"I refuse!"
"You are going to Hell, Mr. Suhanto," Sabah said. "You are a Muslim, yet you are not a faithful follower of Islam. I can smell liquor on your breath now. What other laws of Allah do you outrage? Perhaps eat pork? No daily prayers?" He paused. "By serving us, you have a chance of being forgiven for your transgressions and allowed to enter Paradise rather than spend eternity burning in flames tended by Satan and his demons."
"I am not a religious man," Suhanto said. "Such talk means nothing to me."
"Then, if you choose not to serve Allah, our spiritual leader will issue a death sentence against you."
Suhanto's pasty complexion blanched even more. If a member of the Islamic clergy condemned him to be slain, the man who committed the act would do so in the belief it was the way to eternal rewards. There would be countless applicants to perform the deed.
"I accept your terms"
"I am pleased, Mr. Suhanto," Sabah said, standing up. "You will be contacted within the week for your first assignment."
"I shall give you a list of the normal expenses of running my ships."
"We have already figured that out," Sabah said. He turned and walked to the door. When he opened it, he looked back at his host. "Ilal lika--I shall see you later."
Suhanto sat pensively for several minutes. He was not a fool. The fact that al-Mimkhalif had bullied him into being their shipper meant they were in trouble. The terrorists' former supply routes had undoubtedly been hit hard and possibly destroyed. Perhaps their ranks were rife with betrayers.
This was a situation where a prudent yet daring man of intelligence could profit greatly. Suhanto happily poured himself another scotch.
.
FLORIDA STATE ROAD 528
8 SEPTEMBER
0830 H0URS LOCAL
JIM Cruiser drove the rental Pontiac with Senior Chief Buford Dawkins sitting in the passenger seat. Wild Bill Brannigan dozed in the backseat as they rolled eastward on the highway called the Beach Line toward Merritt Island.
Cruiser noted the sign informing them they had entered Brevard County. But his mind wasn't on their location or even the purpose of their visit to Florida. "Everybody at the naval base is still talking about nothing but Mike Assad," the lieutenant remarked.
"It's obvious as hell that he's been sent down deep into some highly classified operations," Dawkins responded.
"I've heard of that happening," Cruiser said. "But I thought it was all bullshit."
"No, sir," Dawkins said. "Now and then an individual guy gets tapped for a special assignment. We'll probably never find out the full story even if he comes back alive."
The conversation between the two woke up Brannigan. He looked around, then yawned and stretched. "Are we there yet?"
"We're getting closer," Dawkins answered, pointing at an exit. 'That's State Route Three."
Brannigan took a quick look at the directions provided them back at the Naval Amphibious Base. "Go north to Pine Island Road."
"North to Pine Island Road. Aye, sir!" Cruiser said with a grin.
"Knock off that Navy shit," Brannigan growled.
Fifteen minutes later they arrived at the junction, and Cruiser made a left. He drove slowly down Pine Island Road past several orange groves as he headed for the combination home and factory of John and Harry DuBose.
This was an area known as Old Florida where the tourist spots, high-rise condos, and other features of the twenty-first century had not penetrated. Most of the residents were the home-grown variety of Floridians who dwelt happily in cleared areas amid the tangled vegetation, canals, insects, snakes, and alligators in bucolic isolation. The majority of these good people worked for modest salaries, getting by on limited income since their lifestyles did not demand much money. They supplemented their earnings with fishing, crabbing, hunting, and home-grown fruits and vegetables.
Cruiser left the main road to follow a narrow track that led toward the DuBose compound. Within five minutes they came to a wide area where a rambling house was situated. It was a two-story structure, well built from good architectural plans, and would easily fit into any exclusive neighborhood. In contrast to the upscale abode, the yard was messy with various types of technical junk that represented either failed or abandoned projects of the brothers. A large frame building on the riverbank was behind the house, and Cruiser pulled up to the structure. He had no sooner parked, then the back door opened and the DuBoses stepped out to greet the SEALs as they got out of the car.
"You're right on time" John DuBose said. "Just what we expected from the United States Navy."
The brothers were dressed in the local uniform of tank tops, shorts, and sandals. The family resemblance was strong, both being tall, slender, and balding. John, the older, was completely gray, while his younger brother Harry was still going through the process of having the original black color of his hair fade from age. John led the way with his hand outstretched as he introduced himself and his brother.
Brannigan shook with him. "I'm Bill. This is Jim and Buford." The skipper was in no mood for a period of aimless chatter. "It's obvious you're aware the United States Navy is interested in that ACV of yours."
"Oh, yeah!" Harry said. "We've been talking to lots of you folks."
"All right!" Jim Cruiser said enthusiastically. He had developed an interest in the vehicle. "Let's have a look."
"C'mon then!" John invited. "We'll show her to you guys." He turned and walked toward the large frame building with the SEALs following.
"Y'know," Harry remarked to himself as much as to the visitors. "We really ought to develop a sales pitch or something. Know what I mean?"
"I suppose," Brannigan said. "But a few words of explanation will be enough for us today."
They went inside the building, which was fully air-conditioned. This wasn't for reasons of comfort; the steaminess of the local summers could spoil a lot of machinery and chemicals that were left exposed. The interior was also as littered with projects as the yard, but these seemed to be getting some attention. Brannigan surmised the brothers worked on whatever their moods dictated on any particular day.
They stepped out another door and onto a dock. The ACV Waterflyer was tied up to their direct front. The three SEALs gave the craft a quick look, then glanced meaningfully at each other. There was no doubt this was a well-designed and well-built piece of water-going machinery. The brothers led the way aboard and the Navy men stepped from the dock onto the vehicle. The Waterflyer was immaculate, and still damp from a recent hosing-down. Brannigan walked to the stern to take a look at the twin airscrews situated on pylons in front of a pair of rudders.
"Those rudders might be overkill," John remarked. 'The airscrews alone are enough to turn the vessel. As a matter of fact, you can slow the speed down on one and speed the other up for a gradual maneuver in case you don't want to mess with the rudders."
"You can also reverse both the same way," Harry interjected.
"Right," John acknowledged. "Or you can do it faster by turning them as a pair, and the rudders can be used to sharpen the maneuver. That wouldn't be necessary when pushing barges."
Jim Cruiser explained, "In this case, the Navy is looking for maximum maneuverability."
Harry asked, "Aren't they going to push barges or other vessels with it?"
Senior Chief Dawkins shrugged. "We was told they wanted a vehicle that could zip around and change directions quickly."
"Well," Harry said, "the Waterflyer can sure as hell do that. Do you want to see the cabin?"
When the Brigands stepped inside, they found an empty area of five hundred square feet with only the barest of steering gear. An open door on the aft side revealed the engine room. Brannigan frowned. "We read an article that said there were some bunks and a galley in here."