Nolan’s reaction was typical. He walked down to the beach, ordered his next drink to be a double, and asked the cabana girl if she could bring him some more suntan lotion.
It had been like this for four days now. The team was staying at the ultraluxurious
Nadee‘d
resort on the island nation of Mauritius. Nolan had never seen a place like this, never realized such a place could even exist. If heaven has a beach, it will look like this.
Mauritius was located about 650 miles east of Madagascar; 1,500 miles from the east coast of Africa. It was a playground for the ultra-rich and ultra-beautiful, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by the warm waters of the southern Indian Ocean. This was where the team had come to heal their wounds, to chill out, and spend some of the money they’d earned . . . and stolen.
They were here at Conley’s suggestion. The food, equal measures French, African, Chinese and Indian, was out of this world and the booze was never-ending. And the women—even with only one good eye, Nolan knew he’d never seen women so beautiful, so sensuous, and so available as the ones he’d met here.
The team had spent their days hanging out on Union Beach, a pristine, white-sand shoreline that looked like something
created by a film studio’s special-effects department. Palm trees were perfectly placed every few dozen feet, many with small shade huts and hammocks attached. Each of these stations had two gorgeous waitresses at their beck and call, massages and applications of suntan lotion included. And when it got particularly hot in the midafternoon, the waitresses just couldn’t resist going topless and dragging their customers into the water.
So losing a bit at the tables didn’t bother Nolan much. These memories were worth the scratch.
The DUS-7 was docked at a marina belonging to the Mauritius Coast Guard. Located on the south side of the island, it was far from the armada of mega-yachts that frequented the mid-ocean paradise. Resting in a double-locked vault at that marina’s office, under constant guard by the Senegals, was the team’s growing bundle of money: the $50,000 payment from Kilos Shipping for their mission against Zeek, their original payment from Kilos for saving the
Global Warrior
, and the proceeds from the Red Skull robbery less the money that went out the helicopter’s windows, and most surprisingly, the entire two million fee from the Indian government, which Conley managed to shame Delhi into paying since their crew had been saved even though the futuristic
Vidynut
was nearly a total loss.
It all added up to more than $2.1 million, mostly in hundreds, with some thousands, and literally kept in a bundle to avoid the taxman. They had tied the bundle together with rope and duct tape and stuffed it in a sea sack that was now resting in the Coast Guard’s vault.
Their plans at the moment? Nothing more complicated than getting more drinks, playing more games of chance, and meeting more women. They were booked at the resort for an open-ended stay.
IT WAS JUST
after noontime on their fourth day that their order of drinks was delivered not by a topless waitress, but by a man in a thick wool suit.
“Am I hallucinating again?” Nolan asked, raising the brim
of Vandar’s captain’s hat to get a better glimpse at the man. He was middle-aged and looked like a former boxer. His face was big and beefy, scarred under both eyes, and featured an oft-broken nose. Pasty and white, it appeared like he hadn’t spent more than two minutes in the sun in his entire life.
“Can we help you?” Batman asked him.
The man pleasantly passed around the drinks and took a seat near the team.
“Was nice work in Malacca,” he said in a thick Eastern European accent. “And getting warship back for Indians? You guys getting famous.”
No one on the team knew what to say. They were supposed to be keeping a low profile.
“How do you know about us?” Nolan finally asked the man.
“We hear about you on the Twitter,” the man replied. “Everyone know about you now. Word is around. They say: ‘These
parni
can do anything. Protect you. Save life. Get ship back.’ ”
“What’s Twitter?” Crash asked.
“So, you made us,” Nolan said to the stranger. “Is this just a hello?”
The guy shook his head. They could all see that he was packing a huge handgun under his thick blue suit coat.
“Is hello and is also to ask question,” he replied. “Are you guys interested in some more work?”
Twenty-four hours later
“MAN, THAT PLACE
on Mauritius was a real dump,” Crash said.
The rest of Team Whiskey did not disagree.
The five of them were standing on a helipad near the entrance to a place called Kinkokos. It was a Greek island fifty miles southeast of Athens, one of hundreds of islands of the Aegean Sea. Kinkkokos was one big privately owned resort. Featuring rolling hills, lush fields, waterfalls, bubbling streams,
with exotic plants growing everywhere, it boasted mansions, a marina and landing pads for a fleet of helicopters. It was all surrounded by miles of pearl-white beaches and incredibly clear, blue water. In many ways, it
did
put anything on Mauritius to shame.
The team had just been deposited here by a Boeing 234UT helicopter, a long-range dual-rotor aircraft that was as luxurious as anything any of them had ever flown in. It had carried them over from Athens airport after a private jet flew them up from Mauritius. They’d been hired for another job, one not so clear-cut as their previous gigs. The man they’d met on the beach in Mauritius—they knew him only as “Bebe”—represented a “family business” based in Moscow. Exactly what this family business did was still a mystery. But the team certainly had some theories about that business . . . and the nature of the “family.”
The family was hosting a weekend party for its myriad associates. This fête was to take place on a cruise liner the family had leased for the occasion to sail the Aegean Sea. There would be some business to attend to, but mostly it would be a bash above the waves. Each guest was bringing his own bodyguards, a limit of two, but Bebe was under orders from the family’s patriarch to hire some extra security to supplement the paid guns looking out for their guests. That’s where Team Whiskey came in.
They were here now to meet the head of the family business—indeed, he was the owner of Kinkkokos Island. An oversized golf cart driven by two enormous goons carried them up the long driveway to a huge traditional Greek-style mansion that sat atop the highest hill on the island. They were met by two more enormous goons at the front door. The team members were carrying rucksacks and their personal weapons; this made the goons nervous. While Batman insisted on keeping the sea bag holding their money, the goons told them to leave their guns at the door. They were then escorted through the mansion to a piazza in the back.
They found a man sitting by a crystalline pool, reading
a newspaper. He was short and stout, with a ruddy face and a shaved head. He was at least seventy years old and he, too, looked right out of a movie—if the movie was about fabulously wealthy Russian gangsters.
The goons made their presence known. The elderly man, clad in a gaudy silk bathrobe, looked up at the team members and frowned.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked in a thick accent.
The team was stumped. This was the right address, wasn’t it?
“We’re the marine protection service,” Nolan answered. “We’ll be helping out on the cruise liner—for your party?”
The man looked them up and down. Then he said: “You look like you’re here to cut grass, to rake leaves. You don’t have uniforms. Emblem patches, nothing. And you, you’re half blind. And this guy’s a gimp. He’s got a peg leg.”
Twitch took a swing at the old man. His haymaker missed, and the two goons were soon on him, lifting him up between them. The rest of the team stayed in place; they knew Twitch didn’t need any help. He was a fierce Delta-trained warrior, as the two goons were about to find out. Using a combination of karate, jujitsu and judo, he proceeded to beat both men unconscious, ending with an excruciating kick to the groin to each, courtesy of his metal foot.
In seconds the pool area was flooded with armed men, running to defend the Russian godfather. But he just waved them off.
“OK, you guys are hired,” he said as the unconscious goons were carried way. “But if you’re going to work for me, we must get you clothes that are new.”
THE CRUISE SHIP
was named the
Althea Dawn
.
It was 900 feet long, had sixteen decks, six pools, twenty-four bars, ten dining rooms, and accommodations for nearly 1,000 high-paying passengers.
But this was not a typical cruise liner. Rather, it was leased from an Italian company that dealt only with well-heeled clients. There were no closet-sized rooms on this ship. The
smallest stateroom was as big as a luxury suite in a five-star hotel; most of the staterooms were penthouse-size or bigger. Each was on the outer part of the ship, complete with balcony and water views. There was a lavish casino, two giant, well-appointed function rooms, and many private rooms for dining, partying or other activities.
The galley and kitchen rivaled the best restaurants in Paris. The kitchen staff numbered nearly 100; the boat’s crew outnumbered the guests three to one.
The cruise ship was leaving out of the port city of Kronos, located just two islands over from Kinkkokos. Though the plan was to sail around the Aegean, for security reasons, there was no set course. The ship would travel 1,200 miles in the two and a half days of sailing, at times doubling back on its route to confuse anyone who might be planning to do it harm.
The ship had arrived at Kronos earlier that morning, docking at a private berth at the far edge of the tourist city. A large tent had been erected on the dock. A parking lot nearby was filled with limos and SUVs, all with dark-tinted windows.
Passenger loading began precisely at noon. Looking stiff in their new dark blue combat suits, Nolan and Gunner stood at the gangway and checked out every person who came aboard. Each guest had to have an invitation signed personally by Bebe. That invitation was watermarked and had a red stripe embedded in it to thwart counterfeiters. Plus, Bebe was close by, still in his thick woolen suit, eyeballing everyone who walked up the gangway. If the team members had any question about a guest, they just looked over to him for a thumbs-up.
As it turned out, no one tried to crash the party. The passenger list was unusual, though. Fifty middle-aged and elderly men were the first to climb aboard, each with his two bodyguards, each unmistakably Russian or Eastern European. There was little doubt what these people did for a living, these “family associates.”
Once they were aboard, a small army of young women was allowed up the gangway. There were exactly two hundred of them, and they made the girls back on Mauritius look like also-rans in a 4-H beauty contest. Most were blond—Scandinavians,
Germans, Czechs—with a few Asian and African beauties as well.
But most odd, the last guests to come aboard were a half-dozen professorial types, all wearing tweed jackets with elbow patches despite the heat, and all smoking pipes. Each had the required invitation, but still Nolan and Gunner looked to Bebe to personally vet them. Each got a thumbs-up.
There were dozens of Greek police in the area, watching all this activity. But underscoring the power of Bebe and his friends, they stayed a respectful distance away from the boarding process.
Everyone was finally loaded aboard—fifty business associates, 100 bodyguards, 200 party girls and six college professors. Everyone’s luggage had been X-rayed, but by Bebe’s orders, the only verboten items were explosives. Handguns, Uzis, ammunition and drugs were allowed onboard. One particular elderly guest brought a briefcase that was stuffed with cocaine, and a large bottle of Viagra.
Meanwhile, Batman was in the work copter, flown up from Mauritius on a family-leased cargo plane. He was circling endlessly over the cruise liner while Crash and Twitch were in scuba gear checking the hull of the ship for mines or explosives. They found none.
One hour after the loading process had begun, Nolan reported to Bebe that, by his criteria, all of the guests had passed muster. Again, Batman—circling above—reported nothing irregular. No smaller vessels were spotted near the cruise ship, no suspicious types were watching them from the docks.
The
Althea Dawn
left the dock at Kronos just after 1330 hours. In beautiful weather, it headed for the open sea.
THE CRUISE SHIP
had everything for everybody—except one thing: locations for the team to set up their 50-caliber machine guns.
Bebe had supplied them with four Russian-made Dushka powerhouses and several miles of ammunition. It wasn’t that their employer didn’t want the hardware to be seen. Just the opposite. He’d encouraged the team to be as visible as possible,
to make their high-powered guests feel more secure. The cruise liner just didn’t have any ideal crossfire points to set up four giant machine guns.
The team finally settled on a four-corners approach: two weapons on the main deck bow, two on the stern. The weapons were attached to the railing with huge vise grips, supplemented with bike chains and electrical wire. The plan was for the team members to patrol the decks during the day carrying their personal weapons. If trouble struck, they would rush to these four gun posts and defend the ship. At night, three of the guns would be manned at all times, on a rotating basis, with each gun commander equipped with night-vision goggles.
Meanwhile, the work copter would be either airborne or ready to fly at a moment’s notice. Bebe not only had encouraged the team to be armed at all times; he wanted the work copter parked on the stern of the boat, in full view of the largest pool. The copter was scarier-looking than ever, fitted with a second gun pod, two wing-mounted rocket launchers, and permanent M4 mounts. The former mall-cop copter was now loaded down with weapons.
Between the team’s firepower and the small army of bodyguards aboard, Nolan was confident they could ward off any attack by . . . well, by whom? That had yet to be made clear.