WHATEVER THE COST: A Mark Cole Thriller Page 4

  Come back to us, it seemed to be saying. Come back to us.

  Slowly, Cole’s mind drifted back to the same subject that had been consuming him all evening.

  What should I do?

  The fact was, Cole was tired. He was tired of punishing himself, tired of wasting his days in pain and misery, tired of the life he had made for himself. The incident in Pattaya had affected him, shown him for what he truly was, illustrated for him his essential nature, a nature he was trying hard to deny, but no longer could.

  The adrenalin spike when he had fought back was like an old friend, the return of something infinitely familiar to him, infinitely appealing.

  He was a predator; a hunter.

  He was not a prey animal, and never could be.

  Watching a lion chasing a gazelle, he never sided with the gazelle; he always wanted the lion to take down its prey. Always.

  He was a predator, and whereas some people with that drive turned to crime, he had turned to the military; he had been trained and honed over the years, and his hunter’s instincts had been refined.

  He was a predator, but he wasn’t a wolf attacking sheep; he was the guard dog who protected the sheep from the wolves.

  It was all he knew how to do, all he could do, all he wanted to do.

  He saw the hijack situation for what it was; an opportunity, a shot at redemption.

  He had a lead, something he could use to get him into the game. Why shouldn’t he use it?

  The CNN television report came back to him then, and he understood that it was a TV news report that had thrown him into his last official mission. He had watched it at his home in the Caribbean; his wife cooking in the kitchen, Ben and Amy with him in the living room. It had shown a terrorist attack on the day of the Mutual Defense Treaty signing – originally to be between the US and Russia, but which ultimately included China too – an act which had drawn him into the worst weeks and months of his life.

  A single tear appeared in his eye as he saw that scene back in the living room of his Cayman Brac beach house. Ben, Amy and Sarah; happy for probably the last time before their violent deaths just one week later.

  He wiped the tear away and downed the last of his Bell’s, staring down into the thick-bottomed glass.

  You remember what happened last time.

  But it was different now, he told himself – he had no family, nobody he cared about who could be hurt by what he did.

  And didn’t he have a responsibility to his fellow countrymen, to help them if he could? There were three Americans who were right now being held captive somewhere; men with wives and children of their own, perhaps. Certainly men with someone who cared for them, someone who would miss them if they never returned home.

  Yes.

  He had a responsibility.

  He remembered the oath of office he had sworn, back when he had been known as Mark Kowalski, back when he had been little more than a kid.

  I, Mark Antoni Kowalski, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God.

  And he had discharged those duties to the best of his abilities – in SEAL Team Two, SEAL Team Six, in the covert squad known as the Systems Research Group, and then – after being rescued from prison in Pakistan and being declared Killed In Action – as Mark Cole, a contract operator for the US government codenamed ‘the Asset’.

  He had killed dozens – perhaps even hundreds – of ‘enemies, foreign and domestic’ for his country; hadn’t he killed enough? Hadn’t he done enough?

  And yet, at the end of the day, what was there left for him to do?

  He was a guard dog.

  And although he’d been out of action for more than a year, he could admit now that he had always known – deep down – that it was not the end of his calling in life, just a brief hiatus.

  He was what he was, and he’d never had any real choice at all.

  3

  Zhang Peng sat facing the President of the People’s Republic of China, Tsang Feng.

  Zhang was the CEO of the Tsing Tao Shipping Line, a multi-billion dollar company which built some of the nation’s finest ships, which were then leased out at huge daily rates to commercial shipping companies who operated them worldwide.

  So although another company, Fung Chow Merchant Marine Services, were currently operating the Fu Yu Shan and therefore responsible for her cargo, Zhang still had overall responsibility for the ship and her crew.

  And it was therefore Zhang who had received the demands from the pirates who had recently hijacked the Fu Yu Shan.

  ‘So tell me,’ came another voice, off to one side of Zhang and Tsang, ‘what is it that these pirates want?’

  The voice belonged to Kang Xing, the aged Defense Minister of the People’s Republic and Tsang’s right-hand man. From his corner seat, he regarded the CEO through dark, hooded eyes.

  Zhang cleared his throat. ‘They say that they will release the ship and crew unharmed for fifty million US dollars.’

  ‘Fifty million?’ Tsang asked in amazement. ‘The gall of these people! I have heard the ship is only worth forty!’

  ‘You forget the men, sir,’ Zhang said gently. ‘And don’t forget, three of them are American citizens.’

  Tsang grunted. ‘They must be living in dreamland if they think they can treat us in this way. We will have to teach them a lesson they won’t soon forget. They –’

  ‘Sir,’ Zhang interrupted nervously, ‘Lloyds Insurance classify the Strait of Malacca as a warzone, and make an extra charge. Now, most companies don’t pay it and take the risk, but Tsing Tao is all paid up.’ He smiled. ‘We can claim on our insurance, pay the money, and everything will settle right down.’

  Tsang Feng’s face turned cold. Hard. ‘You must be under enormous stress,’ he said at last, the words coming out slowly. ‘I will pretend I did not hear you say that. Pay off these pirates? These simple criminals? Give fifty million dollars to the scum of the earth, with the consent of the Chinese government?’ He shook his head. ‘Not if you want to keep control of the company, Zhang my friend.’ He waggled a finger in Zhang’s direction. ‘And I tell you this – if you try and pay them off yourself, you’ll find yourself with a lifetime prison sentence for treason. Do I make myself clear?’

  Zhang nodded his head, wondering what other options there were; nobody ever rescued a hijacked ship once it was hidden. But instead of arguing, he simply nodded his head and accepted the situation.

  ‘Yes sir,’ he confirmed confidently. ‘We do not make deals with pirates.’

  President Tsang smiled for the first time. ‘Exactly,’ he said, his eyes gleaming. ‘I’m glad we understand each other.’

  In the corner of the room, Kang continued to watch the men carefully through his dark, hooded eyes – eyes which saw everything, yet revealed nothing. And inside, unknown to either Tsang or Zhang, he allowed himself to smile.

  Everything was going exactly as he had predicted.

  ‘I’ve just spoken to President Tsang,’ Ellen Abrams, President of the United States of America, announced to her National Security Advisor John Eckhart.

  Abrams sighed to herself, taking a sip of coffee from her China cup. It was only yesterday that the rise of the European right looked like America’s number one priority; now it had been swamped by international interest in this hijacking.

  And that was if she ignored the mounting pressures of the re-election campaign; November was only a few months away, and she found her attention being constantly drawn away from key matters by her party strategists. It was a drain on her already sapped resources, but she accepted it as an unfortunate part of political life.

  ‘They’ve heard from the pirates?’ Eckhart asked.


  Abrams nodded. ‘Yes, they’re asking for fifty million dollars for the return of the ship and crew.’

  ‘Cargo?’ Eckhart asked.

  ‘Cargo wasn’t mentioned specifically, but it’s a safe bet it can be written off. The pirates will sell it off as quickly as they can; it’s money in their pockets.’

  ‘We’ll get copies of the manifests to our people over there. We don’t have huge resources in Indonesia, but we might be able to rely on their government too. If any of the items show up, it might help us narrow down the search.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Abrams confirmed. ‘Do it right after this meeting.’

  ‘No problem.’ Eckhart took a sip of his own coffee, then looked back across the huge desk, made from the timbers of the British frigate HMS Resolute a century and a half ago. It dominated the Oval Office just as it had during the terms of the several presidents who had selected it before Abrams. ‘What’s China’s stance on paying them?’

  ‘The same as ours,’ Abrams said. ‘We don’t negotiate with terrorists, and we don’t negotiate with pirates. Feng has warned Zhang not to pay them off.’ Concern furrowed Abrams’ brow. ‘How soon can we find that ship?’

  ‘We’re doing all we can. The NRO has redirected all our satellites onto the area, and we’re flying surveillance drones over every little island in a thousand mile radius. But that’s a big area, and it’s going to take some time, especially if it’s tucked away under a precipice, or if it’s been camouflaged in some way.’

  ‘What sort of assets do we have on the ground?’

  ‘We’ve got the local CIA station in Jakarta looking into things, they’ve already started putting some money about to try and get some information. We’ve also got some specialists from the Special Activities Division arriving in Sumatra as we speak.’

  ‘Military options?’

  ‘Well, Pete will explain it better than I can at the NSC meeting later,’ Eckhart admitted. Major General Peter Olson was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the military adviser to the National Security Council. ‘But I do know that we’re rerouting two destroyers from a training exercise in the Indian Ocean, and that DEVGRU are on the move from Dam Neck to Subic Bay in case we need them.’

  Abrams nodded. DEVGRU was the Naval Special Warfare Development Group, also known as SEAL Team Six; based out of Dam Neck, Virginia, it was America’s most elite special operations unit and had responsibility for maritime counterterrorist operations across the world. SEAL Team Four was already stationed at the US naval base at Subic Bay in the Philippines, and it made perfect sense for SEAL Team Six to use the facility to prepare themselves.

  ‘A Ranger battalion on exercise in Kenya is also heading into theatre to help support DEVGRU if a rescue attempt is authorized.’

  ‘Okay,’ Abrams said, hands bracing on her desk, ‘that should do it for now. Get your people moving, and we’ll see each other again at the NSC meeting in,’ – Abrams paused, checking her watch – ‘just over two hours. Let’s hope we get some good news in the meantime.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Eckhart replied with a grim smile. ‘Let’s hope and pray.’

  Lieutenant Commander Jake Navarone stretched out his athletic frame in the canvas bucket seat, cramped after several hours spent aboard the C-17 Globemaster transport aircraft.

  Navarone was one of the three troop commanders who made up Red Squadron, one of DEVGRU’s highly-trained assault teams. The whole of Red Squadron, codenamed the Red Indians, was on its way to Subic Bay in the Phillipines on the orders of Rear Admiral Scott Murphy, DEVGRU’s commanding officer; although Navarone knew that the operation would be ultimately coordinated by Lieutenant General Miley Cooper, the commander of the Joint Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg.

  DEVGRU was, along with Delta Force, the tip of the US military’s spear. Known as Special Mission Groups, their operations were highly classified and were assigned by JSOC under conditions of absolute secrecy.

  Murphy had briefed Red Squadron’s leader, Commander Ike Treyborne, on the mission; and Treyborne had in turn briefed his three troop commanders.

  Their first port of call was Subic Bay, where they would acclimatize to the heat and humidity and begin rehearsing the skills necessary for re-taking a hijacked vessel. They’d been granted permission to use some of the Navy ships being worked on in the docks, and JSOC was doing its best to borrow a real container ship to practice on too.

  Navarone found himself looking forward to the job, if it ever came; more often than not, an alert turned into a lot of training, rehearsing, and waiting for a green light which never came. Which wasn’t to say that he was unused to action; on the contrary, Navarone had led over sixty commando missions during his time in the SEALs, and been decorated for heroism on numerous occasions. He’d even been shot a couple of times in the line of duty, which resulted in scars he carried with him as permanent reminders that within an instant, even the best laid plans could turn into a total goat-fuck.

  But for all the missions he’d been on over the years, he’d never actually taken part in rescuing a vessel at sea – one of the reasons for the creation of the US Navy SEALs in the first place. He therefore found himself getting more than usually excited about the prospect of engaging with the SEAL’s primary mission of maritime counterterrorism. Or at least maritime counter-piracy, which was pretty much the same thing, he told himself.

  He looked around the compartment at his fellow SEALs, men forged by the toughest selection and training in existence to be the best of the best. He trusted each and every one of them with his life, and they trusted him with theirs.

  He looked across to Ike Treyborne, who was sitting just across from him, and smiled.

  Red Squadron’s commander knew the reason for the smile and returned it.

  Everyone was looking forward to this one.

  4

  ‘Hello, Boom.’

  The old man turned to Cole, his eyes narrowing. It was clear that he never expected to see his morose erstwhile lodger again.

  ‘Why you back here?’ he asked in broken English. ‘You lose something?’

  Cole couldn’t blame the man for being suspicious; he was a black-market gun dealer, and paranoia kept him safe. The only reason he had spoken freely around Cole before was because he didn’t realize the quiet man living under his roof could understand Thai.

  ‘It’s good to see you too,’ Cole said, trying a smile before realizing that this would make Boom even more suspicious; Cole had never smiled when he’d lived there.

  The house itself hadn’t changed; it was as ramshackle as before, and Cole had often wondered what Boom did with the money he made from dealing guns. He had a wife and seven children, but Cole thought it had more to do with gambling addiction. He remembered that Boom would sometimes leave for days at a time. On occasion he would return with a new supply of small-arms, and yet on others he would return with nothing more than a scowl and a cross temper.

  ‘What you want?’ Boom asked. ‘I busy man, remember? Got plenty work to do, yes?’

  Cole nodded. ‘I understand that you’re a busy man, Boom. That’s why I’m here. It’s about your work.’

  A broad grin spread across Boom’s dark, wrinkled face. ‘Ah! I understand now. You get in trouble, right? Now you want protection!’ He gestured towards the house. ‘Come! If you have money, I have protection!’

  Cole followed Boom through the sagging porch, saw the stairs which led up to the spare room he’d rented, stepped over children playing in the hallway and squeezed past Boom’s young wife who was cooking in the small kitchen, pots and pans all around her, the smell of spiced noodles in the air.

  She looked surprised to see him, but turned back to her cooking a moment later without a word; Cole was sure she was used to seeing strange people in her house all the time, and knew better than to ask questions.

  Boom led Cole out of the back door, through a small, untidy garden where more children played, to a small wooden shack. He gestured for
Cole to enter, then followed him inside, shutting the door behind them.

  In an instant, a gun appeared at Cole’s head, just as Cole had known it would. Boom pressed the barrel into Cole’s temple, grinding it.

  ‘What the fuck you come here for, eh? Who sent you? You working with police? That it? Eh?’

  ‘Boom, calm down,’ Cole said evenly as he instinctively took in the angles, assessed the timing of his moves if he felt the need to take Boom out. He could tell that it wouldn’t come to that though; Boom was just going through his normal routine. ‘You know me. I lived here for weeks and never brought anyone here. You were right the first time; I need protection, and you’re the only one I know who can help me.’

  Boom paused, the gun still aimed at Cole’s head. Then he grunted and lowered the pistol. ‘Okay. Okay. You right, you okay guy. Quiet. I like this. After seven kids, quiet is good.’

  Cole pretended to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘Okay, thank you. Now, what have you got?’

  The arms store hidden blow the shed and accessed by a trapdoor and a steel ladder, was impressive. It was a small room, but filled to overflowing with everything from Makarov pistols to Chinese AK-47s, with a few RPGs and sticks of TNT thrown in for good measure.

  ‘Explosives?’ Cole asked in surprise.

  ‘Hey,’ Boom said defensively, ‘some people have bigger problems than others, yes?’

  Cole smiled. The fact was, he liked Boom; he was funny, friendly, and decidedly good-natured, and he’d given Cole a place to stay when he’d needed it. He liked to talk too, and Cole hoped that he would be able to find out details about the man’s Cambodian source without having to be heavy-handed about it.

  The next half hour was filled with discussions about what Cole needed, how much he wanted to pay, and what Boom had in stock that was suitable. The discussion was interesting, and Boom certainly knew his subject.

  After a rapport had been built, and Cole was handling a Czech CZ-75 pistol he was thinking about buying, he decided to start making a few subtle enquiries.