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They had three bombs, which had to be placed carefully to sink a ship of this size, and they had to be detonated before the Coast Guard or defense forces could get there, presuming the Dahar had used the SSAS. Based on what they knew of response times from previous hijackings in the area, they had an hour to evacuate the ship and make a dash back to their shore base.
With the crew in custody, Tanjung could relax. He set down his assault rifle and sat on the deck to enjoy a well-deserved bag of klepons rice balls that his mother had made for him and his comrades. The sugary snack was covered in coconut shavings, and he brushed his fingers on his pants as he watched a cargo ship in the distance behind them.
Tanjung thought his eyes must be playing tricks on him because it appeared that the large freighter was racing toward them at an amazing speed. Every time he looked away and then back at the ship, it seemed closer.
He shrugged. It didn’t really matter. A ship that size couldn’t be doing more than twenty kilometers per hour. They would be long gone with the hostages before it got anywhere close to them. Not that a civilian cargo ship could threaten them anyway.
When he was done with his snack, he crumpled up the bag and tossed it overboard.
That’s when his eye was drawn to something strange roiling the water. He rose and went to the gunwale.
The water bubbled from something rising up, almost as if a sea monster were emerging from the depths.
A long, flat object appeared next to his boat, barely breaking the surface. It could have been a wayward piece of flotsam tossed overboard from one of the many cargo vessels that plied the strait.
Tanjung noticed that it wasn’t entirely flat. Toward one end was a short cupola with windows. He was startled to see two eyes inside staring back at him. It was an older white man with ruddy cheeks and a fringe of reddish hair around a bald head.
For a moment, Tanjung wondered if someone had drugged his klepons. But his trance was shattered when a hatch flew open from the back of what he now understood to be a submersible that had come out of nowhere. A figure dressed in black and wearing a balaclava rose out of the opening like a demon and pointed a gun at him.
Tanjung turned to lunge for his assault rifle, but it was far too late. He heard a hiss and felt a needle plunge into his back. He tried to reach the dart to pull it out, but within a second his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the deck.
He didn’t lose consciousness, but his head was fuzzy, and his mouth felt as though it were coated in cotton.
The man clad in black jumped over the gunwale and loomed above him like a giant. He bent down, plucked the dart out of Tanjung’s back, and turned him over.
The intruder tossed the assault rifle overboard before dropping to his knees, and Tanjung could see sharp blue eyes watching him intently. The man said something in English, which Tanjung didn’t understand.
“No speak English,” Tanjung heard himself reply, almost as if it came from someone else.
The man switched to Arabic, a dialect Tanjung recognized as Saudi.
“How many of you are on the Dahar?”
Tanjung tried to resist answering, but he felt compelled to tell what he knew.
“Seven.”
“Don’t bother trying to fight it,” the intruder said. “The drug you were injected with not only disables you but it also acts like a kind of truth serum. Believe me, I’ve tried it myself. Now, what is your objective?”
“Bombs. Three of them. We’re going to sink the tanker.”
“And the crew. Are they still alive?”
“Yes. In the mess hall.”
“Good. You’re going to tell me where all the bombs are being planted.”
The man yanked off his balaclava to reveal a blond crew cut and a handsome tanned face. He had intense, intelligent eyes, and an innate authority about him that exuded confidence.
Even in his hazy mental state, Tanjung was surprised to see the man uncover himself.
“Who are you?” Tanjung asked, slurring the words as he spoke. For some reason, he felt the need to add, “I am Tanjung.”
“My name is Juan Cabrillo, and I am about to put your terrorist friends out of business. Not that it really matters, I tell you.” Cabrillo smiled like he was enjoying telling a secret he’d been keeping. “You see, the drug coursing through your veins also erases your memory. When you come to in about four hours with a splitting headache, you won’t remember a thing about me.”
FOUR
Three people dressed in identical black clothes, body armor, eyeglasses, and balaclavas emerged from the submersible, leaving the driver behind, and joined Juan on the boat as he lashed the dazed terrorist’s ankles and wrists with zip ties. Each of them had an MP5 submachine gun slung over their shoulders and dart guns in hip holsters. The only thing that distinguished them was that one was half a foot shorter than the other two.
