"John Ringo - Ghost 05 - A Deeper Blue" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ringo John)

The freighter rolled eastward on easy swells, but nothing was easy about the task.

It might have helped if some of the crew were handling the winch, but they were all below under strict
orders to forget anything unusual had occurred. And even stricter orders to keep quiet if they did. The
crew wouldn't talk, though. They were all good Islamics and supported the jihad. What was more, they
knew that if any word of this event got out, their families as well as themselves would pay the penalty.

So Ibrahim had to keep an eye on it all. He had carefully instructed the fedayeen on the plan, but nothing
beat experience. And he was the only one with experience. He'd shipped out on boats just like this in his
youth, escaping the hell of the Karachi slums. And over time he had worked his way up to bosun, the
senior deck worker of a ship. It was then he came to the attention of the Movement.

The Movement often needed cargo shifted around and it had ships aplenty. What it did not have was
enough trustworthy people who knew the ins and outs of how to move cargo. . . covertly. Oh, there
were many such but there were never enough. Guns, rockets and ammunition, women and drugs to pay
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for the weapons, people, there were so many things the Movement needed. . .moved.

This mission, though, was so complicated Ibrahim could only hope any of it went right. But he only had
to ensure this one small part. And that was difficult enough.

The off-shore speed-boat touched the waves and Ibrahim slowed the winch. The massive boat, nearly
fifteen meters long, was big and tough but it wouldn't take it well if the waves slapping the ship's side
overwhelmed it or it slammed into the ship's hull.

Hiding the damned things had been bad enough. If Ibrahim had had his way the boats would have been
locally purchased; there were many such in the area. It would have been a joke straight from Allah to buy
them from the American government. The Americans often seized such boats running drugs in this area
and just as often sold them back to the drug runners at auction.

Instead, these had been purchased in Europe, shipped in one of the many freighters owned by the
Movement to Africa, transferred to another and transferred again to Ibrahim's ship, carefully secured out
of sight in the hold. The transfer had been effected in west Africa in a port notorious for its lax customs. If
anyone had noticed the midnight transfer no word had come to the Movement.

Now it was Ibrahim's job to get the damned thing into the water without it smashing against the side of
the moving ship or being swamped by a wave.

It was down and he waved to the men on the boat to unhook. They had better get that one right; if one
of them slipped over the side they were likely to be crushed between the two vessels. And even if they
were not, the ship was not going to stop. Once this boat was in the water it could pick up anyone
overboard. Until then, though. . .

The fedayeen, though, did the job right. Allah knows, Ibrahim had been careful enough in his
instructions. First the young man, a Yemeni with some small boat experience, started the engine and