Darkness: Captain Riley II (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 2) Page 4

  “Senator,” Riley said, giving him his hand.

  “Captain Riley,” McMillan responded with a muffled voice that sounded like it was coming from the back of a cave. “I’m glad to finally meet you. In some Washington circles you’re very much the subject of conversation these days.”

  “Really?” Riley asked, genuinely surprised.

  “What you and your crew did a few weeks ago was very impressive. Infiltrate the Deimos, make that torpedo go off inside, and then ram the corsair ship with your own boat . . .” The senator nodded with appreciation. “Very impressive, really. The country is in debt to all of you for your efforts.”

  “Thank you, Senator. We just did the right thing.”

  The senator took a second to answer, as if evaluating the sincerity of the response. “The right thing,” he repeated with an ambiguous smile. “That’s an interesting phrase coming from the mouth of an ex-smuggler.”

  “The legal thing isn’t always the same as the right,” Riley said, adding without being able to help himself, “I’m sure you, as a politician, know what I mean.”

  A sudden silence came over the room, and for a moment McMillan narrowed his eyes like a cat calculating the distance it’d have to pounce to catch a rat. Riley sighed inside, realizing that once again his tongue had been quicker than his common sense.

  But to the surprise of all and relief of some, McMillan smiled and, touching Riley’s arm in a friendly way, said, “Hell if I know, Captain.” And as he went to his seat, he said it again. “Hell if I know.”

  Behind the senator came someone Riley had seen in press photos but never imagined would be at that meeting.

  “Rear Admiral Theodore S. Wilkerson,” Riley said on seeing the star on the man’s sleeve.

  The director of the Office of Naval Intelligence had been singled out in the press and by many in Congress as the man responsible for not anticipating the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Riley noticed signs of fatigue and worry on his pink, inexpressive face.

  The rear admiral acknowledged Riley’s gesture and motioned toward the table. “Let’s sit,” he said in a grave voice, putting his peaked cap on the table.

  The door of the room closed again, this time without latching, and the new arrivals took three chairs on the opposite side of the table.

  Commander Hudgens put his leather briefcase on the table and took out a brown folder sealed “Top Secret,” which he handed to Wilkerson, seated next to him.

  The rear admiral took a long minute to read the first pages of the brief while everyone else gave each other silent, uncomfortable looks.

  “Let’s see,” the director finally said, leaving the folder open and looking at Riley, Jack, and Carmen, on whom he stopped a few moments before asking with a slight touch of impatience, “Can you tell me, Miss Debagh, what you’re doing at this meeting?”

  Carmen pointed to her left. “You’ll have to ask him,” she said calmly.

  Wilkerson’s eyes jumped from her to Riley, who was waiting for the question.

  “Carmen Debagh is part of my crew, so I would like her to hear whatever is said in this meeting firsthand.”

  “That decision isn’t up to you,” the rear admiral said. “What we’re dealing with here is top secret and Miss Debagh doesn’t have the clearance necessary to hear it, so I’m afraid I’ll have to ask her to leave and wait outside.”

  Carmen sighed in frustration and moved to get up.

  Riley put a hand on her knee, stopping her.

  “Miss Debagh is staying,” he said calmly but firmly, leaning on the table. “If you don’t trust her, you shouldn’t trust me either, or my second, and then there’s no point in us continuing this conversation, don’t you think? So tell me”—he looked at the two officials in turn—“should we stay or go?”

  The rear admiral seemed to think a few moments about ending the meeting.

  Then he looked out of the corner of his eye at Senator McMillan, who nodded slightly.

  “Very well,” Wilkerson said finally, giving Riley a hard look. “She can stay. But I’ll remind you that everything said in this meeting is top secret. If I hear that any of you mentioned the slightest bit of information we’re dealing with here, even if it’s sleep talking, I assure you will be charged with espionage before a military tribunal.” He paused to make sure his words sank in, then added, “Is that clear?”

  “Crystal,” Riley said, trying to sound confident.

  “Very good. Then let’s not waste any more time.” He looked to his left. “Proceed, Commander.”

  Hudgens cleared his throat and opened a briefcase identical to the one in front of the rear admiral. “We have a mission for you,” he said.

  Everyone in the room waited for the commander to start his brief.

  “It will be your first mission as agents of the ONI, without having received any preparation or training to act as such. But unfortunately,” he added, interlacing his fingers on the table, “we don’t have time for that, and you’ll have to rely on your own skills.”

  “For a change,” Jack said bitterly.

  “Why the rush?” Riley asked. “If you think we’re not prepared, why not send someone else?”

  “Because despite the reservations that many may have,” he said, glancing at Wilkerson, “we believe you have the best chance of bringing this mission to a successful conclusion.”

  The commander reached into the briefcase, which seemed bottomless, and took out a photo of a ship with a central superstructure that had three levels and was topped by a single smokestack, anchored near what appeared to be a port dock.

  “This is the Duchessa d’Aosta,” he said, “a 464-foot-long Italian cargo ship weighing over seven thousand tons that, since June 1940, was resting in the port of Santa Isabel on the island Fernando Póo. We think it has a crew of thirty armed men that guard it day and night, supported on land by troops and artillery.”

  “Fernando Póo,” Jack asked. “Where’s that?”

  “Well, you, being from where you are, should know,” Hudgens said.

  He took the top off the cardboard cylinder he’d left on the floor and took out a nautical map, then spread it on the table. The map, at a scale of 1:500,000, showed a coastline that Riley couldn’t even identify at first.

  “This here,” the commander said, holding both ends with his giant hands, “is the Gulf of Guinea in West Africa. And this spot near the coast of Cameroon”—he put his finger on a white area shaped like a bean—“is Fernando Póo. A small island that houses the capital of Spanish Guinea, Santa Isabel. A colony owned by the Spanish that, though a nominally neutral territory, has fallen under German influence.”

  “And the ship in that photo is in its port.”

  “Exactly,” Hudgens said.

  “All right, so what do you want us to do?”

  The commander couldn’t keep from smiling cleverly. “Rob it.”

  5

  Riley studied Hudgens’s face. The man seemed serious. Then he looked at the rear admiral and the senator, but all he saw was stifled irritation on the one hand and something like curiosity on the other.

  He looked back to his contact at the Office of Naval Intelligence. “You’re joking,” he said.

  Hudgens shook his head. “Not at all.”

  “But how the shit—” Jack asked.

  “You won’t be alone,” the commander interrupted. “Of course, you’ll join an operation already underway with more than twenty Office of Strategic Services members, a battleship, and two tugboats.”

  Jack whistled softly.

  “And what do you need us for?” Riley asked. “With that small army you could invade the island.”

  Hudgens shook his head. “It’s more complicated than it seems,” he said. “You aren’t strictly needed to complete the mission . . . but it’s very important to us that you take part.”

  “You’re losing me,” Jack said.

  “That makes two of us,” Alex added with a frown.

 
“Three,” Carmen agreed.

  “Get to the point, Commander,” Wilkerson urged.

  “Yes, sir,” he responded, shuffling some of the papers in front of him.

  He passed each of them an identical file, the word POSTMASTER stamped on the front.

  “What you have before you is a summary of an operation designed by the British Special Operations Executive to capture the ship Duchessa d’Aosta, and take it to a secure Allied port off the coast of Nigeria. Possibly Lagos. You’ll join that operation and aid its development, completing a—”

  “Hold on,” Riley interrupted. “Are you saying we’re working with the Brits?”

  “That’s right. It’s cost us a lot to convince them to let us participate.”

  “We just . . . ,” Jack muttered.

  Riley tutted impatiently. “It seems you didn’t read the brief I gave you on what happened two weeks ago. The British government collaborated with the Nazis and almost caused a massacre.”

  “We know,” Hudgens said with a nod. “But we’re in the middle of a war, and that’s water under the bridge.”

  “Water under the bridge?” Jack repeated incredulously. “They tried to kill us,” he added, pointing at Jack and Carmen, “and they almost succeeded.”

  Despite Jack’s rising temper, Hudgens remained composed. “Like I said, we’re beyond that. You’ll be given false identities to avoid any suspicion. In the end, you killed one of their best agents, didn’t you, Captain? You shot him in the back and left him bleeding to death in a ditch.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  Hudgens waved it away. “Wartime requires a different set of rules. You do what you have to, then move on.” He leaned on the table, tapping the map. “And right now, we have to focus on this mission and we need you and your crew, Captain.”

  Carmen looked at Riley’s profile. She saw his jaw was tense and felt sure he was going to tell the ONI, SOE, and their bitch mothers to go to hell.

  But what the captain of the Pingarrón did was breathe in deeply, sigh, and finally look at the nautical map with an unpleasant look on his face.

  A half hour later the conference table was covered with photographs, maps, and sketches. With the exception of the senator, who seemed to prefer viewing everything from a distance, the two naval officers and three crewmembers of the Pingarrón were on their feet, leaning over the table, going over the details of the mission.

  “So . . . ,” Riley said. “In addition to the Italian cargo ship there are two other boats in the port, two German cargo launches called . . .” He snapped his fingers to jog his memory.

  “Likomba and Bibundi,” Hudgens reminded him.

  “. . . that are also going to be robbed at the same time,” Riley finished.

  “That’s right. Three for the price of one.”

  “Right. And we’re meant to pass ourselves off as cocoa and wood smugglers.”

  “We’re sure it won’t be too hard to play the part,” the commander joked.

  Riley continued. “And on the day of the operation we’ll create a distraction to keep the officers of the three boats and the land forces well away from the port.”

  “Because of a fuel shortage, they cut off Santa Isabel’s electricity supply at 23:30 every night. The city and port go completely dark,” Hudgens said.

  “So,” Jack joined in, “that will be when the commandos board the three ships, pacify their crews, cut the anchors, and tie them to the two tugboats from the Nigerian colonial navy, which will pull them to open sea where an English corvette will be waiting to escort them to port in Lagos.”

  “Essentially, yes,” the commander confirmed.

  Riley shook his head and crossed his arms. “There are so many things that could go wrong, I don’t even know where to start. Someone sounds the alarm when the tugboats approach the port. We don’t get all the German and Italian officers away from their boats that night. The crews resist and start shooting, calling the attention of the land troops. How long would it take to sink them with the cannons guarding the port? If I’ve learned anything over the years,” he added with concern, “it’s that plans never last longer than the first shot.”

  “The operation has been carefully designed by the SOE,” the rear admiral interjected. “Do you think they don’t know what they’re doing?”

  “I’m sure they don’t,” he responded. “This plan, to call it that, has more gaps than my savings account. And even if everything goes as planned, what’s stopping the Spanish from coming after us when the boats are being towed to Nigeria?”

  “No need to worry about that, Captain,” Hudgens said. “We’re certain that the only Spanish war boat in the area is the gunner Dato, which is an old steam hulk docked in Río Muni, a few hundred miles from the coast.” He rifled through the papers. “Here it is. According to our informant, only two of the units have ammunition or are in condition to fire it, and in order to protect them from the tropical climate, they keep them locked in the city barracks. It would take hours to drive them to your site.”

  Jack let out a bitter laugh. “Now that I’ll believe about my countrymen.”

  Still, Riley seemed far from being convinced.

  “We know Operation Postmaster could go wrong,” the commander admitted, “like any other military operation, no matter how well it’s been planned. But in principle you shouldn’t risk excessive danger.”

  “Excessive danger,” Riley repeated.

  “There’s something I don’t understand in all this,” Jack said, rubbing his beard. “Why us?”

  “What do you mean?” the commander asked.

  “I mean . . . I don’t understand why we have to cross the Atlantic just to create a distraction for the officers of those boats. The English must have people just as qualified.”

  “You’re right, Mr. Alcántara,” Hudgens said. “But as I stated before, we’re very interested in participating in Postmaster, and we’re sure you are the most qualified to complete it. You all speak Spanish and are actual smugglers. Pretend to be legitimate tradesmen,” he said with a devilish smile, “but let on that your dealings aren’t completely legal. That will get the attention of local authorities, and no one will suspect you of hiding a false identity behind another false identity.”

  “I see,” Jack said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Any other questions?” Wilkerson asked, putting his hands on the edge of the table as if to stand up. “No? Well then I—”

  “I have one,” Carmen interrupted for the first time, raising a finger like she was in class.

  “Just one?” Wilkerson said with poorly disguised condescension, sitting back in his chair. “What is it you don’t understand, Miss Debagh? We don’t have much time, but I’ll try to explain myself in simple terms so you can understand.”

  She ignored his offensive tone. “Look, those ships are under Spanish protection, and Spain is a neutral country in this war, but its regime sympathizes with the Nazis, and the fascists, right?”

  “Right,” the rear admiral said as if confirming the sky is blue.

  “And I understand that both the Americans and the British, who maintain a strategic base in Gibraltar, don’t want Franco entering the war, expelling the English from the Rock and then closing the Strait of Gibraltar to the Allies.” She paused and added, “Also right?”

  Wilkerson’s look lost most of its arrogance. “Yes,” he said seriously.

  “So in sum,” she said, touching her fingertips together. “You plan to steal a cargo ship and two launches that have been all but forgotten on a tiny island off the coast of Africa, and you want to risk giving a close friend of Hitler and Mussolini the perfect excuse to enter the war, with hundreds of thousands of veterans of the Spanish Civil War just waiting for the chance to support the Axis.” She raised an eyebrow. “Am I missing anything?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly like that.”

  “Of course, of course. But can I ask you one final question?”

  The re
ar admiral made to look his watch. “We really don’t have much ti—”

  Not letting him finish—and with a sincere smile—Carmen asked, “Are you hiding information from us or are you as stupid as you want us to think?”

  6

  The rear admiral’s face twisted in an irritated grimace, and for five never-ending seconds a mortal silence overtook the meeting room.

  Wilkerson’s pupils narrowed, his nostrils flared, and anyone present would have sworn they saw smoke coming from his ears.

  Riley mentally prepared for an explosion of fury from the director of the ONI, while he wondered why Carmen had provoked him like that, being the master of subtlety and diplomacy she was when she wanted to be.

  Maybe it wasn’t the best idea to bring her, he thought with a frown.

  A cackle rang out from where they least expected it.

  Senator McMillan threw his head back in his chair, laughing uproariously as he put a hand on his stomach and clutched the table with the other to keep from falling.

  The president’s adviser didn’t seem at all intimidated by the bitter look from the rear admiral, who appeared to be making a titanic effort not to jump up and scream at them. He certainly wasn’t used to being called stupid to his face.

  “Wonderful!” the senator exclaimed, boldly looking at Wilkerson. “I’m sure it’s been a while since someone talked to you like that, huh, Theo?”

  Far from laughing like McMillan, the rear admiral glared, his face turning from irritated red to humiliated purple.

  “I can’t tell you how happy I am Captain Riley insisted on your presence, Miss Debagh,” McMillan said, still smiling. “Now I understand.”

  “Senator,” Wilkerson said. “I’d like to warn you that—”

  “Relax, Theo,” the senator interrupted, motioning for him to be quiet. “If you didn’t have a stick up your ass, you’d find this as funny as me.” Then he turned to Carmen and asked with a wink, “Don’t you think so?”

  Carmen kept a calm expression. “What I think is that you haven’t answered my question.”