Open Source

by Matthew Frick

  “But we are doing what is best for the country, General. Without an adequate air defense, our nuclear reactors are vulnerable to Zionist and American attacks. Even those pigs in the Majlis will understand.” Alam did not really believe his last statement. He knew that if the Russian missiles were safely on Iranian soil, they could be reverse engineered in secret, and no one outside the country would be the wiser. But he also knew that many politicians, particularly those backed by the bazaaris and other merchants who despised the Corps’ internal power, would use the opportunity of a botched arms deal reported in the Western media to damage the IRGC’s credibility amongst the people and the clerics. Alam and Ja’afari would surely be sacrificed to calm the masses if need be. Alam had begun damage control, however, as soon as it was discovered that the ship carrying the missiles had been hijacked. “But it will not matter, anyway. I have already taken measures to ensure we get the missiles as planned.”

  Ja’afari looked at his subordinate. His eyes narrowed under a furrowed brow. “How?”

  Before Alam could answer, his secretary entered the room with two small glasses with even smaller handles and a pot of hot tea. He noted the silence of the two officers who were obviously waiting for him to leave the room before they resumed their conversation. He quickly filled the two glasses, left the pot, and exited.

  Ja’afari took two cubes of sugar from a bowl next to the tea and began mixing his glass. “How are you planning on getting these missiles?” he asked over the tinking of spoon on glass.

  “I have found where the hijackers are keeping the ship, and I have arranged for the cargo to be transferred tonight and brought around South Africa. The shipment will arrive in just one week’s time,” Alam said.

  “Why didn’t you inform me of this?” Ja’afari asked, both irritated that Alam had kept his actions secret and, at the same time, impressed with the colonel’s initiative.

  “I had to work quickly to put this together, sir,” Alam said. “I did not have time to travel to your office and give you all of the details. In any case, I did not want to say anything until I had all of the pieces in place.”

  “Very well,” the general said. “How do you intend to remove three containers at sea without alerting anyone? Or do you intend on leaving a ship full of dead bodies for the Russians to find?”

  “I expect only resistance from those who hijacked the ship, whoever they are,” Alam said. “They will not be very willing to just hand over what they have successfully stolen, and if they do not already know what is in the containers, they will certainly be curious when our people show up to take the boxes from the ship. Our plan is to eliminate them and remove their bodies. The Russians will only find a scared crew and no signs of either our involvement, the missiles, or that a hijacking even occurred in the first place. At least there will be doubts in their minds enough to keep them from looking for something that may or may not have ever been there.”

  Brigadier General Ja’afari liked the plan. He decided not to ask about the details. Alam had apparently thought this operation through very thoroughly, and as it was, they didn’t have any other options. At least Alam had given them a lifeline to stay out of Evin or keep them from swinging on the end of a crane in the middle of Tehran. If it worked. “And this will happen tonight?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. It is all set,” Alam said. “I will notify you as soon as I receive word of the operation’s completion. We will be successful, General, and you will be praised as a hero when this is over.”

  “Inshallah,” Ja’afari said. God willing.

  Chapter 19

  MV Baltic Venture

  The man on duty in the pilothouse of the Baltic Venture yawned animatedly as he fought off the sleep his body was telling him he needed. He still had over three hours left on watch before he was relieved by one of his fellow hijackers to take the mid-watch, from midnight to about five in the morning. He sat in the large chair used by the ship’s captain in normal circumstances and leafed through a magazine he had read at least four times in the past three weeks. The effort did little to combat the tiredness that was only egged on by the near-complete darkness on the bridge. The only light was coming from the various dials and buttons on the equipment spaced throughout the room and the lone reading lamp above the chair that was suspended from a crude L-bracket in the overhead. A loud, repeated beeping from the small Furuno surface radar repeater startled him.

  He got down from the elevated chair, designed so the captain could have an unobstructed view of the bow of the ship and the cargo loaded below. The radar console had been set with a five-kilometer ring around the ship to give a verbal alarm should any other vessel approach the MV Baltic Venture too close. The hijacker, who was not familiar with the shipboard technology when his group took control of the vessel, was now quite adept at manipulating the controls. He went through a series of button pushes that displayed the track history of the offending proximity breaker. The trail of green dots indicated that the incoming ship had departed from a port somewhere to the south of the Baltic Venture’s present anchorage. More telling to the man on watch was the fact that the vessel appeared to be heading directly for them. He went to the internal telephone set that rested on a small table mounted to the bulkhead by the aft entrance to the bridge and dialed the number to the captain’s stateroom.

  “What is it?” Viktor Egorov answered after three rings. He was spending his evening reading a Vladimir Nabokov novel he found in the stateroom when he moved in after taking over the ship. His small equipment bag was packed and, along with his tactical vest and weapons, was at the foot of the bed, ready for the group’s planned departure that night.

  “Sir, there is a vessel approaching. It is just within five kilometers and heading in this direction,” the man on the bridge informed the team leader.

  “I’m on my way,” Viktor said and hung up the phone. He put on his tac-vest and ensured the two semi-automatic pistols were secure in their holsters at his right thigh and just under his left arm. He left the bag and assault rifle in the room and closed the door behind him. It was only a quick hop up the one flight of stairs to the pilothouse.

  “Over there, sir,” the watchstander said from the port side. He handed the binoculars to Egorov and pointed in the direction of the incoming ship.

  The decklights on the ship revealed it was a cargo ship. Viktor noticed that it was empty, or appeared empty, and was equipped with a single crane located mid-way down the length of the ship. He put the binoculars down and let his eyes readjust to the darkness now that the lights from the ship were no longer magnified in his vision. He continued to watch the vessel for a minute before he muttered, “Not what I was expecting.”

  Viktor checked his watch, though he wasn’t sure why. Two speedboats were scheduled to extract them sometime tonight, ending this op, but he was not told when. From the beginning, the whole operation had been shrouded in secrecy. He was used to that, of course, but in this case he was given very few specific details—just what he needed, when his employers thought he needed to know it—which, for the most part, was at the last minute. As it was, Viktor was forced to plan for the unexpected, hoping that the unexpected would not be more than he or his team of disparate malcontents could handle. He had worked with each man before, but never in a firefight. They were professionals, of that he had no doubt, but unlike those who worked for him in the SOBR, he could not vouch for how well they would perform when the time came to pull the trigger. When they no longer had the upper hand.

  He was about to find out.

  As Viktor Egorov watched the small cargo vessel slowly approaching from the south, an even smaller rubber utility boat came silently from the north. The six-man crew departed the cargo vessel when she was four miles from the Baltic Venture. Five of those men now made their way up a knotted rope secured by a grapnel to the low opening at the stern of the Finnish vessel. One of the men tied a line to the ship’s railing and dropped the other end to the man left in the boat. Afte
r securing the boat to the line, he cut the engine and joined his comrades on the cargo ship.

  The Iranians quickly spread out into two groups of three. Team One went up the ladder on the port side and began working their way up the outside of the superstructure. They were to secure the pilothouse and disable any of the hijackers they encountered on the way. The second team went through the door on the centerline and into the rear of the ship.

  The men from Team Two leapfrogged through the passageway with one man looking up and another one down at every ladder they passed. They paused at every open door until they came to the ladder to the engineering control deck. They knew at least one member of the ship’s crew would be kept to monitor the engineering equipment needed to run the water and electrical systems onboard. There would also be a guard to monitor the crewmember. That guard would have to be neutralized.

  “Cargo ship two kilometers south of my position, this is the cargo ship flashing you visually, please respond,” Viktor said for the sixth time as the other man stood on the bridge wing and operated the shutter arm to the signal light. Neither man knew proper Morse code, but Egorov hoped the directed light and his verbal efforts on the bridge-to-bridge VHF radio would get the attention of the approaching vessel who had not changed course and was heading directly for the Baltic Venture. “Damnit,” Viktor cursed as he threw the mic down, letting it dangle from the cord, banging against the bulkhead until it came to a stop. He was very good at his job when it was time for split second decision-making on where to direct a bullet exiting a firearm at supersonic speed, delivering death at the end of its trajectory. He was at a loss about how to prevent a collision at sea. Particularly when he was on an anchored ship. The familiar, but unexpected sound of gunfire put the issue to rest.

  “Was that a rifle shot?” the other man asked, looking for the source of the sound and again at Viktor for direction.

  “Of course it was, imbecile,” Viktor answered. More gunfire. “Down there,” he said, pointing below them. “Quickly, shut those doors,” he said, ordering his fellow hijacker to lock down the bridge. “All stations report. What the hell is going on?” Viktor barked into his handheld radio. He was answered by the popping of a three-round burst from an automatic rifle to his right and the loud clanging of his man falling heavily to the metal grating that covered the deck of the starboard bridge wing.

  Viktor dropped his radio and crouched behind the control console that supported the ship’s wheel and other instruments used in steering the vessel. He flipped the safety off of his GSh-18 pistol as he removed it from his vest holster and watched two men quickly take positions on either side of the doorway. The one furthest forward gave a quick gesture with his left hand, still holding his short assault rifle in his right. A third man entered the bridge, scanning the space in front of him along the sight of his own rifle as he deliberately moved towards the center of the room. The other two left their positions by the door and followed him in.

  That would be all of them, Viktor thought, recognizing the methodical movement of a three-man search and destroy team. He waited another two seconds as the men made their way to the other side of the pilothouse. He was confident they had not seen him, but he knew that probability would quickly drop to nil when they made their way down the ladder into the rest of the ship, as he was sure they would. Viktor didn’t want to give his unwelcome mystery guests that opportunity.

  Trying not to expose himself, Viktor leaned around the ship’s steering console and squeezed off two rounds at the first body he saw while he rolled to his left. The sound of his target falling to the deck was muted by the explosive cracks of gunfire aimed at the position he had just occupied. He heard one man shout in pain as a bullet no doubt ricocheted unexpectedly around the predominantly metal-filled, enclosed compartment and found its way back to the unintended recipient. The muzzle flashes played havoc with Egorov’s night-adjusted vision and made it difficult for him to determine the exact positions of the men trying to kill him. But at the same time, they provided beacons enough for him to return fire.

  Fuck! Idiots, Viktor thought as deflecting rounds buzzed around his head while he low-crawled toward the open door where his own man had fallen. Close quarters combat inside the skin of a ship did not lend itself well to the firepower these men had brought. Viktor stood up in a low crouch and darted out to the bridge wing, firing several rounds behind him as he escaped. He did not go far.

  Prostrating himself on the metal grating just behind his dead compatriot and just out of view from anyone looking through the pilothouse windows, Viktor waited. It took only five seconds before the first man poked his head quickly out and then back in again, trying to get a glimpse of Egorov’s location. He should have looked lower.

  The two men left standing exited nearly side-by-side. The one who had been hit was obviously not injured by the deflected bullet as badly as Viktor hoped his luck would allow. No doubt each was hoping to use the other as a human shield. Viktor granted both of them their wishes.

  Viktor Egorov, former officer of the Russian Interior Ministry, now gun-for-hire-turned-hijacker, fired the remaining rounds from his GSh-18 and a full magazine of ammunition from the Glock 9mm he kept on his thigh. The projectiles hit home, taking both men out at the knees, and peppering them from groin to skull as they fell in a lifeless heap not six feet in front of him.

  Viktor carefully moved to the door, replacing the now-empty magazines of his pistols as he negotiated the obstacle course of dead bodies along the way. He wanted to be positive that the first man he shot was, in fact, no longer a problem. When he reached the center of the room he stopped at the still figure on the deck. Viktor moved the man’s limp head from side to side. He wasn’t going anywhere—not in this lifetime, anyway.

  “Viktor, this is Moriz, do you copy,” came a breathless call from somewhere behind Viktor. “Viktor, is anyone there?” The call was more desperate now. Viktor found his radio on the deck by the rear door to the pilothouse.

  “Moriz, this is Viktor,” he replied. He decided the time for code names had passed. “What is the situation down there?”

  “It is bad. Three men killed Cheslav and a crewman in engineering. Rurik, Sergei, and Sacha were all killed in their sleeping quarters.” Moriz struggled to catch his breath. “Eduard and I—I was with the crew—we ambushed the attackers when they came into the mess room. We killed them all, but Eduard is shot. I do not think he will last long, Viktor. And three of the crew were killed in the crossfire down here. The captain was one. He is dead.” The report was factual and thorough, but not without emotion. “Who are they, Viktor? What did they want?”

  Viktor did not have an answer. He too was puzzled by the identity and mission of the men who attacked the ship. He looked out of a window in the pilothouse. Bullet holes bore evidence of the conflict that concluded just minutes before. He moved toward the port door and noticed the cargo vessel he tried to raise on the radio earlier was much closer now. It appeared to be moving just fast enough to maintain steerageway as it kept its distance.

  Who the fuck are you? Viktor thought. He was about to step out onto the bridge wing when the VHF radio came to life. Viktor did not understand the language. Arabic? Maybe. He picked up the microphone that still dangled from a cord attached to the radio set. Before keying the mic, he stopped. The voice speaking in the unknown language said two words Viktor did understand: Baltic Venture. The voice was trying to contact him. Not him, Viktor corrected himself. Them. He looked at the dead man at his feet who stared at Viktor with empty eyes in the darkness. He looked back at the ship. The empty cargo ship with a centerline crane. The men who attacked the anchored Baltic Venture were here to remove something from the ship’s cargo.

  Viktor peered out the front windows of the pilothouse and looked down at the deck below. Wood. Lots of wood. And three shipping containers. What was in those containers? Viktor cursed himself for not asking that question before, but tempered his self-chastisement with the fact that they were
hired to hijack the ship, drive it to the west coast of Africa, and wait to be removed in just a few weeks’ time. Simple.

  But things weren’t so simple now. A six-man hit team had just killed seventy-five percent of his men. Viktor raised the handheld radio to his mouth. “Moriz, are you sure there were only three men?”

  “Yes, Viktor. When the three men that came in here were killed, there was no more gunfire. I saw no one when I looked for...when I found our team dead.” Moriz’s answer was based on simple deduction, but Viktor wanted to be sure.

  “Stay with Eduard and the ship’s crew. I will check the ship once more to ensure there are no more intruders. Try to stay alert and be ready in case we are not alone.”

  “Yes, Viktor.”

  “And Moriz?” Viktor said. “You did well.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement, Viktor began his search of the ship’s compartments. And its cargo.

  Chapter 20

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Eli Gedide awoke to the sound of the encrypted satellite phone on his nightstand announcing an incoming call. He sat upright and turned on the bedside lamp. He did not worry about waking his wife. She had left him twelve years earlier. Not for another man, but because God had decided it was her time to go.

  Gedide had chosen a life that almost always kept him in harm’s way, but his wife was not supposed to die before he did. Still, a fanatical young Palestinian thought differently when he detonated his suicide vest in the middle of the cotton merchants’ market off of the Via Dolorosa in Old Jerusalem’s Muslim Quarter. That devastating summer morning, at times, seemed to the fifty-eight year-old Israeli as if it happened only yesterday. Because of that, Eli Gedide had not slept soundly since—due in part to the gruesome images of his wife’s shredded remains that haunted his dreams, and partly because of the loneliness and loss he felt every time he rolled over and found his wife’s side of the bed empty. He answered the phone after the second ring.