“That’s right.”
“Sir, I’m Chief Hensley. Are you prepared to take passengers?”
“Send them over, Chief.”
Four men stood behind Chief Hensley on Rankin, each clad in a black jumpsuit. When the yacht was secured, they moved to Rankin’s aft deck, where they tossed several dark green sea bags onto Rainbow Blue. Two of the men Rossiter recognized as members of his Offshore Assault Team.
“Permission to come aboard,” the unknown, taller man said in an American accent.
“Granted,” Rossiter replied, holding tight to the mooring ropes. One by one, the men clutched the Jacob’s Ladder and climbed down onto the wooden deck of the yacht.
Immediately the four men were on board, the Chief of the Boat barked orders at the other three seaman on the deck of HMAS Rankin. They struggled with two large, rubberized containers as they lowered them over the side of the submarine and onto the yacht. Rossiter’s two team members took charge and began to tie them down.
“That’ll do it, General,” the older Australian seaman shouted down to the deck of Rainbow Blue. The chief’s face bristled with a full-grown neatly trimmed beard and he had a salty edge to his voice. “That’s the full kit.”
“Right, Chief. Thanks for your hospitality. See you in two days,” Connor replied, giving a loose salute.
“Too right, sir. All the best,” the chief replied. Just as quickly as they had appeared, the seamen loosed the mooring lines and dropped through the open hatch on Rankin’s aft deck. Rainbow Blue began to drift away from the hull of the submarine. Rossiter moved to the helm, increased RPMs to the small engine, and motored away from the larger vessel. In less than sixty seconds, the only sign of HMAS Rankin was concentric whirls on the ocean’s surface. The five men on board Rainbow Blue were suddenly alone on the vast ocean, the lower edge of the sun just beginning to disappear beneath the waves.
“Sergeant Macintosh, you and Corporal Jenkins stow your gear in the forward hold,” Rossiter directed, cutting the engine and moving to unfurl the mainsail.
The four new passengers went below while the sail took wind. Rossiter brought the yacht about and settled into a port tack, heading north-northwest. In a few moments, the American returned on deck and moved aft, taking a seat on the high port side railing.
“You’d be Captain Rossiter, I believe.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I’m Brigadier General Pug Connor, American Marines. We turned up some information on the primary subject of our mission, and Whitehall requested your SAS boys to make the insertion. At my request, they invited me and Mr. Castro along for the ride.”
Cameron nodded. “Good to have you with us, General. Been on a yacht before?”
Pug nodded. “I know a jib from a spinnaker.” He smiled. “I’ve sailed East Coast intramural competition and crewed twice on the Sydney to Hobart with some of my Kiwi cousins, but that was a few years ago.”
“An old salt, eh? I’m coming over on starboard tack, General. Stand by.” Cameron stomped his foot on the deck to alert the men below, and then heeled the yacht sharply. The boom swung to the port side of the vessel. Pug ducked beneath the boom and shifted his position to the starboard high side railing. They were quiet for several moments while Rainbow Blue settled into her new course.
“You have New Zealand family, you said, General?” Cameron asked.
“My parents live there, and some extended family. My father was born in New Zealand. Captain, we’ll make this much less formal if you call me Pug and I call you Cameron. Is that all right with you?”
“Yes, sir. So, you’ve lived in both America and New Zealand?”
“In my early years.” Pug watched the sea for several moments as Cameron brought the yacht through a quick secession of waves. “Have you been briefed on the mission?” Pug asked.
Cameron shook his head. “Limited briefing, I’m afraid. I was already at sea on a short holiday. I was informed by radio of the coordinates for the rendezvous and to expect passengers. I know nothing about the target.”
“Then I’ll fill you in on the important pieces. You know the two men below, right?”
“Yes, sir, Sean Macintosh and Graham Jenkins. Both are squad leaders from my Offshore Assault Team.”
“So I understand,” Pug said. “I’ve worked with other SAS teams before, when I was serving as a Marine Force Recon company commander. First class troops, always ready. We haven’t decided if this is a snatch or an elimination. We’re headed for East Timor. These are the coordinates.” He handed Rossiter a slip of paper. “Two of your other lads are already ashore near the pickup point. They flew commercial to Dili, separately over several days, using full passport and customs control, just like tourists, with false identities, of course, and arriving from separate origins. Let me make my position clear, Cameron. I’m just along for the ride and have no command responsibilities to this team or for the ground squad — you’re in command here. If we determine to snatch the target, then I’ll assume responsibility for him.”
“That’ll be fine, Pug. You probably know the SAS are a rather informal lot, officers and men. I mean, at least at the lower ranks.”
“Understood. Okay, here’s the plan. My other team member, Carlos Castro, will make the actual insertion to the suspect residence. Carlos is deputy director of my office, and a retired Marine Corps Sergeant Major, a very experienced Recon Marine. With everything going well, he’ll make the entry tomorrow night, decide the disposition, and, at his discretion, eliminate the man or deliver the target to us on shore. In that case, he’ll return to your yacht and we’ll transport him to the sub. How long will it take us to get to the northeast coast of Timor?”
“About eighteen to twenty hours, unless we have a wind shift for or against.”
“Just before dusk tomorrow, then. That’s plenty of time to prepare. Let’s get Macintosh up on deck and he can brief you on your shore team.” Pug stepped to the cabin entrance and leaned in. “Carlos, Sergeant Macintosh, could you come on deck a moment?”
Macintosh appeared several seconds later, followed by Jenkins and Carlos. Both Aussies stepped aft and sat on the railing. Carlos stood besides Pug, slightly spreading his legs to maintain balance. Full dark had settled over the ocean and the night was silent, broken only by the soft lapping of the waves against Rainbow Blue’s bow as she cut through the rippled water. Ambient light came from the sky and the muted running lights of the yacht.
“Never get a full holiday, right, sir?” Macintosh asked, grinning.
“The life of a trooper, I suppose,” Cameron responded.
Pug spoke up. “Sergeant, I’ve told Captain Rossiter that you would brief him on the land phase of the operation. His message to meet the Rankin was brief and not informative.”
“Right, General. Wilson and Gunner went ashore a couple days ago. They’ve recce’d the place, gave us a sat com call this afternoon on the sub, and said it looks like there are three people holed up in a remote beachfront cabin about four miles from a small village called Tutuala on the eastern tip of the island. The team’s got an LUP,” he said, referring to a laying up position from which they could observe without being seen, “on a rise about two hundred meters from the cabin. The general said he would coordinate the insertion once we came aboard. When Carlos goes in, Gunner will watch his back and keep the path to the beach clear. The cabin’s about a hundred meters from the spot of water where we’ll beach. If there’s any trouble, or if someone tries to follow Carlos when he leaves, Gunner will top ‘em. If it’s all gone to hell, our boys will come back in the Zodiac. Then it’s just back to the yacht, slip away, and meet up with the Rankin again. They’ll take it from there, sir. That’s about it.”
Pug smiled at the casual way in which Macintosh had described the operation, including the possible necessity of killing Wolff’s companions.
“What about the kit, Sean?” Cameron asked.
“Basics. We’ve got four M-4s, didn’t see a need for the 203s on this insertion. We’ve got the Zod for the run to the beach, two re-breathing kits, masks and flippers if we need ’em. That’s about it.”