Her only Filipino commander had been Batanza and during his five years as the skipper, he'd accomplished several self-benefiting goals. His primary fait accompli had been developing a successful program of stopping and robbing various smugglers on the high seas. His father-in-law, a Manila police inspector, had all the contacts necessary for the profitable disposal of goods and narcotics that the son-in-law brought in from his patrols. The family fortune flourished through these illegal enterprises, sending sons, daughters, nieces, and nephews to college or setting them up in business.
Batanza had chosen a crew consisting of a trio of close officer friends and fifteen ratings of long-service sailors with whom he and his cohorts had established a close rapport. This comradeship had been developed through all that mutual support and sharing of spoils. They knew Abduruddin Suhanto's Greater Sunda Shipping Line well, having repeatedly plundered his four ships over a period of a decade and a half. There were other targets of opportunity as well, and all members of the Patrol Boat 22 crew could realistically expect a much richer retirement when their personal riches were combined with pensions from the Philippine Navy. All drove big American cars and were able to provide well for their families, as well as maintain attractive mistresses on the side.
"Contact!" the radar operator called out. "Zero-one-one. Five kilometers."
<4That must be the Jakarta," the executive officer said. This was Lieutenant Commander Ferdinand Aguinaldo, Batanza's best friend.
"And right on schedule," Batanza said in happy satisfaction as he checked his watch. "Make the interception, Number One."
"Aye, aye, sir," Aguinaldo replied.
The distance between Patrol Boat 22 and the Jakarta narrowed rapidly, and in less than a half hour visual contact was made. Aguinaldo got on the radio and ordered the merchant vessel to heave to and prepare to transfer cargo. Captain Bacharahman Muharno's voice came back with an affirmative reply. His good humor was evident over the radio speaker. This time there would be no piracy involved. This was a business deal that would benefit everyone on both ships.
The sea was calm and the maneuvering to bring the vessels close enough for the transfer of goods went smoothly and quickly. Batanza went out on the signal bridge with a bullhorn, waving to Muharno.
"Ahoy, the Jakarta!" the commander said, speaking through the device. "How are you this afternoon, Captain?"
Muharno, using his own bullhorn, waved back. "It is a beautiful day, is it not, Commander?"
"Indeed! What have you brought us?"
"An excellent shipment!" Muharno answered. "Stinger antiaircraft missile launchers. Sixty to be exact, along with one hundred missiles. That is two tons worth of cargo. Can your ship handle that much?"
"Easily! What we can't get in the hold, we can stack on the deck," Batanza assured him. "We have taken much larger loads in the past."
"I should have remembered," Muharno replied with a laugh. "This is not the first time cargo has been lifted from the Jakarta to your boat."
By then the cargo nets bearing crates of Stingers were being hoisted up from the hold of the civilian vessel. They were swung over the portion of the deck just aft of the patrol boat's bridge, and then gently lowered to the waiting Philippine sailors. These men quickly picked up the weapons to pass them to other hands formed up in a line that led down to the hold of the patrol vessel.
In less than a half hour the entire shipment was aboard Batanza's boat. Batanza waved the all-clear signal to Muharno that everything was aboard.
"See you next trip, my friend!" he said through the bullhorn.
"I shall look forward to it!" Muharno replied.
Connecting lines were cast off and the two craft carefully worked their way apart, before turning onto the proper courses that led to their next destinations.
.
POLICE HEADQUARTERS
BALBANDIN, PAKISTAN
27 SEPTEMBER
1045 HOURS LOCAL
MIKE Assad had lost track of how much time had passed since he was thrown into the solitary confinement cell. It was hard to tell if it was day or night since the only light came from a wall lamp in the corridor that shone through the small viewing port in the door. This provided a weak illumination, but it eventually improved somewhat as Mike's eyes got used to the dimness. There was nothing but a small straw mat on the floor, and his toilet consisted of a rusty bucket that leaked. But at least he had been provided with water and a glutinous meal of mutton and rice.
It was obvious the fact that he was an American had put him in a special category. It seemed his companions from al-Mimkhalif were going to suffer more deprivation and mistreatment. A lot of information would be given up on the terrorist organization before their ordeal ended. To make it worse for them, their future in the Pakistani penal system seemed to offer nothing but the bleakest of prospects.
Mike lay on the mat with his eyes closed, doing deep-breathing exercises to dispel the tension and nervousness that threatened his self-control. He missed Brannigan's Brigands and the comradeship he shared with them. He wasn't used to being off on his own. The company of those great guys gave him confidence and courage in the most dangerous of situations. He wondered what his best buddy, Dave Leibowitz, was doing. Mike and Dave were called the "Odd Couple" by the other SEALs. They were the closest of friends even though one was Jewish-American and the other Arab-American. Both were Americans first, and fiercely loyal to the U. S. A. The fact they served together in the U. S. Navy's most elite unit reinforced that friendship and patriotism.
Mike turned his thoughts from Brannigan's Brigands to his life before enlistment. He remembered prom nights, winning the district wrestling championship in his junior year of high school, kissing Kathy Mubarak the first time, and eating his mother's specialty, kabab samak, a grilled-fish dish with tomatoes and green peppers.
"American!"
The sound of the jailer's voice out in the corridor jolted Mike out of his reverie. He sat up just as the door opened. The jailer motioned him to step out of the cell. Mike complied and was taken by the arm and walked down to the egress. From there they crossed a small exercise yard and went into another building. The enforced stroll ended up in an office, where he was unceremoniously pushed down onto a chair. Then he was left alone. Since he hadn't been tied up, Mike hoped it meant no more beatings.
Almost a half hour passed before the door to the room opened again. This time a Pakistani police lieutenant and two men in sports shirts and slacks came in. The casually dressed pair walked to the front of the prisoner and stared down at him. They were a real Mutt-and-Jeff pair. The white guy was a short, blond man with a stocky build, while the black guy was a tall, willowy African-American who looked like he should have been in the NBA.
'This isn't a Johnny Jihad," the white guy said. "He's a fucking towel-head."
"Yeah," the black guy agreed. He glared at Mike. "We figured you were one of those poor little Anglo rich boys who turned to Islam because you've lost your fucking faith in the local Episcopal church in Beverly Hills where you were born. Or maybe you're from the Hamptons in Long Island and grew disillusioned by your wealthy father's greed in making money. But you don't fit into those molds at all. So where are you from, ass-face?"
"Buffalo," Mike replied.
"Were you born in the States?" the white guy asked.
"Yeah," Mike replied. "Who are you guys?"
"Shut your fucking mouth, ass-face," the black guy said. "Where's your American passport?"
"My name ain't ass-face," Mike said defiantly.