Kicking the Can (22 page)

“Taking and holding hostages for several weeks is problematic. Cleaner to kill ‘em and bury their bodies.”

“If that’s how it needs to go down…I support your decision either way.

“Besides, how tough is it to take out a dozen unarmed civilians on a remote island? It’s like killing the effing castaways on Gilligan’s Island. Cut the pretense, Davis, you’re just trying to jack up your fees.”

“Bennett, you have the cold-blooded conscience to be a mercenary, but you don’t know jack-shit about tactics, nor do you have the knowledge base to carry out
an assassination. Stick with what you know—screwing the citizens of this country. Qatar is the forward headquarters of US Central Command at Al Udeid Air Base, the primary launch site for the invasion of Iraq. The air force base there has AWAC capability—
airborne early warning and control surveillance
designed to detect aircraft, ships, and vehicles—and they can distinguish between hostiles and friendlies from a distance of three hundred miles. They also have the Predator drone. We go in there unannounced with anything other than civilian pleasure craft and we’ll have A-10s up our asses. Night vision capability, cluster bombs, sidewinder missiles, 30mm Gatling cannon capable of firing thirty-nine hundred rounds per minute—they’d shred us to pieces. They could sink the damn island.”

Davis was just starting to warm up. He needed to teach Bennett a lesson on PMCs.

“Did you study the roster of Drummond’s team?”

“I glanced at it. They’re white-collar professionals,” Bennett said.

“Except for the linguist; he’s ex-Green Beret, ex-CIA Special Activities Division, a real bad ass. He may be unarmed, but he has situational experience. If he knows or perceives they’re in danger, he’ll organize the team. The island is slight, but it’s still fifteen square miles of variegated foliage and a nineteen thousand square foot compound. It could take hours to locate everybody if they go into hiding,” Davis said. “Eliminating the team is only the half of it. We have to destroy their proposal—all of it—paper documents, digital files, the whole works. It
means we may need to set multiple charges. It takes time to plant C-4.”

“Send in an advance team to recon the island. Snatch and interrogate one of the staff members. The file says they have a custodian, a cook, and housekeeping and spa staff. Boats have been coming in every couple of days to bring in food and supplies,” Bennett said.

“We’ll need an alibi. The region’s been anti-Semite historically. Whether its propaganda or not, when you’re living a few hundred miles from Iran, it’s not a bad idea to distance yourself from Israel. We might be able to use that as a cover. What’s your time frame?” Davis asked.

“They’ve been on the island three weeks—less than a week to finish the proposal and make their final reporting to Donald. On the next boat trip, recon the island and finish the job two or three days later. Half now, half when the job is finished.”

90

C
live Donald hung up the phone. The wheels were in motion. He and Bennett had agreed to meet in New York City in six days to script a joint press release. Donald would announce the contest complete, and Bennett would make a big deal out of Donald handing over the proposals submitted by the contestants to the super committee. Bennett would outline the super committee’s plan to review and evaluate the proposals submitted. Within one week, Bennett’s super committee would hold a press conference to unveil the health care reforms it intended to implement and declare the contest winner. Donald would participate in the press conference. Bennett would make sounds come out of his mouth suggesting the super committee could not have done its work without the support and demonstrated leadership of Donald…that his personal involvement and investment in the process was exemplary—a model citizen. Bennett would encourage Donald to expand his public service commitment…suggest he submit his name as candidate for the governor of New York. Bennett would pledge to endorse him as a candidate, even if he chose to run as an Independent.

Bennett’s last words to Donald were “get some pictures of yourself with your grandkids on Kona. The public loves that sort of thing—family man, successful businessman, selfless patriot,” he had said.

Donald had six days to relax in Hawaii before his gubernatorial campaign would begin. He decided to wait till the last minute to break the bad news to President Cannon.

91

J
ack Dain held up a listening device the size of a dime and resembling a key fob.

“I’ve been communicating with Cala. Her English is limited, but she speaks fluent Arabic. She claims the groceries and other supplies come in every couple days by boat. Same way we were transported. I left this voice-activated recording device in the kitchen and another in the pantry. When the boat came in last night, two Arabic-speaking men came to the house. I recorded their conversation with Cala.” He produced a micro digital player, less than three inches in length, and slid the listening device into the player and hit ‘play.’ They heard a chair being dragged across the floor.

“Sit down,” a man yelled in a rough voice, followed by the sound of scuffling, likely Cala being shoved into a chair.

“If you want to see your daughter alive again, answer our questions.”

“Give her the picture…She’ll talk.”

Cala shrieked, “Not my Cantara! Please don’t hurt my baby.” Cala was sobbing.

“What’s he saying?” Drummond asked. They were speaking Arabic.

“They demanded schedules, meeting times during the day and evening, and locations.”

“What is she saying?”

“The work sessions are in the morning and late afternoon in the conference rooms on the first floor. There is no schedule for breakfast and lunch, but dinners are held at six thirty each night, and all the individuals attend.”

Dain continued to translate.

“The kitchen and dining areas are on the second floor. The lodging is on the third floor. Except for you, you’re in the suite on the top floor.” Dain was pointing at Drummond.

“They said there’s a change in time. The next boat will come early in the morning. That’s it.”

Dain pocketed the player.

“During Cala’s interrogation, three other men were performing reconnaissance. They fanned out around the complex, but only for a couple of minutes. Not enough time to recon the building interior. My assessment is they plan to kill us.

“When I spoke with Fahad regarding the closed-circuit video and security, he told me the owner is eccentric and paranoid. Supposedly, he built an underwater suite on the southeast side of the island in ninety feet of water. If we come under attack, our endgame should be flee to the underwater suite. We’ll call it the
safe house
. It’ll limit their weapon choices. We hole up there until the calvary comes. I need you to locate the suite.”

Drummond nodded.

“Vogel and I saw a man-made structure on our first dive at about that depth. I think I can find it.”

“When you find it, I’ll need you to reconfigure the surveillance equipment—slave the video hub on the first floor to the safe house—so we can monitor all activity from there. Fahad gave me a wireless communications headset.” Dain held up the headset.

“We also need to locate the air-conditioning mechanicals. There must be a system to turn over the air in the suite…expel the carbon dioxide.”

“There’s a mechanical room in the aquatics room structure,” Drummond said.

“We’ll be vulnerable to poisonous gas and biological weapons.”

“Dain, given what you know—the island, the compound—how would you plan the incursion?”

“I’d recon the island, send in a preassassin team to determine the layout and tactical plan—last night’s festivities. If Bennett ordered a hit on the team, his mercenaries will need a disguise. This geography is a hotbed for terrorist activities. The US has an air force base in Qatar, two hundred fifty miles from here. If our president hasn’t sold us out, they’re the calvary. We’re situated between Saudi Arabia, Iran, and Iraq. The air surveillance in the region is the best in the world. If an iguana takes a shit, they’re going to know. Our advantage—it eliminates helicopters or planes. If it were me, I’d use IMTs, armed with tactical weapons and plastic explosives.”

“Speak English.”

“IMT…Individual Movement Techniques. A basic tactical response employed at the squad level. They’ll bring in a squadron—equivalent to a Navy Seal team or marines battalion—five or six soldiers max, carrying
M4 assault rifles, maybe M32 grenade launchers, and plastique.”

Dain was pacing in the room tapping his chin.

“They will have to use a pleasure craft; it may be the supply boat, or they may use a combat rubber-raiding craft—an inflatable Zodiac. The rubber and composite material of the hull makes it stealthy…difficult to detect, even for sophisticated radar.”

Dain was silent, collecting his thoughts.

“My guess is we have thirty-six hours to figure out how to stay alive long enough to be rescued. I’ll communicate with my buddies. Getting their help will be pricey. I can’t speak for the rest of the team, but I’m good for $1.3 million.”

“The prize money.”

“Right.”

“We ask the others after we perfect our plan. I don’t think we want to have a frank and honest exchange until we know the drill.”

92

S
heryl Vogel was leaning over a nitrox tank, her cleavage in full view, taking breaths through the regulator. She wore a one-piece swimsuit with simple lines. The peach color set off her copper-toned skin. Twenty-three days on the island had given her a healthy tan. With her hair pulled back in ponytail, it was hard to imagine her soul mate cheating on her. She was smart, funny, and attractive. With a body like that, who wouldn’t choose scuba diving as a hobby? “Are you up for another dive?” Drummond asked. “Dain asked me to check out the caretaker’s assertion there’s an underwater structure at ninety feet to the southeast, one quarter mile—at the intersection of ambition and wealth. The owner wanted to offer his guests the option of an underwater suite.”

“I bet that’s what we saw on our first dive.”

“Dain and I were down here yesterday. We believe the equipment in the mechanical room next to the locker room conditions the air for the underwater suite.” Drummond pointed in the direction of the closed door. “I need to talk to Dain, and then I’m headed back to my room to change. Let’s meet back here in an hour.”

“I wish there was a way to tap into the multiplying power of the stock market,” Vogel said when Drummond appeared an hour later at the door to the aquatics room. “There’s no other mechanism in the world to create financial leverage of that magnitude.”

Drummond nodded, interpreting her statement as talking out loud.

“I’ll haul a couple of tanks to the dock and come back for my gear.”

“Chivalry?”

“Why not…It’s easier to haul two tanks—balances weight on my shoulders.”

“Thank you.”

Vogel clamped the scuba tanks to a pair of backpacks and attached the regulators. The dock had been designed with a bench seat and tank holders. A diver could sit on the bench in front of the tank holder. At bench height, it required less exertion to stand. Vogel rubbed saliva inside her mask. Drummond returned with sea scooters in hand.

“I have defog-goop if you want it.” Drummond said, his voice trailing off.

“No thanks. I’m old school,” Vogel said, looking up.

He understood she could sense something was wrong by his voice. He turned away and tried to wipe his eyes before Vogel could detect he was crying.

“What’s wrong?” Vogel asked. She moved closer to Drummond, sitting next to him. He lowered his head, elbows on his knees. Drummond was trying to keep his emotions in check. Not knowing Sarah’s condition or if she was even alive, the time away from his family, being
reminded of Barbara by the diving, and the thought of dying at the hands of mercenaries converged into a wave of emotions that flooded his body. He was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness and grief. He had suppressed his feelings for three weeks. They now came pouring out, unabated. Vogel put her arms around Drummond and consoled him.

“I miss my family,” Drummond said. He turned his chest toward Vogel, pulling her tightly to his body. They embraced, cheek to cheek—muffled sobs. The emotional anguish eventually passed, and Drummond stood, wiping tears from his face.

He walked over to the scooters, trying to be strong.

“Red or yellow,” was all he could muster.

“Red, of course,” Vogel said. “We’ll be home soon; it’ll be OK.”

“I put these on the charger yesterday.”

“What’s our dive profile?”

“Deep. If the structure’s at ninety feet, we’ll need to swim on the surface until we are above it. Then we execute a vertical descent…like a boat dive. Dain suggested we locate the piping from the aquatics building and follow it to the structure. If the visibility is at least eighty feet, it should be viewable from the surface.”

The wind was kicking up, making white caps. A weather cell two miles distant was moving toward them. Dark in color with pelting rain, it was fast moving. Vogel did a giant stride into the water, sinking eighteen inches before floating to the surface. She raised her arm, making an arc, and touched the top of her head, signaling OK. She floated at the surface, having inflated
her buoyancy compensator (BC). Drummond handed her the red sea scooter. It bobbed in the water with the white caps. Drummond placed the yellow scooter at the edge of the dock and repeated Vogel’s maneuver. Before Drummond could engage his sea scooter, Vogel cruised by at high speed. She was extended, superwoman, spinning like a dolphin. The bubbles from her regulator swirled around her body as the propeller wash flowed over her exposure suit. She slowed her speed and made a sharp turn by rotating the scooter seventy-five degrees. She accelerated through the turn, and the scooter pulled her limp body taught like a string. She stopped in front of Drummond and removed her regulator. Drummond saw her pearly whites—toothy smile.