Read Operation Caribe for Free Online Page B

or led through a metal detector, or some other security device. But none was in evidence.
    Instead, the team was brought to a large glass-enclosed area that was a cross between an arboretum and an upscale singles bar, with palm trees larger and more carefully manicured than those outside. Tropical birds flew above and a light mist fell from the crystal ceiling; refreshing if almost indiscernible. Tables containing bottles of champagne and dishes of exotic food seemed to stretch on forever.
    About a dozen women were sitting around the large rectangular table in the center of the room; others were chatting in small groups nearby. All of them were beautiful; some distractingly so.
    As Batman put it: “If they ever make a movie about us, I want all these women to play themselves.”
    So the team members were surprised for a third time. Their hosts typically were a gang of military stiffs, CIA spooks in bad suits or some billionaire who wanted his ship back. The only males here were an elderly black gentleman wearing a bright white seersucker suit, sitting at one end of the table, and a bearded man in a pricey three-piece suit, at the other.
    The bevy of beauties finally realized Whiskey had arrived. The team was directed to seats at the midpoint of the table, where they found a printed agenda, which included a list of the meeting’s organizers. Only then did the team realize the people they’d sailed across the Atlantic to work for were not someone’s military or the CIA.
    They were travel agents. More accurate, they were public relations agents from some of the largest, most prestigious travel agencies in the Bahamas.
    There were a couple dozen in all, known collectively as the Bahamian Association for Business Enterprise.
    Reading this, Batman leaned over to Nolan and whispered: “They got the acronym right, anyway.”
    The person chairing the meeting was a stunning blonde with a lilting British accent. Her name was Jennessa, and she, like the others, looked like she belonged in a fashion catalog. She introduced everyone around the table, but Nolan, dazzled by her beauty, barely heard her.
    She read a brief statement highlighting the recent successes Whiskey had enjoyed against international pirates: saving the Saud el-Saud LNG tanker; the battle to take back the Indian warship Vidynut; and the rest.
    Her account didn’t get into all the details of these actions, but it didn’t need to. Team Whiskey was successful in thwarting pirate threats of all shapes and sizes, and that’s all the consortium of travel agency reps wanted to hear. Because they had a problem. A pirate problem. And like customers stranded in a resort during a hurricane or enduring bad shrimp on a high-priced cruise ship, they were willing to pay anything to fix it quick.
    “We have a huge predicament that’s getting worse by the day,” Jennessa said, finally addressing the team directly. “A pirate gang has been preying on pleasure boats around the Islands. After these pirates attack, police agencies find boats adrift, valuables gone and passengers missing.
    “These criminals are brutal, but they’re also smart. They are very careful not to leave any evidence behind. No fingerprints, no footprints; no blood, no bullet casings. This is why they are called the ‘Muy Capaz’ gang. Roughly translated, that means ‘very capable.’ And it’s apt. They know the more careful they are, the harder it will be for law enforcement to catch them or to prove anything if they do.”
    She pushed a button and a screen descended out of the mist of the ceiling. She began a PowerPoint presentation showing photographs of vessels suspected to have recently fallen victim to the Muy Capaz.
    Most of the photos had the same eerie theme running through them: While they showed obvious ransacking of a particular vessel, each crime scene was devoid of any incriminating evidence. A few marked “ES” even showed boats that were in almost perfect order, as if photographed