Final Resort

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.

The grim news from the Tropic Princess left him all the more determined to do everything within his power to corral the second band of terrorists at large and stop whatever mad scheme they were planning to pursue.

He knew the pilots would inform him when they found the submarine and made arrangements for the transfer. In the meantime, Bolan wasn’t flying tourist class. He was a warrior bound for battle with an enemy who could be anywhere, preparing to do anything.

And all he could do was wait.

4

Cuba

“Is everyone in place?” Asim Ben Muhunnad inquired.

“Yes, sir,” said his second in command, Sarsour Ibn Tabari. “I positioned them myself, with strict instructions.”

“Cell phones on?”

“Of course.”

“We’re ready, then.”

“Ready,” his number two agreed.

Muhunnad carried a map of the resort folded in his pocket, but he had already memorized the winding paths, the layout of the various beach cottages and hotel towers, swimming pools and spas. He could find his way around the resort blindfolded. He knew where each one of his six gunmen should be right now, as they prepared to seize control.

And anyone who failed him was a dead man.

Muhunnad and his warriors had concealed their weapons and explosives in their luggage, on arrival at Bahia Matanzas, but the Cuban climate made it impractical for them to wear trench coats or other garments convenient for hiding military hardware. He had suggested beach robes and towels or blankets, soft-drink coolers, baggy shirts and trousers, shopping bags from any of the several boutiques and shops at the resort.

Once their intentions were revealed, discretion wouldn’t matter anymore.

Muhunnad himself had picked a more sophisticated getup for himself and for Tabari. Over the past half hour, they had lured two resort employees to their bungalow, forcing both men to shed their uniforms at gunpoint, then killed both and left them in the bathtub.

Muhunnad and Tabari, dressed in the stolen uniforms—white peasant shirts, with matching shorts—walked side-by-side along one of the concrete paths that made the beach resort a kind of maze, while guaranteeing privacy for guests who spent big money on the beachfront cottages. Tabari pushed a large housekeeping cart, their folding-stock Kalashnikov assault rifles concealed inside a drooping sack filled to the brim with crumpled sheets. Grenades rested beneath an old towel, in the mop bucket. Pistols were warm against their belly skin, under the baggy shirts.

Thus rendered more or less invisible to paying guests, as well as other personnel at the resort, Muhunnad and Tabari skirted swimming pools where women bared their bodies in obscene bikinis, slurping alcohol and teasing men who lusted after them. They passed an outdoor restaurant, where fat white people gorged themselves on delicacies common folk could not afford. At last, they found the service entrance to the main hotel block, used a key card taken from one of the men they’d killed and passed inside.

The plan became a trifle dicey after that, since ordinary personnel were rarely admitted to the executive offices at Bahia Matanzas. Those who made that walk were generally bound for termination, over some offense against the rules prescribed by management.

Muhunnad and Tabari were about to break that rule.

They took the service elevator down one level, to the basement office block. Still trundling the cleaning cart, they moved along a spotless corridor until they reached the door they sought.

Muhunnad turned the doorknob, shoved the door open and held it while Tabari pushed his cart inside. A pretty secretary paused in the act of shutting down her personal computer for the day and frowned at them.

“What’s this?” she asked. “You’re not supposed to be here yet.”

Muhunnad and Tabari whipped their automatic rifles from the linen bag and aimed them at the woman. “If you make a sound, you die,” Muhunnad said.

She made a little squeak, but the Palestinian forgave her, in consideration of the circumstances.

“Now,” Muhunnad said. “We wish to speak with your employer, Mr. Quentin Avery.”

She led them past her desk, down a short hallway, to the manager’s office. It had not surprised Muhunnad in the least to learn that the man in overall charge of Bahia Matanzas was a white Canadian.

What else could one expect, these days?

The secretary rapped on Avery’s door, then opened it without waiting for his summons. Muhunnad and Tabari entered, one rifle covering each of their two hostages.

Avery, a pink-faced, balding man, gaped at the strangers and their guns, then found his voice. “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.

“It means,” Muhunnad answered, “that your property is now under new management. If you agree to our demands, you may survive.”

Canal de Yucatán

“TEN MINUTES, SIR,” the Sea King’s pilot said, “before we rendezvous with the Poseidon.”

“Copy,” Bolan answered, just to let the flyboy know that he was still awake.

The officers and crew of the Poseidon had to put Bolan ashore on Cuba without tipping off local authorities to his arrival. As to how or when he’d leave the island, if and when it came to that, details were still up in the air.

The copilot came back to deal with Bolan’s transfer to the submarine. The gear he carried resembled a parachute harness, minus the pack and chute. Bolan stood and slipped it on, cinched up its several buckles, then stood easy while the copilot made sure he’d done the job correctly.

“Quick releases here, here and here,” the flyboy said, tapping each safety catch in turn. “Don’t use them, though, unless you wind up in the water. Shouldn’t happen, but it does, sometimes.”

“Noted,” Bolan replied.

“Another strap here, for your bag,” the copilot said. “Leaves your hands free for the cable.”

Bolan double-strapped the smallish bag to his left hip, then accepted gloves and goggles from the navy airman. Putting on the goggles meant removing his headphones. The copilot replaced them with a set of earmuffs lacking any common link.