— 18 —
You know the drill, gentlemen,” Javier Ibarra told Jorge Diaz and Sammy Chen, spotting his reflection in their mirror-tint sunglasses as they fished for tuna on the rear deck wearing bathing suits and sandals. “And don’t forget to smile.”
Chen gave him a quick salute. The tattoos of red and white dragons on his forearms continued up to his shoulders, before merging right over his chest. The Taipei biker-gang body art was definitely an eye-catcher, and in sharp contrast with Diaz’s bronzed but virgin skin. Up on the bridge, Mario Mendoza remained at the controls.
Wearing a pair of navy shorts and a white shirt, Ibarra walked up to the starboard side of the motorsailer as a Marine Protector — class patrol boat from the US Coast Guard pulled up alongside his ship. He had recognized the eighty-seven-foot-long cutter from a distance as it radioed Erasmus to prepare for a routine safety inspection.
Since the seas were calm, they were able to connect the vessels with mooring lines and buoys. Three armed inspectors hopped aboard. The one in charge, Petty Officer Jim Montoya, stepped up to him with a clipboard and a pen. He was tall and well-tanned, dressed in a solid dark-blue Operational Dress Uniform and a matching cap bearing his rank.
“Morning, sir,” he said before looking down at his form and saying, “Under Title Fourteen of the United States Code, we’re authorized to board vessels subject to the juris—”
“It’s no problem, Lieutenant,” Ibarra interrupted before pointing at Diaz. “That’s Lieutenant Jorge Diaz, Spanish Navy, retired. We know the rules. We’re just out on a pleasure-fishing trip. Please carry on.”
Montoya glanced over at Diaz as he gave him a brief salute from his chair on the rear deck next to Chen. Both were hanging on to tall fishing rods.
Montoya just nodded and turned back to Ibarra. “Will get right on it.”
As Ibarra went over the paperwork and permits of Santo Erasmus with Montoya, his two inspectors worked their way through the vessel, conducting a quick safety inspection that included the Boston Whaler, the engine room, and all cabins. But he was able to keep the inspectors from roaming too long inside the main salon. And as had been the case on the occasions this had happened to Ibarra and his crew, Erasmus passed with flying colors.
Twenty minutes later, as the smuggler watched the cutter get under way, they resumed their course to Virginia.
They came in from the north at a depth of fifteen feet holding six knots.
Cmdr. Jake Russo sat behind Lt. Gustavo Pacheco piloting the SDV, the battery-powered submersible “wet boat” cruising silently to the HVT — high-value target — coming up on their bow. Upon receiving the green light from Prost, a Super Stallion had lowered them fifteen miles from their target into the dark waters as a single unit — the SDV and a team of eight SEALs dressed for violence.
Breathing in slowly through his LAR-V Draeger, a front-worn breathing apparatus that ran on 100 percent oxygen, Russo checked their GPS positioning on the SDV’s advanced electronics panel.
As he exhaled, his breath was recycled into the closed circuit, which filtered the carbon dioxide and injected a small amount of oxygen before recycling it back to him. This eliminated the bubbles of open-circuit scuba systems.
“Thirty seconds,” he spoke into the microphone built into his mask, connecting him to the other members of his team.
Pacheco killed the motor, allowing the midget sub to drift in the dark waters.
The moment the SDV reached a position a hundred feet from the yacht’s stern, Russo ordered the SEAL team into position, minus the copilot, who would remain with the minisub.
Wearing only a plush robe on the rear main deck of his megayacht, Omar Al Saud stood behind the bar and mixed a double bourbon and Coca-Cola, ignoring the bodyguards patrolling the vessel armed with Uzi Pro submachine guns.
Launched in 2013 by leading German shipyard Lürssen, the Azzam was not only the largest private yacht in the world but also the fastest, capable of reaching speeds of thirty-two knots. At a cost of more than six hundred million dollars and three years to build, it represented the very finest in luxury and high technology in all of its seven levels. And being Al Saud’s primary base of operations, it included the latest in high-tech communications and security, including its own missile-defense system.
And that’s all great, Al Saud thought. Except that the satellite internet connection was down, preventing him from making his evening calls to Riyadh City.
“How long?” he asked one of his guards.
“They’re working on it, sir. Any moment now.”
Sighing, Al Saud shook his head at the irony of owning a six-hundred-million-dollar boat, plus the half dozen techs working inside the electronics room on the lower level, but the damn internet was broken.
Walking across the deck, he dropped his robe and stepped down into a warm, bubbling spa, relaxing in the swirling water, sipping his drink. He was alone tonight. No guests, friends, or even the whores, whom he had dispatched to the mainland two hours earlier. After the failed attempt on Lincoln, he needed time to think and regroup. The attack on Truman and Stennis had put a significant dent in America’s war machine, and soon his Russian crew would go after a third carrier. But given his submarine’s proximity to the Vinson’s battle group approaching the strait of Taiwan, Al Saud had agreed to Deng’s request to go after it rather than Roosevelt, if possible. To that end, he had already used his satellite phone to message the request to Sergeyev — whenever he surfaced — and also to the captain of the rendezvous ship scheduled to resupply K-43 near the Philippines. If Sergeyev and his crew could only pull off just another miracle…
And then there’s still Ibarra’s mission, he thought, thinking of the capable smuggler as he closed his eyes and let the hot water work its magic.
Russo removed his diving mask and hooked it to his vest before breaking the calm surface gradually, without ripples — just enough to survey the massive utility/swim platform along the ship’s stern under the star-filled night.
Two personal watercraft and a runabout boat monopolized the port side of the sixty-foot-wide platform. But his eyes focused on the two figures a dozen yards away, wearing dark clothes and standing by the starboard side, flanking the steps leading up to the yacht. According to the intel Prost had forwarded, which included real-time UAV coverage of Azzam, the mammoth yacht had a total of seven levels and at least a dozen armed guards.
Exhaling slowly through his Draeger, the SEAL commander glided toward the runabout on the opposite side of the platform from the guards, carefully removing the Hecker & Koch MP5SD-N 9 mm compact submachine gun strapped to his side.
His head now just a couple of feet from the edge of the platform, Russo held the pistol grip with his right hand and placed his left one under the barrel.
Keeping the weapon submerged, he extended the retractable metal stock of the version of the venerable MP5 specifically designed for the US Navy, and pressed it against his right shoulder. Then, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, he raised the weapon enough to settle his shooting eye behind the PVS14 night-vision monocular attached to the top of the MP5SD-N. The guards came into focus, now forty feet diagonally from his vantage point.