb with ridiculous ease for a man of his size, paused briefl y and then grabbed the white railings and pulled himself over onto Penang Princess, his enormous arms rippling through the soaked wetsuit as he fl exed for the side vault.

Maddo’s hand slapped on Mac’s back and he was up. Swinging to the ship’s side, he got a good purchase with his rubberised frogman slippers, pushed out against the rope to get the best grip and walked himself hand over hand up the ship, making the top in quick time.

He gasped with the pain in his sternum as he hauled himself over the railings onto hot teak decking. Then he scuttled across the rear poop deck to where Pharaoh was pointing and crouched in the shadow of a large venting horn, water pouring out of his wetsuit.

Maddo vaulted smoothly over the railing and made straight for Mac. They caught their breaths in the shadow of the vent and refl exively checked their guns.

Next came the part they’d walked through several times back in Jakarta. Using naval architect’s drawings of this kind of coastal freighter, Maddo and Pharaoh had put together a scenario of where a special guest would be bunked, and how they’d get there and extract him.

From the other side of the wheelhouse they could hear the shouts and commands from the Indonesian Navy. Mac’s Bahasa was pretty basic but he knew enough to pick up that the navy guys were demanding all hands on deck. Mac could envisage lots of sarungs and plastic sandals and theatrical shrugs: No more, boss – we all here, boss.

Maddo led them around the back of the wheelhouse and straight through a spring-loaded door into a dim passageway. It was hot and musty inside as Maddo led them down the steep companionway and along the low-ceilinged passage. They moved past storerooms, a sick bay and the fi rst mate’s offi ce, all the rooms tiny, steel-walled rat-holes. At the end of the passage was a companionway that led up, and one that dropped down. Maddo headed into the downwards companionway with Mac and then Pharaoh following close behind, all of them moving with one hand on the railings and the other on their handguns.

When they hit the next level down it was like walking into a steam room. Maddo signalled a three-way split to search down the passageway. This was where you’d fi nd the cabins on ninety-nine per cent of these coastal tubs and it was where Maddo and Mac expected to fi nd Akbar, probably hiding in a robe or cowering under a bunk.

Mac felt the sweat running freely under his wetsuit as he took the three cabins that Maddo had assigned him. He pushed the fi rst cabin door inwards and shouldered against the bulkhead. Slowly sticking his head around, he scanned the room: there were two double bunks against opposite bulkheads, a small gap between them with a mangy old tobacco-stained porthole. Each bed had a bare mattress with a sheet of Indian cotton on it and there were small piles of clothes and washcloths at the end of each bunk. Holding his breath to avoid the rancid smell of working men in the tropics, Mac crouched but there was nothing to look under: the bunks had two drawers in the base of the bottom bed.

Nowhere for Akbar to hide.

The second cabin was much the same, but someone was also sleeping on the fl oor, judging by the rolled-up mattress against the wall with a few folded clothes and a book – probably a Koran

– wrapped in a white crocheted cloth. There were exposed wires and a dangerous-looking jerry-built electrical plug that probably powered a fan when it got really hot.

Again, no Akbar.

The sweat rolled off Mac’s forehead as he came back into the cramped passageway, gulping for air, and saw Maddo at the other end. They shrugged at one another, the faint sound of sailors shouting echoing down to them before getting swallowed in the throb of the idling diesels.

Creeping into the last of his assigned rooms, Mac immediately realised he was in the guest’s cabin. It smelled of aftershave rather than BO, there were a couple of cot beds rather than double bunks and the portholes were open.

But still no Akbar.

Mac looked around, opened a wardrobe and found a couple of nice business shirts and a navy blue blazer hanging inside. He was speed-breathing again, an old reaction to nerves that fourteen months in the British military had been unable to beat out of him. Consciously deepening his breathing, Mac brought his Heckler up level with his chest, slowly gripped the door and pulled it back. No Akbar, although there was an expensive leather hold-all on the fl oor. He poked around the edges, trying to see if there were any wires or pressure pads before he opened the thing. It was clean and organised, a bunch of clothes and what looked like diaries. Mac pushed the far side up and found the letters AA stamped into the leather in gold. Ahmed al Akbar clearly liked the good things in life.

Leaning into the passageway Mac motioned Pharaoh over. Overhead the shouts of the navy boys and the replies of the Princess hands continued. As Pharaoh got to the cabin, Maddo fi nished his search and joined them. Looking down at his G-Shock, Mac realised they were running out of time.

‘This is Akbar’s cabin,’ he whispered to Maddo. ‘But he’s not here.’

Maddo gulped, his square face reddening in the oven-like atmosphere. ‘On deck?’

‘Nah – too risky,’ said Mac. ‘He’s down here somewhere. Three minutes, I reckon, then it’s time for Harold.’

‘Got that,’ said Maddo. ‘Any ideas?’

Mac shook his head. ‘You?’

The three men looked at each other. This wasn’t going well.

‘That smell?’ whispered Pharaoh. ‘That aftershave?’

‘Aramis, I reckon,’ said Mac.

Pharaoh jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I smelled it back here.’

While Pharaoh led Maddo down the passageway, Mac stayed in Akbar’s cabin. Taking a Ziploc plastic bag out of his rebreather webbing, he pulled out the battered and folded letters he’d prepared at the embassy in Manila and slipped them into Akbar’s main diary in the leather hold-all. Written in Arabic, they purported to be from an assistant attache with the US Embassy in Jakarta, spelling out that should matters prove ‘overwhelmingly diffi cult’ in regards to his cover, his sponsors had an emergency extraction timed for 11 October from Endeh, on the southern side of Flores. All fi nancial arrangements would be honoured in any event, said one of the letters, with funds continuing to be transferred to his nominated accounts in Singapore.

Though it might seem like an obvious ruse, Mac had set up several numbered accounts at DBS in Singers with the same serials recorded in the letters. He’d even dumped some money in them. Al-Qaeda was a bourgeois organisation, and the fi rst thing they’d authenticate would be the banking details.

Maddo and Pharaoh stood outside what looked like a cool room or pantry door, with a big cantilevered chrome handle sitting horizontal over the latch and a huge long-shank padlock holding the handle in place. Mac slid around in the sweat that was building inside his rubber slippers as he got to the pantry door.

‘Think he’s right, Macca,’ whispered Maddo, pointing at the door.

‘Smell that?’

Mac smelled it immediately. It must have been broiling inside that locked box and the Aramis was wafting off whoever was wearing it like incense.

‘Good call, Pharaoh,’ whispered Mac, then asked him to tell Akbar that the Indonesian Navy were boarding and they needed to get him to safety.

Pharaoh aimed a torrent of Arabic at the pantry door, his tone friendly and fi rm, like a cop. A faint voice came back through the door and they looked at Pharaoh to see what had been said.

‘Says, Get me the fuck out of this oven,’ said Pharaoh. ‘Bloke’s ready for Harold.’

Sizing up the padlock, Mac slapped at a webbing pocket for his lock jiggers, but felt nothing. Fuck! The loggerhead turtle had taken off the webbing pocket with his jiggers and computer code-runners.

‘No jiggers, boys,’ whispered Mac, embarrassed. ‘New girlfriend’s got ‘em.’

Pharaoh put both hands up behind his neck, pulled at the A-frame on his back. Out off the backpack and over his head came the largest set of bolt-cutters Mac had ever seen. They stood as tall as a medium-height girl.

‘You taking the piss?’ asked Mac, realising what they were for.

Maddo shook his head, the sweat pouring down his face. Bringing the bolt-cutters down level, Pharaoh stepped up to the latch. As he did Mac thought he heard something, but no one had noticed. Probably nothing.

Pharaoh nuzzled the seven-inch jaws of the bolt-cutters up to the thick padlock shanks and jimmied his hands down the levers of the thing to the black rubber handles. Mac couldn’t believe it would work – the padlock looked enormous and was a German brand that special forces usually jigged or blew with a cone-shaped charge of C4.

Mac’s G-Shock indicated they had one hundred and fi ve seconds till the Indonesian Navy skedaddled. It was getting too fi ne. Then he heard the noise again as Pharaoh braced his legs and torso and got ready to try and clip the padlock. It was the sound of a vibration, something more than the idling diesels in the engine room.

‘Shit!’ hissed Mac. ‘They’re pulling out early.’

He and Maddo held their breaths as they heard the cavitating sound of another set of props increase their thumping against the hull of Penang Princess. It was unmistakable; the TNI Navy vessel was throttling in reverse. They were pulling away.

‘Fuck!’ spat Maddo, his hand going to the earpiece of his comms gear. ‘Black Ace, Black Ace. Stand by for extraction,’ he whispered.

Maddo turned back to the door. ‘Let’s do it, mate,’ he said, nodding at Pharaoh.

The big man got his elbows in line and squeezed like he was pushing on a Bullworker. The bolt-cutter jaws didn’t make a dent.

Voices sounded above, coming down a level into the ship. Mac stood back from the door and pointed his Heckler at the passageway while Maddo mouthed encouragement at Pharaoh. ‘Come on, mate – it’s like fucking butter, you’re going through it like butter.’

There were more thumps and the sounds of excited chatter coming closer. The diesels dropped revs, meaning Penang Princess ‘s prop was being engaged, and Mac moved away from the combat divers to get a better line of sight.

As the chattering voices came lower through the ship, Mac glanced back and saw Pharaoh go for another squeeze, his face puffi ng up with exertion and the handles of the bolt-cutters fl exing slightly as his muscles strained through his wetsuit. He was built like a professional wrestler, but the shank held.

Human sounds echoed down the iron stairs, now just fi ve metres above. Mac gulped, sweat dripping down his face, praying that whatever checks were being made on Akbar, the sailors would only come down one of the companionways. He didn’t want to die like a rat in a basement.

Aiming up, he watched a pair of plastic-sandalled feet pause on the top of the companionway stairs – more talking, friendly, expressing relief that the navy didn’t want to board. Mac’s heart thumped in his head and he concentrated on what he could control: his breathing and his aim. Glancing over his shoulder again, he saw Pharaoh’s face turning purple as he puffed like a weightlifter, spittle fl ying off his white lips, arms rippling like there were champagne bottles moving beneath his wetsuit.

Finally a tinkling sound rang out as Pharaoh almost collapsed over the bolt-cutters. He’d done it.

Mac back-pedalled to his navy escort, keeping his eyes on the feet at the head of the companionway. Pharaoh caught his breath while Maddo twisted and removed the padlock from the handle. Then the combat diver pulled a small plastic bag from his webbing and removed a wet rag that quickly fi lled the enclosed space with a smell of solvent.

As Maddo pulled open the pantry door, Mac and Pharaoh aimed their guns into the dark. Inside, a well-dressed middle-aged Arabic man lay on a bench at hip-height, looking at them with an expression that fl ickered from relief to fear. Maddo moved straight at Akbar, grabbed him by the collar, pulled him back into his stomach and forced the rag over his mouth and nose, the bloke’s little hands scrabbling at the Australian’s arms until the solvent kicked in. They were lucky Akbar hadn’t made a sound.

Mac pulled the foil out of his webbing, handed it to Pharaoh and moved towards the companionway and those sandalled feet.

As Pharaoh busted the Xanax caps and poured them into Akbar’s mouth, Mac stealthed beneath the companionway stairs and waited for the feet to move, his lungs and heart going crazy, sweat pouring off his face. The feet shifted and the other person moved away as the feet started coming down the stairs, revealing a mid-twenties Indon sailor in sarung and white singlet. As the bloke hit the passageway and turned down to check on Akbar, Mac brought the Heckler up and shot him behind the ear. It was a very quiet weapon and the sound of the bloke dropping to the old black nylon carpet was greater than the mechanical thump of the round detonating. Mac pulled the body back behind the stairs, the bloke’s ankles still warm in his hands. This was the part of his job he didn’t like.

He turned to Maddo and Pharaoh, who were moving towards the companionway at the opposite end of the hall. Akbar lay limp over Pharaoh’s shoulder and the big diver had to duck to get both of them under some of the pipes that hung from the ceiling. As Mac moved over to shut the pantry door, his eyes briefl y caught something. He checked again, thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him.

They burst into the sunlight, panting with the heat and adrenaline.

Pharaoh was fi rst over the side of Penang Princess, one hand on the railing, the other holding Akbar tight against his chest. Maddo joined him and, leaning over the railing, wrapped the climb-rope around Akbar’s ankles, fl ipped him over and lowered him towards Smithee’s outspread arms. Smithee wound off the ankles and, as the rope swung free, Maddo, Mac and then Pharaoh came down the rope in silence.

Mac could sense the tension as Smithee pulled the mask over Akbar’s face, the banker coming up from the solvent and immediately trying to struggle. The mask was joined to a standard SCUBA set since you couldn’t put a drugged-up, inexperienced man in a rebreather, unless you wanted him panicking so bad you had to surface. Mac sized up the bloke’s anxiety, which was greater than the fear of simply being snatched. Maybe the bloke wasn’t a swimmer – many Arabs weren’t. Pulling the syringe of pure Valium out of his webbing, he got behind Akbar and jabbed him in the bum with the shortened needle, plunging the entire contents as fast as he could. Akbar yelped slightly, but after ten seconds he stopped struggling and after twenty he was as fl oppy as a doll.

Smithee strapped Akbar to Maddo’s seat and Maddo kitted up and lay on him. You needed an experienced diver to make sure the snatchee didn’t stop breathing. Pharaoh and Mac put on their rebreathers and gave Maddo the okay through the comms, all of them looking up at the railing, expecting a bunch of faces and a hedgerow of AK-47s to emerge at any minute.

The whine started and the sled slipped below the surface. Mac felt the warm waters envelop him and was happy for the cover, if not the entrapped feeling of the full face mask.

The sled got to fi ve metres submerged and they made for the RV.

Forcing his breathing into the long rhythms needed for the rebreathers, Mac went over the op in his mind. He didn’t like killing another person and usually he had to work hard to keep it from swamping his thoughts. But this time he was preoccupied with something else entirely – he had seen something in that pantry as he shut the door.

It was a pair of human eyes, staring out of a refi ned Indonesian face.

Mac didn’t like taking guesses at what he saw and heard, but he was eighty per cent certain he’d locked eyes with Jemaah Islamiyah general Abu Samir.