Final Resort

“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.

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