Hijack, page 6
The broker didn’t even pause before replying. “That’ll be Oracle and his men.”
Flipping to a fresh page in his battered ledger, the broker licked the tip of his pencil, wrote the date and scored a line down one side. He glanced up at Sharif. “What does your client have to invest? Weapons? Supplies? Cash?”
“Cash. And moreover he wants to be the sole investor in an operation.”
The broker’s eyes widened, gleaming like silver coins in his black moon-face. “I trust your client has deep pockets . . . Start-up costs are a minimum of thirty thousand dollars.”
Sharif nodded and placed a blue sports bag on the table. “There’s fifty thousand. My client wishes to ensure the ‘maritime company’ has the best resources for the job.”
The broker unzipped the bag and licked his lips at the sight of five large bundles of crisp hundred-dollar bills.
“I’ll contact Oracle right away,” he said, rezipping the bag. But as he went to take it, Sharif grabbed his wrist and locked eyes with the broker.
“My client expects results.”
The broker gave Sharif a regretful smile. “Of course I respect such a request, but in this business, as you well know, we can offer no guarantees. Hijacking a ship is risky business.”
“Then this should reduce the risk,” said Sharif, handing the broker a large brown envelope.
The broker started to open it.
“No,” said Sharif. “For Oracle’s eyes only.”
The broker held up his hand in apology. “I only wished to note its contents. The return on a successful hijack-and-ransom is usually ten times the amount invested.” Placing the unopened envelope in the bag, he then carefully wrote down the items in his ledger. “Whom shall I name as the official investor? Yourself, Sharif?”
“No, I’m merely the middleman. No name. Just date it,” instructed Sharif.
The broker raised an eyebrow at this, but nonetheless did as instructed. He glanced up as he wrote. “Is your client trustworthy?”
Sharif shrugged. “He’s rich. And pays cash in advance.”
“Then who needs trust?” the broker said, laughing. He tore a strip of paper from the bottom of his ledger. “Your receipt.”
Sharif took the scrap of paper. “Thank you, cousin. Nabadeey,” he said, bidding him farewell.
Leaving the bustling “stock exchange,” Sharif crossed the dusty square and clambered back into the Land Cruiser.
“It’s done,” he said in English, handing his client the receipt.
The man in the back pocketed the paper slip without a word.
15
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! This is motor yacht Athena, Athena, Athena. Mayday Athena. My position is South three degrees, fifty-two minutes, twenty-three seconds, East fifty-five degrees, thirty-four minutes, forty-two seconds, approximately five miles southwest of Denis Island. We have hit submerged object and are sinking. I have four people on board. We require immediate assistance. Abandoning to life raft. Over.”
The VHF radio crackled loudly with static.
No one responded to the distress call. Nor was a response expected.
Ling, who’d sent the message, sat safe and sound in Alpha team’s classroom at Guardian headquarters, miles from any sinking ship. She turned to Bugsy, radio mic in hand. “Why does everything have to be repeated three times?”
Their surveillance and communications tutor, a bald man with the stocky build of a wrestler, held up two stubby fingers. “First, to ensure that the message is heard accurately. And second, to distinguish it from other radio chatter.”
He lowered the radio’s volume and faced the rest of the team.
“Knowing how to make a Mayday call is a vital skill for any crew member aboard a boat. It can mean the difference between life and death at sea.” His sharp, beady eyes flicked across to Connor. “Summarize the Mayday procedure for me.”
Connor glanced at his notes.
“Turn on VHF radio, check power, press and hold the red Distress button for five seconds—”
“Good. Now, Amir, what does this action do?” interjected Bugsy.
Amir was quick to respond. “It broadcasts a digital alert to all DSC-equipped craft as well as the local coast guard. This will include your MMSI—the unique number identifying your craft—along with your position and the time.”
Bugsy gave his student a big thumbs-up, and Amir beamed. “Jason,” Bugsy continued, “what if there’s no response within fifteen seconds?”
“Uh . . . repeat the distress call.”
“That’s right. But this time by voice, just as Ling did.” Bugsy turned to Richie, who was gazing out the window with a blank expression. “Richie, what VHF channel should you transmit on?”
Richie fumbled for an answer. “Um . . . Ten?”
“No, Channel Sixteen!” snapped Bugsy, tapping the dial on the radio that clearly indicated this. “Pay attention. Just because you’re not going on this mission, Richie, doesn’t mean you won’t need this knowledge in the future. All distress, urgency and safety signals are transmitted by international agreement on VHF Channel Sixteen. Make a note of it.”
With a grudging effort, Richie opened his laptop and typed the information down.
Bugsy tutted at his student, then resumed his questioning. “So, Marc, what must you check before sending a verbal Mayday?”
Marc rubbed his temple, trying to jog his memory. Then he clicked his fingers as he remembered. “That the radio is switched to high power to transmit.”
Bugsy nodded. “Connor, what is the official format of the Mayday call?”
Connor didn’t need to check his notes this time. “Repeat ‘Mayday’ and the name of the vessel three times, then give your position, nature of the emergency, the number of people on board and what assistance you need, and finish by saying ‘over.’”
Bugsy fired more questions around the room, allowing no one the opportunity to tune out his lesson again. Once satisfied that Alpha team knew the protocol inside out, he announced, “One important proviso about VHF radios—they have a limited line-of-sight range. In real terms, that’s about forty miles from a coastal station, but only ten miles between two yachts. So, considering the size of the oceans, this is by no means a foolproof distress system.”
“How about using a smartphone instead?” Amir suggested.
Ling laughed. “You’re at sea, stupid! Where will you get a signal?”
“Actually, cell phones can be used for requesting help,” said Bugsy. “In areas of little or seemingly no signal, a text might still stand a good chance of getting through.”
Amir gave Ling a triumphant look and waved his cell phone in her face. “See! It would work.”
“Teacher’s pet,” she muttered, her eyes narrowing.
“Loser,” shot back Amir.
Ling made a grab for his smartphone. “Watch it or I’ll stick that phone where there’s definitely no signal!”
“Settle down, you two,” said Bugsy, wagging a finger at their childish squabbling. “Ling’s got a point, though. The signal range is limited to the coastal areas. Also, only one person hears your call, and a cell phone can’t be homed in on as easily as a VHF transmission.”
Ling stuck her tongue out at Amir in smug victory.
Bugsy frowned at her but continued with his lecture. “That’s why most boats are equipped with satellite systems featuring voice, data, fax and GMDSS capabilities.”
“What’s GMDSS?” asked Jason, struggling to make notes fast enough.
“Global Maritime Distress and Safety System. It’s a highly sophisticated worldwide distress system that delivers emergency, safety and other communications, such as weather warnings and search-and-rescue messages—”
The class bell rang for lunch, and like all schoolkids, Alpha team began to pack up with impatient urgency.
“Just one more thing,” said Bugsy, holding up a bright yellow plastic cylinder with a light and a short aerial at one end. “This is an emergency position–indicating radio beacon. It transmits a distress signal to satellites and relays the information to a rescue coordination center. EPIRBs are pretty cool gadgets, since they automatically activate upon immersion in water and have a float-free bracket if the vessel sinks.”
Bugsy placed the EPIRB on the desk for the class to examine. Then he stowed away his laptop, popped a piece of chewing gum into his mouth and headed out the door.
Alpha team gathered their belongings and filed past the EPIRB, giving it the once-over.
Jason picked it up and regarded Connor. “Let’s pray there aren’t any Maydays on your mission.”
“I’m with you there,” said Connor. Then he caught the odd expression on Jason’s face. “Hey, what do you mean by that?”
“Well, you got shot last time, didn’t you?”
Nettled by the implied criticism, Connor held his rival’s gaze. “And I heard that on your Caribbean assignment you got second-degree sunburn!”
A moment of tension hung between them. Then Jason’s mouth broke into a wide grin.
“Fair point,” he chuckled, putting down the EPIRB and clapping a meaty arm around Connor’s shoulders. “That was rather stupid of me, wasn’t it?” He glanced in Ling’s direction as she left the classroom with Amir, the two of them now laughing together. “Look, just watch Ling’s back for me. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I think she can look after herself,” replied Connor, indicating the faded shadow of his black eye from the previous week.
“Sure, she can,” agreed Jason, “but if something goes wrong . . . you’ve only got each other to depend on.” His earth-brown eyes searched Connor’s face as if looking for a weakness. Then, with a final encouraging squeeze of his arm, he let go and shouldered his bag. “I hear you and Ling are flying out to Australia to meet the girls before the trip?”
Connor nodded. “Yes, by request of Mr. Sterling.”
“Well, enjoy my home turf,” he said with genuine warmth, heading for lunch. He paused a moment in the doorway as if remembering something. “But watch out for dropbears.”
“Dropbears?” queried Connor.
“Yeah, vicious little creatures. Like koalas, only with teeth. My uncle was savaged by one last summer,” Jason explained. “They hang in treetops and attack their prey by dropping onto their heads from above. Just be careful is all I’m saying.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” said Connor.
“No worries,” replied Jason, smiling.
16
Connor and Ling entered the logistics supply room to find Amir already there. He stood behind the desk with an eager look on his face as if his birthday had come early.
“I’ve been waiting all morning to hand over your go-bags,” he said.
Unable to contain his excitement any longer, Amir produced two black-and-fluorescent-yellow backpacks and laid them ceremonially on the table. “I’ve customized them specifically for Operation Gemini.”
“Well, no one’s going to lose these in a hurry!” remarked Ling, eyeing the lurid yellow dubiously.
“That’s the point,” said Amir. “Ultra-reflective strips on the front and shoulder straps for maximum visibility at sea. A high-powered LED beacon for emergencies.” Amir indicated a tiny plastic dome beside the top grab handle. “And these bags even have a mini-SART sewn into the lining!”
Amir looked up expectantly, waiting for them to share in his enthusiasm. Connor and Ling exchanged bemused glances. Amir rolled his eyes.
“Don’t you two know anything? SART? Search-and-rescue transponder.” He pointed to a bulging seam with an activation tag. “The slim tube inside contains a small, battery-powered receiver and transmitter that operates on the 9-GHz frequency.”
“You’ve still lost us, I’m afraid,” admitted Connor.
“That frequency, 9 GHz, is the frequency . . . of X-band radar . . . on a ship,” Amir said slowly, as if explaining to two nursery school–aged kids. “If you get into difficulties at sea, the transponder sends out a locating signal. Usually these gizmos are on life rafts and about the size of a two-liter water bottle. Bugsy, however, has managed to miniaturize it. The downside is that the battery has only an eight-hour life span and its range is less than five nautical miles. Still, it could make all the difference in a search-and-rescue operation.”
Amir unclipped the top section of the backpack and began to unroll the opening.
“No zips mean no leakage,” he said, explaining the unusual roll-top design. “This means the go-bags are fully waterproof and fully submersible. As long as you aren’t carrying rocks, they’ll even float!”
Amir patted the go-bags proudly as if they were his favored pets.
“Do they have a foldout liquid body-armor panel like before?” Connor asked.
Amir’s expression fell a little. “Unfortunately not,” he admitted. “We couldn’t fit an additional panel inside. But the back section itself is bulletproof.”
“That’s good,” said Connor. He didn’t wish to dampen Amir’s spirits, but the foldout panel had been a key factor in saving his and his Principal’s life during his first mission. A single panel, although still useful, would barely cover him, let alone his Principal.
Amir reached into the bags and produced a pair of phones enclosed in bright orange neoprene covers.
“Your smartphones, upgraded to the newest operating system and virus-protection software.” He arched an eyebrow in Connor’s direction. “No danger of Cell-Finity bugs this time.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Connor as he weighed the phone in his hand and examined the unusual cover. “A bit bulky, isn’t it?”
“It was a trade-off,” said Amir, shrugging apologetically. “We’ve waterproofed the phone with a spray-on microlayer, but to produce a buoyant cover we had to compromise on size.”
“I suppose it’s better than losing it at the bottom of the sea,” said Ling cheerily.
Connor pressed his thumb to the screen, triggering the fingerprint security system. He examined the display of apps: Advanced Mapping, Tracker, Face Recognition, Mission Status, Threat Level, SOS . . . “I’m glad to see your SOS app is still on here.”
“Of course,” Amir said, beaming. “Version two. Improved battery life. Also, it allows for short message transfer as well as location data.”
Amir dug out the rest of the go-bag’s contents.
“You’ll have all your usual gear: first-aid kits, earpieces with a built-in mic for covert communication with each other, prepaid credit cards—”
“Now, that’s more like it.” Ling grinned, snatching up a card. “Shopping time!”
“You’ll need expert surveillance skills to find a shop in the middle of the Indian Ocean,” Amir said, laughing.
“You forget airport duty-free,” Ling replied with a devious wink, nudging Connor with her elbow.
Amir handed them each a pile of clothes. “Here’s your Guardian-issued gear: baseball hat, shorts, T-shirts, polo shirt . . . all fire-retardant, stab-proof and, of course, bulletproof,” he said, looking up at Connor.
“Don’t worry, I’ll definitely be wearing these,” said Connor, holding up and inspecting the pocketed blue polo shirt. It still amazed him that such soft, thin fabric could stop a bullet from a handgun or the sharpened steel point of a knife.
“Is there a bulletproof bikini for me?” asked Ling.
Amir searched through her pile of clothes. “Uh, no, sorry.”
A smirk appeared on Ling’s lips. “I was only joking.”
Amir reddened as it dawned on him how ridiculous such an item would be. “Oh, very funny.” He pulled a slim black flashlight from the go-bag. “By the way, Bugsy’s supplied you with a new flashlight.”
Amir pressed the button, and a glaringly bright green laser strobe flashed out.
“Hey, watch it!” exclaimed Ling, shielding her eyes. “You almost blinded me.”
“That’s kinda the point of it,” said Amir, grinning like a Cheshire cat at his retaliation. “It’s a Dazzler.”
“A what?”
“A nonlethal weapon that temporarily blinds or disorients your enemy.”
“Seems pretty lethal to me,” said Ling as she blinked away tears.
“Well, it won’t kill anyone, and it works as a standard flashlight too,” Amir explained, putting the Dazzler back in the bag. “Anyway, at the other end of the spectrum, so to speak, are your sunglasses.”
“It’s all right—I still have mine from the last mission,” said Connor.
“Not like these you don’t,” replied Amir, excitedly handing them each a pair. “Put them on.”
As Connor and Ling slipped on the shades, Amir closed the blinds and switched off the room’s light, plunging them into darkness.
“Hey, I can’t see a thing!” Ling exclaimed.
“Flick the switch on the right edge of the frame.”
Finding the tiny switch with his fingernail, Connor gasped in awe as Amir and Ling reappeared before his eyes in a shimmering silver light. “Now, these are cool!”
“Night-vision sunglasses,” explained Amir, enjoying the looks of astonishment on his friends’ faces. “Cutting-edge nanotechnology in the lens allows you to see in the dark as if there’s a full moon. There’s a smart layer of nano-photonic film that converts infrared light to visible. Unlike standard night-vision goggles that amplify only visible light, these have the advantage of not being vulnerable to flaring when confronted with a bright light.”
Amir switched on the main light to prove his point. Connor could still see perfectly well, even if the room before him appeared overexposed. He flicked off the night-vision mode, and everything returned to normal.
