The chief took the trio with him as they hurried down to the spot among the boulders where they could safely intercept the interloper. Everyone was nervous since none of the camp's mujahideen was out on an operation. Somehow a stranger must have inadvertently wandered toward their camp. They took up their positions among the rocks and waited. When the stranger appeared, the chief called out.
"Wakkiff!"
The man obediently came to an instant halt, raising his hands.
"Walk slowly forward," the chief commanded. "Keep your hands raised high or we will shoot you." He watched carefully as the man approached deliberately and carefully. Suddenly the chief jumped up and joyfully shouted, "Mikael! It is you!"
Mike Assad grinned and lowered his hands, speaking in his crude Arabic. "I come home."
The chief and the riflemen ran out to exchange hugs and kisses with their comrade. This was another Middle Eastern custom that Mike had never gotten used to. Kissing a man did not measure up to making out with an affectionate girl.
The group hurried back through the camp as one of the riflemen ran ahead shouting the good news aloud. Others joined in the impromptu celebration, happy to see that a popular comrade they thought to be a prisoner had returned to them. By the time they reached the commander's tent, all the mujahideen not on duty had gathered around the canvas structure, chanting and clapping a welcome to Mikael. The chief went inside where the camp leader Kumandan, and Hafez Sabah sat consuming wheat loaves and rice.
"What is the disturbance outside?" Kumandan demanded to know.
"Mikael Assad has come back," the chief announced. "He is returned to us."
"Bring him in," Kumandan said.
Mike stepped into the tent. "Marhaba--greetings!"
Kumandan stood up and studied the man before him. "My God! We had heard you had been turned over to the Americans."
"I was," Mike said. "They take me to their embassy in Islamabad."
Sabah gave him a suspicious look. "You are armed, I see. It appears you have a government-issue Webley revolver and pistol belt."
"I steal it all in police station," Mike said. "It is a very old British weapon."
"Sit down," Kumandan invited. "Fill up a plate for yourself. You must be hungry."
"Aywa!" Mike said, going down into a cross-legged sitting position next to the food. "And tired. I come a long way."
Sabah was still not convinced. "Did you say they took you to the American Embassy, Brother Mikael?"
"Yes," Mike replied, reaching for the rice. "But I escape. They want take me someplace from there. I do not know where. I am in car and handcuff is loose on one hand. I take out my hand and open door and jump in street. Then I run like gazelle and get away in big crowd of peoples."
"Haida taiyib!" Kumandan said, congratulating him.
Sabah lost all interest in his food. He leaned forward, looking straight into Mike's face, speaking in the British English he'd perfected during his days at Oxford. "Let's you and I speak in your language for a while, Brother Assad. I am going to ask you some rather important questions about your adventurous escape."
"That will be fine, Brother Sabah," Mike replied. He wished he wasn't so damn tired, knowing he would have to be careful and not trip himself up under the questioning.
The interrogation was unfriendly at first, but after an hour Sabah was convinced of the truth in Mike's cover story. The episodes in the Rawalpindi slums, the mosque, the bus trip, and all the rest fell into place with some scattered incomplete intelligence they had received from the interior of Pakistan. The end of the session evolved into a friendly conversation between Sabah and Mike.
"You have been badly misjudged here in camp," Sabah said. "Many of your brother fighters think you are a bit on the slow side. I can see now that is because of your crude Arabic. This gives a mistaken impression of your intelligence."
"I was getting better," Mike said. "But since my capture I've been exposed more to Urdu than Arabic. I'll get back on track quick enough."
"Actually, I have a different assignment for you," Sabah said. "Our supply operations are going through some changes.
It has been quite difficult actually, and I could use a good chap to lend me a hand. Are you interested?"
Mike couldn't believe the opportunity that was being put before him. Any information gleaned on the supply methods and routes would be invaluable. He smiled and nodded. "I'm your man, Brother Sabah."
.
ACV BATTLECRAFT
INDIAN OCEAN
VICINITY OF THE EQUATOR AND 90deg EAST
12 OCTOBER
1400 HOURS LOCAL
THE ACV had gone farther east than usual as Lieutenant Veronica Rivers monitored her radar screen. She was getting only the regular and easily identified signals of cargo ships that normally passed through the area. After directing Watkins to make a couple of changes of course, she noted spotty readings that had appeared in a corner of the tube.
"There's some stuff at zero-four-eight," she said. "About twenty miles out. I can't quite figure out what it is."
Lieutenant Bill Brannigan ordered Paul Watkins to steer to the azimuth, and walked over to check out what had gotten Veronica's attention. "It's not moving," Brannigan remarked.
"At this point I'm guessing it's debris," Veronica said. "I wonder if an airliner has gone down in that area."
"Negative," Brannigan said. "We would have been notified and changed over to a rescue mode. We'll check it out." He went back to his chair. "Watkins, maintain course and increase speed to two thirds."
"Maintain course and increase speed to two thirds, aye, sir."
The Battlecraft quickly attained the velocity, and the spray around her increased markedly as she continued toward the source of the signals. Lieutenant Jim Cruiser and his First Assault Section prepared for whatever situation awaited them in that part of the ocean. Bobby Lee Atwill took advantage of the increased RPM to run some quick diagnostics. When the power plant instrumentation indicated all was in order, he left the cramped engine room and joined the rest of the crew to see what Veronica had discovered.
Twenty minutes later the ACV arrived on the scene and the speed was cut to all stop. Brannigan and Veronica went out on the bow and visually inspected the area. "Something crashed here," Veronica said. "Christ! Look at the mess."
Floating debris littered the area as it rolled with the waves. Pieces of wood, mattresses, and a fuel tank were easily identified. Then the first corpse came into view. Brannigan directed Watkins to move toward the body as Dave Leibowitz came down on deck with a bow hook. He snagged the clothing of the dead man, and pulled him out of the water and deposited him on the deck. Brannigan knelt down and rolled him over.
"A Philippine sailor," he said, examining the features. "From the blood coming out his eyes, ears, and nose, I'd say he was killed by a combination of concussion and drowning." He went through the pockets and pulled out a wallet. A Philippine naval ID card identified the man as a petty officer artificer.
"There's more that way," Leibowitz said, pointing.
Another three quarters of an hour was spent hauling dead crew members up on the Battlecraft's deck. A total of eight were discovered for examination. Veronica took pictures with the digital camera while Leibowitz and the other SEALs pulled the available documents and personal affects from the bodies. After each corpse was searched, it was gently rolled back into the water since there were no accommodations to transfer them to another location. The best that could be done would be to radio the position to the Philippine government from the Daly so they could come out and retrieve their dead; hopefully, before the sharks discovered the feast awaiting them.