Final Resort

SOHRAB CASPARI THOUGHT, It almost seems too easy. After all the planning, all the risk, the bloody skirmish at Guantanamo, the capture of the Tropic Princess struck him almost as an anticlimax, disappointing in its stark simplicity.

But it was done.

Beside him, Osman Zarghona, his Afghani second in command, covered the bridge crew with his AKSU assault rifle, while Caspari kept his Uzi submachine gun leveled at the gray-haired captain. In addition to their main automatic weapons, both hijackers also carried pistols, hand grenades and knives.

“Is this some kind of joke?” the captain asked.

“Perhaps I should kill one of your men, to see if we are joking. Yes?” Caspari answered.

“No. That won’t be necessary,” the captain said. “What, exactly, do you want?”

“Before we speak of that,” Caspari said, “know that we aren’t alone. I have more men aboard your ship, with weapons and enough explosives to destroy it.”

“I see.” The captain frowned and said, “How many gunmen—”

“Freedom fighters!” Zarghona snapped.

“Yes, of course. How many freedom fighters are there, may I ask?”

“Enough to do the job,” Caspari told him. Fishing in his left-hand pocket for a cell phone, he explained, “I keep in touch through this. The marvels of technology. You only see them—hear them—if and when I say. Follow instructions, and your passengers may suffer no disturbance.”

“As to these instructions,” Captain Bateman said, “what might they be?”

“We have demands,” Caspari answered, “which you will broadcast over your radio. Freedom for comrades wrongfully imprisoned. Reparation payments. Other things. If the Americans defy us, then we will be forced to execute your passengers and crew.”

“Don’t take offense, old chap,” the captain said, “but you’ve been misinformed. This ship is not American. Its owners are Italians, Greeks—one Saudi, I believe. It’s registered in Panama. I doubt that Washington will care what happens to the Tropic Princess. Certainly, they won’t negotiate with…freedom fighters, like yourselves.”

“You think me foolish, yes?” Caspari said, sneering. “That is a serious mistake. We know that half your passengers are from the U.S.A. They cannot visit Cuba from America, so rich pigs fly to Mexico and board your ship. All this is public knowledge. Glory to the Internet.”

“I grant you that we have Americans aboard,” Bateman replied. “I’m simply saying that—”

“You say too much!” Caspari snapped. “Is time for you to listen, now. You will broadcast our very fair and just demands, or face the consequences of defiance. Must I demonstrate by executing someone here and now? That one, perhaps?”

Caspari swung his Uzi toward a young man standing frozen, several paces to the captain’s left. The target blanched and trembled in his crisp white uniform.

“No, please!” the captain blurted. “I’m simply trying to prepare you for the disappointment you will face in bargaining with the Americans.”

“I fear no disappointment,” Caspari said. “I and all my men are quite prepared to die. Your passengers and crew, I think, value their lives and comfort more than principle.”

The captain’s shoulders slumped. “You have a list, for my communications officer?”

“His services are not required,” Caspari said. “Prepare the radio and stand aside, while I address the world.”

“Of course,” Bateman said. “As you wish. About your other men…”

Caspari checked his wristwatch. “I must speak to them in nineteen minutes, and at each half hour after that.” He nodded toward Zarghona and explained, “Should either of us fail to make contact on schedule, it means the destruction of your ship.”

“I understand,” Bateman replied. “We pose no threat to you. Which one of you will follow me to the communications room?”

Washington, D.C.

NABI ULMALHAMA HELD A wooden match precisely one inch below the square-cut tip of his Cuban cigar. He spent a moment savoring the taste of rum-soaked tobacco leaves, then reached out for his glass of twenty-year-old scotch.

Strict Muslim teachings barred the use of alcoholic beverages, but Ulmalhama reckoned that God granted dispensation for selected, special servants of His cause.

Listening to early-evening traffic rumble past his posh Georgetown apartment, Ulmalhama nearly missed the deferential knocking on his study door.

“Enter,” he said.

His houseman crossed the thick carpet silently, half-bowed to Ulmalhama as he said, “Sir, if you care to watch the news?”

“Of course.”

Waiting until the houseman left him, Ulmalhama picked up the remote control and switched on his giant flat-screen television, flicking through the channels until he found CNN. A blond reporter stood before a cruise ship, speaking urgently into a handheld microphone. The dateline banner covering her breasts told Ulmalhama she was in Miami. He pressed another button to increase the volume.

“The ship is much like the one behind me, only somewhat larger. Now, we understand the Tropic Princess is the flagship of the Argos Cruise Line, launched in June 2006. It can accommodate three thousand passengers. And I’m told the ship is booked to full capacity this evening, after taking on new passengers in Cuba. With the crew, we make it four thousand two hundred people presently aboard the Tropic Princess, hijacked in the Straits of Florida.”

The station cut away to a grim-looking anchorman. The newsman said, “We now have audio from the hijackers on the Argos cruise ship, broadcasting a list of their demands over an open frequency. This signal was recorded ten minutes ago, from the Tropic Princess in international waters. We air it now, for the first time.”

Ulmalhama sat and listened, with his eyes closed, to the gruff, familiar voice.

“I am Sohrab Caspari. Yesterday, with comrades from Allah’s Warriors, I was privileged to liberate a number of political prisoners from the American death camp at Cuba’s Guantanamo Bay. Some of those hostages are now with me, aboard the Tropic Princess, a decadent pleasure craft symbolizing all that is wrong with corrupt Western society. We have more than four thousand prisoners on board, whom we will gladly execute unless the following demands are met.

“First, we demand the immediate liberation of all remaining prisoners held at Guantanamo Bay, at Abu Ghraib prison in Baghdad, and throughout the state of Israel. A list of names shall be provided to the White House, but since many of the prisoners are held illegally and incommunicado, we can only estimate their total number. To avoid useless debate, after the prisoners identified by name are freed, we expect the liberation of one martyr for each man, woman and child aboard the Tropic Princess.”

Ulmalhama smiled at that. It was a nice touch, which would get them nowhere.

As intended.

“Second, we demand a ransom of one million dollars for each hostage presently aboard the ship. To spare ourselves the effort of precisely counting them, we shall accept four billion dollars as the total ransom. Payments of one billion dollars each shall be wired to four separate bank accounts, one each in Switzerland, Liechtenstein, the Cayman Islands and in Costa Rica. Relevant transfer information shall be provided upon acceptance of our terms by Washington.”

Another hopeless cause, Ulmalhama thought. It was perfect.

“Finally, we want a helicopter capable of seating fourteen passengers, in addition to the crew. This aircraft shall be used for our evacuation of the Tropic Princess, with one hostage for each member of my team. The helicopter shall be capable of traveling five hundred miles without refueling.

“If the President of the United States does not agree to meet our terms within four hours of the present time—that is, by 9:00 p.m.—we shall begin to execute the hostages in groups of ten, at thirty-minute intervals. Execution of the final hostages shall thus occur eight days and eighteen hours from the present time. Any attempt at rescue shall, of course, result in the immediate destruction of the ship and all on board. Good day.”

Nabi Ulmalhama switched off his TV set before the long-faced anchor could express his shock and outrage. So far, phase two of his plan was proceeding on schedule.

Well satisfied, the Saudi rose and poured another glass of whiskey to accompany his fine cigar.

MACK BOLAN HAD ALMOST finished packing when the news came over CNN. He’d sat with Barbara Price and Aaron Kurtzman, listening to the recorded voice of terror, emanating from a man he’d just been asked to track down and eliminate.

Fourteen seats aboard the exit chopper, with one hostage for each hijacker, told Bolan that a seven-man crew had seized the Tropic Princess. Their small number was the good news and the bad.

Six targets made the hunting relatively simple, until Bolan realized that they would be dispersed among four thousand innocents, no doubt prepared to kill at random in the face of any challenge. Furthermore, he had to think about Sohrab Caspari’s final threat, immediate destruction of the ship and all on board, in the event of an attempted rescue.

“How much C-4 would they need to sink a ship that size?” he asked Kurtzman. “And how long would it take?”

“I’ll crunch some numbers.”

Brognola’s call came through, and Price put it on the speakerphone. “We’re all here, Hal,” she said.

“Okay. You’ve heard the news, about the Tropic Princess?”

“Watching it right now,” Price said.

“You won’t be shocked to hear the Man is standing firm. We don’t negotiate with terrorists, full stop. In fact, we couldn’t meet their terms in any case. Suppose we cut loose everyone at Camp X-Ray and Abu Ghraib, gave them the cash and chopper. The Israelis still won’t budge on prisoners. The hijackers had to know that, going in.”

“So, what’s the play?” Bolan asked.

“Change of plans,” Brognola said. “You won’t be flying into Cuba after all. We’re putting you on board a submarine. We’ll chopper you to Norfolk Naval Base and let the swabbies carry on from there. Take anything you think you might need, as long as you can carry it and pass the odd police inspection.”

“Well, that trims my shopping list,” Bolan replied.

“Your contact should be current on the local hardware outlets,” Brognola said.

“And where’s the rendezvous?” Bolan asked.

“Ask the Navy,” Brognola replied. “Somewhere mid-Atlantic, I expect. Questions?”

“None from me,” Bolan responded.

“Great. I’ll try to keep you updated en route. After you go ashore, we’ve got the sat phones, but use them sparingly. Try not to tangle with the Cuban army or security police, but if you have to, don’t let them take you.”

“Or you’ll disavow all knowledge,” Bolan finished for him. “Got it.” He broke the link to Washington.

“A submarine?” Price said. “Instead of flying?”

“It’s a rush job,” Bolan said. “The other way, I have to fly to Mexico, then wait for a connecting flight into Havana. This ought to cut the time by half, at least.”

“For just a second there, I thought he wanted them to help you board the Tropic Princess.”

Bolan frowned and shook his head. “Too late for that. They’d see me coming, and I’d never get the shooters sorted out among four thousand passengers and crew before they did their worst.”

“Who do you think will handle it?” Kurtzman asked.

Bolan shrugged, already on his feet and moving toward the exit. “Navy SEALs or Delta Force could try it, but you’ve got a Panamanian ship in international waters.”

“I’ll get the chopper ready,” Price said. “Need any help collecting gear?”

“I’m good,” Bolan said. “See you on the deck in fifteen, tops.”

EMRE MANDIRALI UNDERSTOOD his mission, but he found it difficult to keep a low profile, moving among his fellow passengers as if he was another drone on holiday, smiling and nodding foolishly at strangers, when he longed to let them see the mini-Uzi he carried in his gym bag, or the pistol tucked beneath his baggy, floral-patterned shirt.

To let them hear his weapons, better yet.

How sweet it would have been to rake the decks with automatic fire, watching his targets twitch and fall. Or tossing hand grenades into the restaurants where they lined up to gorge themselves like pigs at the trough.

But Mandirali had his orders, and despite his grueling months in prison, his abiding rage against those who’d caged him, he had discipline enough to do as he was told in combat situations. He could wait, knowing that it would soon be time to kill.

Barring disaster, Mandirali knew his leader, who had liberated him from vile captivity, had to now control the Tropic Princess. He would issue the demands they had agreed upon, and Washington would solemnly announce its policy against rewarding terrorists. Sohrab Caspari’s deadline would elapse, and then the killing could begin in earnest.

Mandirali harbored no illusions where his future was concerned. While in prison, he had prayed to Allah for a chance to strike out once more at his enemies and be avenged, before he claimed his place in Paradise.

He knew there would be no release of prisoners, no ransom payment, certainly no helicopter sent to carry them away. While Mandirali couldn’t guess precisely how he’d die, he guessed that members of some military hostage-rescue team would storm the ship, sparking a chain reaction of events that would be seen as tragic in the Western world, while warriors of the one true faith proclaimed another stunning victory.

With any luck, he thought, the final body count might well exceed the famous 9/11 raids.

Mandirali himself would achieve no such triumph, but he was a part of the team. By now, his comrades should have C-4 charges planted at strategic points below the waterline, where they would detonate in sequence, gut the Princess when her would-be saviors came aboard.

Ideally the event would be broadcast on live television.

As soon as any would-be rescuers appeared, his orders were to fire at will, inflict as many casualties as he could manage in his brief remaining time on Earth.

The plastic explosives would do the worst damage, trapping hundreds belowdecks as seawater flooded the vessel, starting fires that would ignite the ship’s fuel stores, turning the whole vast hulk into a sunken tomb and smorgasbord for scavengers.

It was enough to make him smile in earnest as he passed among the sheep, nodding in mock friendship and wishing they were already in hell.

3

Under other circumstances, Bolan might have appreciated the scenery passing below the Bell JetRanger, but part of his mind was on board the Tropic Princess with her passengers and crew, the rest trying to work out where the other team of terrorists would strike.

Nine prisoners had broken out of Camp X-Ray, with an estimated six surviving raiders. Sohrab Caspari, speaking for the Tropic Princess hijackers, had demanded a chopper with seating for seven gunmen and an equal number of human shields. That left eight targets unaccounted for.

Where would they surface?

Were they still in Cuba? And if so, what worthwhile targets were available?

Brognola would be puzzling over that in Washington, together with the Pentagon, the CIA, the State Department—anyone, in fact, who could provide a hint of insight on the problem and anticipate the next move by their enemies.

He was too late to help the Tropic Princess, and it preyed on Bolan’s mind, but maybe he would be in time to stop the other team from acting out whatever bloody drama that its leaders planned.

The bad news was that Caspari’s team had already escaped from Cuba. If Asim Ben Muhunnad’s strike team had also fled the island, they might turn up anywhere. Each passing hour gave them greater range.

And if they surfaced somewhere outside Cuba, Bolan’s visit to the island would be a colossal waste of time. He would be sidelined once again, waiting for transport to the battle zone or relegated to a spectator’s position, while the action went ahead without him.

Eyes sweeping the horizon, he resigned himself to wait and see what happened next. He couldn’t force the confrontation, couldn’t read his adversary’s mind and force Muhunnad into some act ahead of schedule.

Bolan preferred proactive strategy, whenever possible, but in the present situation he could only bide his time, reacting to the moves made by his enemies. The best that he could do, in terms of preparation, was to stand in readiness and hope Muhunnad’s fugitive guerrillas chose a target close enough for Bolan to respond in a timely fashion, without placing any innocents in needless jeopardy.

“Another twenty minutes, sir,” his pilot said.

Bolan responded with a nod and focused on the journey still ahead.

Cuba

ASIM BEN MUHUNNAD WAS NOT accustomed to a life of luxury. But nothing in his wildest dreams had prepared him for Bahia Matanzas.

The five-star resort was located on the island’s northwest coast, an oasis of luxury in a country known for its rural poverty and urban decay.

The resort was a landmark on the road to restoration of Cuba’s crippled tourist industry. It offered Canadians, Britons and others a taste of tropic luxury not seen in Cuba since Batista’s time. The posh resort possessed a golf course and all the other amenities required to steal jet-setters from Aruba, Nassau, Martinique, Barbados, Montserrat, or Guadalupe.

The facility was close to full capacity. Its owners didn’t know that eight of the vacationers in residence were using stolen cash and credit cards, but meant to pay their final tab in blood.

Bahia Matanzas.

It pleased Muhunnad that the name, translated from Spanish to English, meant Massacre Bay.

CASPARI LITERALLY SAW the CH-60 Seahawk helicopter coming from a mile away. It showed up first on radar, gaining on the Tropic Princess from the northwest, presumably from a naval base in Florida. Caspari knew the aircraft had to be filled with television news reporters or a strike force of commandos sent to kill him.

When he saw its U.S. Navy markings with his own eyes, all doubt vanished.

By that time, he had issued orders via cell phone to his soldiers circulating through the ship. Farid Azima had not answered, a disturbing problem Caspari could not deal with at the moment, but the rest were at their stations, standing by to act upon his order.

When the Navy helicopter made its first pass overhead, Caspari had six passengers already standing on the cruise ship’s Sun Deck, situated below and in front of the bridge with its broad tinted windows. Daywa Gul-Bashra had collected them with offers of special tour, then showed his weapon to them when they reached the open deck. They were lined up near the railing, hands clasped atop their heads, some of them weeping as they faced the open sea nine stories down, Gul-Bashra just behind them with his submachine gun leveled at their backs.

Two women and four men. Caspari didn’t know them, didn’t care who any of them were or where they came from. They’d been picked at random, as examples for the infidels who had defied him.

“Reach out to the helicopter with your radio,” Caspari ordered. “Make contact at once.”

It took a moment, but a man’s voice issued from the speakers mounted around the bridge. “We hear you, people. Captain Ernest Ryan, here. Who am I talking to?”

“The man in charge,” Caspari answered. “Since you’ve been sent to intercept us, I assume that you’re aware of our demands.”

“I read the list,” Ryan replied.

“And you are now in violation of the ultimatum. Naturally there are penalties for your arrogance.”

“Hold on, now!” Ryan shouted.

“Can you see the people on the Sun Deck?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “I see them.”

“Watch and learn.”

Caspari keyed the cell phone, just a single ring, the arranged signal. Fifty feet beyond the bridge and twenty feet below it, Gul-Bashra sprayed his six targets with automatic fire, stitching them from left to right and back again before they fell. Four collapsed onto the deck, while two others pitched over the rail and fell toward the ocean far below.

Gul-Bashra wasted no time scuttling back to cover, while the helicopter hovered, angry faces pressed against its windows.

Captain Ryan raged, “Goddamn you, listen—”

“No! You listen,” Caspari snapped. “Six passengers are dead because you came here to attack us. Sixty more will die at once, if you attempt to board the ship. If one of you survives to set foot on the deck, I will sink the Tropic Princess. Are we clear?”

There was silence from the circling helicopter.

“Are we clear?” Caspari bellowed.

“We’re clear,” Ryan replied. “We’re backing off now.”

“Any tricks,” Caspari said, “and four thousand deaths are on your head.”

Washington, D.C.

“PERFECT,” NABI ULMALHAMA whispered to the empty room. The events unfolding on the television screen pleased him no end.

The only disappointment, so far, was a simple case of network censorship. Apparently there’d been at least one camera aboard the helicopter that had carried men and guns to liberate the Tropic Princess. It had captured the events on deck, and the resultant tape had found its way to CNN headquarters, but the editors in charge of on-air content had deleted footage of the sacrificial lambs as bullets ripped into their twitching bodies and the fell.

Never mind, Ulmalhama thought. In a few more hours, it would all be on the Internet for everyone to see worldwide.

Now that the first knee-jerk reflex had passed, now that the Pentagon had flexed its muscles and discovered it was powerless, he could begin to watch the clock again.

Two hours and fifteen minutes were left until the next round of bloodletting should begin. It would be dark over the ocean, or nearly so, but cruise ships were like giant office buildings, lighted day and night. He wondered whether any more helicopters would approach the Tropic Princess as the deadline neared.

He hoped so, hoped it would be broadcast live this time, with nothing spared. It would be educational for enemies of Allah to behold His work firsthand.

The telephone purred at his elbow. Ulmalhama muted the TV and lifted the receiver midway through its second ring. At once, he recognized the voice of his immediate superior at the Saudi consulate.

“Of course, sir,” Ulmalhama said. “I’m watching the reports now, as we speak…It’s terrible, I certainly agree…Sohrab Caspari? No, sir. He’s Iranian, my sources guarantee it…. Yes, by all means, he should tell the President that we are not involved in any way.”

His smile returned as he replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle. Even now, Saudi Arabia’s ambassador would have his telephone in hand, prepared to call the White House and insist, with all due deference, that no official of the Saudi government had any knowledge of the raid against Guantanamo or the hijacking of the Tropic Princess.

It was almost true.

Except for Ulmalhama, no one in Riyadh or any of the desert nation’s scattered consulates was privy to the plan.

Norfolk, Virginia

BOLAN WAS BARELY OFF the chopper, ducking underneath the swirl of rotor blades, when a lieutenant dressed in navy blue approached, holding his cap in place with one hand, and declared, “I’ve got bad news.”

“Let’s hear it,” Bolan said.

The story was a short one, quickly told. A squad of SEALs had planned to board the Tropic Princess, and the terrorists had executed half a dozen hostages. Now, with the deadline drawing closer, everyone was bracing for a bloodbath.

“We’ve got your transportation standing by,” the man said.

His second chopper of the evening was a big Sikorsky SH-3 Sea King, complete with two-man crew and seating for a maximum of thirty passengers. Bolan strapped in close to the cockpit, slipped on his earphones and wedged his single bag between his feet.

Liftoff pressed Bolan back into his seat. He had his second airborne view of the Norfolk Naval Complex within fifteen minutes, as the Sea King rose and circled, found its heading and proceeded out to sea.