By the time Zeek finally bailed out, Nolan was on top of him.
Fueled by fear, Zeek became vicious. He pulled a knife and slashed wildly at Nolan, who came at him with only fists flying. Zeek wasn’t sinking, but it was obvious he couldn’t swim very well. Nolan just kept hitting him, trying to avoid his knife, then hitting him again.
This went on for what seemed like forever, Zeek swearing at him and screaming: “You?
You?”
as if he had known that it would come to this.
Finally Zeek lunged forward in an attempt to cut open Nolan’s chest, but the blade of his knife got caught in his own long, stringy, wet hair.
When the entangled knife would not come out, Nolan saw his chance. He grabbed hold of Zeek’s collar and began pummeling him about the neck, face and head. But the pirate was stronger than he looked and he managed to get his hands up
on Nolan’s face. He started to gouge out Nolan’s remaining eye. Nolan was terrified and instantly felt a rush of adrenaline. The thought of being made blind way out here gave him the extra strength he needed to push the pirate away.
With this action, the knife finally fell out of Zeek’s hair. They both dove for it as it started to sink, and in the process, knocked heads violently.
It was almost comical, but Zeek got the worst of it—and this allowed Nolan to grab him around the neck.
He was exhausted, as was Zeek. But Nolan would not be denied.
With his one free hand, he managed to grab the ends of the pirate’s two gold chains and twist them under his throat. Zeek began thrashing wildly as he realized what Nolan was doing—but it was too late. Nolan was able to wrap the chains completely around Zeek’s neck and yank them tight.
The pirate fought back ferociously, but after a few seconds slowly began to lose strength. Nolan heard him start to gurgle.
He screamed in the pirate’s ear: “Do you have any more brothers?”
Zeek started wailing. “No—none!”
That’s when Nolan used the last of his strength to pull the gold chains as tight as he could. Zeek battled mightily one last time, but then he could fight no more. A spray of blood came out of his mouth and he went limp.
Nolan hung on, though. He didn’t loosen his grip for at least two minutes. Only when he saw Zeek had voided himself did he finally let him go.
Then he watched as the body slowly slipped beneath the waves.
NOLAN COULD BARELY
breathe.
He kicked off his boots, took off all his clothing except his shorts, then rolled over on his back, not sure if he could stay conscious. He was cut, he was bleeding, he had water in his lungs, and he felt like he was dying of pure exhaustion. How was he going to get out of this?
Then he thought, what was the point in hanging on? He was out in the middle of the ocean, with no raft, nothing to cling to. The nearest land was at least thirty miles away, probably much more. He couldn’t swim it. He could barely move.
So, was
this
how it was going to end? he thought.
Drowning in the Indian Ocean . . .
He lay back, gasping for breath now. The faces of his colleagues flashed before his eyes.
Good-bye, guys. . . .
Then other faces from earlier in his life.
His family. His friends. That girl he should have married.
Good-bye to all . . .
He closed his eyes and began to sink.
But then he heard something pop up right beside him. He looked to his left and was stunned. It was Twitch’s Coke bottle, still capped, rising to the surface after escaping from the sinking work copter.
Nolan actually laughed. In low morbid humor, he managed to grab the bottle and uncap it and pretend to pour the air out of it onto himself, appreciating one last time the huge cosmic joke.
That’s when he heard a great gushing sound behind him. He turned just in time to see, incredibly, the work copter come roaring back from the depths and dramatically return to the surface.
Nolan couldn’t believe it. He stared at the copter for the longest time, bobbing in the waves, trying to make some sense of it. The aircraft was made of lightweight materials. And the closed part of the cockpit held a fair amount of air, he supposed. Plus the fuel tank, one of the biggest things on the copter, was empty, so full of air as well.
But he stopped questioning it at that point and just swam over to it and hung on tight.
It would be his lifeboat.
Italy
Three Weeks Later
THE U.S. NAVY
hospital at Percino was located in the south of Italy, on a cliff overlooking the warm Mediterranean Sea.
Though it was open to anyone serving in the Navy, it was mostly high-ranking officers who came here to recuperate from combat wounds or other medical issues.
There were six main buildings, all designed in a faux monastery style, fitting in with their lush, scenic surroundings.
There was a large recreation area here, too, featuring swimming pools, handball courts and a professional-size soccer field. On this warm, pleasant afternoon, a team made up of American servicemen was playing a local Italian club.
On a terrace atop the highest building in the hospital complex, a tense meeting was about to take place. A rectangular table had been set up with an umbrella providing shade. Several pitchers of ice water and lemonade were brought out. An ashtray was also provided.
On one side of the table sat Mikos Kilos, owner of Kilos Shipping. Beside him sat his Middle East security manager, Mark Conley, and the Kilos company attorney.
Sitting across from them and already sweating bullets was a rear admiral representing the U.S. Navy’s Persian Gulf Fleet, a representative from the Department of Defense, and a high-ranking official from the CIA.
One seat at the table was still empty. The others waited in uncomfortable silence for the seventh person to join them.
Finally he appeared. Dressed in plain blue fatigues, a straw hat and sunglasses, he carried a bottle of wine and a cigarette pack in his right hand. His left arm was in a sling. Protruding from it was a wrap of heavy bandages where the left hand might be. Sticking out of the bandages was a five-inch, bright metal hook.
Batman Bob Graves took his seat at the table. He poured
himself a glass of wine, lit a cigarette that smelled suspiciously like marijuana, and then leaned back in his chair and said, “Ready when you are.”
The government representatives were appalled by his appearance and his actions, but said nothing. They were not in control here. No matter how many different ways they looked at it, Graves held all the cards.
The DoD representative began the meeting. He had a two-page document in his hands.
“We have looked over your proposals,” he started—but Graves cut him off instantly.
“They are not ‘proposals,’ ” he said. “They are demands.”
The DoD man grimaced, but continued.
“We can fulfill most of these,” he said. “Even though I’d like to go on record as saying the vast majority of them are outrageous.”
Graves took a long drag on his cigarette, then a sip of wine.
“Duly noted,” he said. “The DoD thinks the demands are outrageous. Next?”
The Kilos attorney spoke up. “I think it’s in everyone’s best interests that we go over the . . . well, the list, just to make sure we are all on the same page.”
“Sounds good to me,” Graves said.
On a helipad on the roof of the next building over sat two brand-new OH-6J helicopters armed to the teeth with 50-caliber machine guns, wing-mounted rockets and a nose-mounted 30mm cannons. Both were painted ghostly black and had decals on their noses identifying them as
Bad Dawg One
and
Bad Dawg Two.
“Item one,” the attorney began, gesturing over his shoulder at the pair of fierce-looking copters. “Mister Graves, those two aircraft now belong to you and your associates.”
The three government representatives sank a little lower in their seats.
The attorney next put two photographs on the table. One showed six sniper rifles, of various shapes and sizes, all of them brand new and equipped with classified targeting equipment. The second photo showed an updated version of the
M198 howitzer with a variety of shells on display around it, including satellite-guided ordnance.
“Item two,” the attorney said. “The equipment in these photos now belongs to Mr. Graves and his associates. Delivery date to be determined.”
Graves picked up his wine glass and pretended to toast the government reps.
“Item three,” the attorney went on. “Agent Curt Hush of the ONI will immediately be relieved of his duties, and an independent prosecutor will be appointed to investigate any illegal acts committed by Agent Hush and/or the ONI in or around the Indian Ocean in the past ninety days.”
More embarrassed looks from the government’s side of the table.
“Item four,” the attorney continued. “Any officers and staff assigned to Building 18 at Walter Reed Army Medical Center as of January of last year will be immediately relieved of duty.
“Item five, the DoD will reimburse the owners of the Rijah Saleem shopping mall in Yanbu District, Saudi Arabia, for the price of one slightly used IH-6 work helicopter.
“And item six—the U.S. Navy agrees not to perform any unwarranted searches on vessels belonging to Kilos Shipping or its subsidiaries.”
Kilos and Conley did their best to suppress a smile at this.
The attorney flipped over to the second page.
“Now for the items in dispute,” he said.
He turned to the Navy admiral. “The floor is yours,” the attorney told him.
The Navy officer looked sternly at Graves for a few moments. In reply, Graves blew a cloud of smoke in his direction.
“Mr. Graves,” the admiral began. “Investigating the ONI I can understand, I guess. But you can’t really expect me to give you the names of the two pilots who, quite unfortunately, shot at you that night in the Indian Ocean.”
“Why not?” Graves asked him.
“Well, because you’re not really clear what you want these names for,” the officer replied.
“I want to find these guys and fuck them up,” Graves said plainly.
“As in physically assault them?”
“Yes.”
The Navy officer looked at Graves’s left hand. “Are you sure?” he asked.
Graves sent another cloud of smoke his way. “Breathe deep, Admiral,” Graves told him.
The lawyer interrupted. “Is this a deal-breaker?” he asked Graves. “It
is
highly unusual.”
Graves thought a moment and then just shook his head no. “I’ll find out eventually,” he said.
The attorney breathed a sigh of relief. “OK, then let’s move on.”
The DoD official spoke next. “We looked into your next request—or demand, whatever,” he began. “And we have to tell you this will be harder than you think.”
“Why?” Graves wanted to know.
“Because it is extremely difficult to reverse the decision of a military court,” the DoD man said.
“But that was a secret court,” Graves told him, getting angry. “And it was a sham. There was no defense attorney present. No right of rebuttal or appeal.”
“It was ‘the times,’ ” the DoD official said. “Post-9/11. And it was an order that went all the way up to the person who was at the top of the DoD at the time. And you’ll have to believe me, I know Washington politics. The judge, we can make do a back flip on this. But that former top guy? You’ll have to wait until he dies before that decision can be reversed. I’m sorry—but that’s just the way it is.”
There was complete silence around the table. The only noise was coming from the soccer field on the other side of the hospital. The U.S. team had just scored a goal. In celebration, people were chanting, “USA! USA!”
The Kilos attorney looked at Graves and shrugged slightly.
“Deal-breaker?” he asked.
Graves looked at Kilos himself and Conley. Both men knew how passionate Graves felt about this last item.
“OK,” Graves finally said. “I want two alternate things as a substitute.”
He leaned forward so he was just inches away from the DoD representative.
“I want you to appoint an attorney whose sole job it will be to get this military trial decision overturned,” he said. “Not in a backroom or a funeral home, but in the courts, through legal means. I want this guy to have an office, an aide and a secretary. I want him working full time on this until it happens.”
The DoD man was stunned. “And your second request?”
Graves leaned back in his chair. “Five million dollars,” he said. “Tax-free, in cash.”
Those on the government side of the table all looked like they wanted to throttle Graves, one hand or not.
But after a brief discussion, they reluctantly agreed to everything.
“Now it’s your turn to come through, to make good,” the CIA man said to Graves.
Graves took a long drag of his cigarette and crushed it out. Then he retrieved a notebook from his back pocket. It was the book he’d taken that night while raiding the brothel on Brothel Beach. He put it on the table and pushed it toward the man from the CIA.
“Page fifty-six,” Graves said. “It’s the only one written in red ink.”
THE MEETING BROKE
up five minutes later. Graves walked back to the rehab wing of the hospital to find Crash, Twitch and Gunner waiting for him in the lobby.
The team had been here since the action on Calzino Island. The U.S. military agreed to take care of them in return for a briefing on everything that happened in their pursuit of Zeek Kurjan. In particular, the CIA wanted the address book from the brothel and especially the dirt on the Chinese leadership and its sexual peccadilloes.
This was Graves’s enormous bargaining chip, and it had pretty much gotten him what he wanted for his teammates—all except for Nolan.
The Team Whiskey leader had been recuperating in his own private suite on the top floor of the rehab wing. After his final battle with Zeek, a Filipino tuna boat had fished him out of the sea, ironic in a way. The Filipino crew contacted the DUS-7, but by the time Nolan had been transferred back to the
Dustboat
, the U.S. Navy, NATO and the Seychelles military had all converged on Calzino Island.