Final Resort. Don Pendleton

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ