Twist and Turn

by Tim Tigner

A construction zone made worse by an accident gave me a lot more thinking time than I’d planned. With dire conclusions coming faster than mile markers, I found myself rocking forward and back while fire flowed through my veins.

  Questions popped up like clay pigeons on a range. Was Oz that good? Had he outsmarted the system as adeptly as his fellow Saudi? What was I missing?

  One train of thought finally captured my full attention. What did I really know?

  Oz had cleverly used a jetpack company to acquire the ingredients for military-grade explosives. Then he’d camouflaged his bombs. He’d molded them into egg and potato shapes. That was certainly innovative, but was it sufficient to beat the system?

  Drug and explosive security at ports revolved around dogs. To beat the canines, Oz would have to remove or camouflage the explosive’s scent. I pictured the operation as Katya had described it, adding in what I knew from Oz’s purchase history.

  He set up his finishing operation in a chicken barn. That meant constant fan flow coupled with lots of odors and odor-absorbing materials. First, he coated each explosive nugget in Flex Seal, an air- and watertight sealant. Then he probably coated them again. He’d bought a thousand dollars’ worth of the stuff. Finally, he added layers of paint. First enamel white—probably several coats. And then flat brown for the potatoes. On top of that, everything was cartoned up and wrapped in plastic. All in a room full of molting chickens.

  Would that be enough to defeat the dogs?

  I didn’t know. But I was virtually certain that Oz would have tested it to find out.

  The traffic was maddening.

  At one point, I considered opening my door to knock a passing motorcyclist off his bike so I could steal it, but the situation kept promising to improve. I contemplated asking a responding policeman for his phone, but that would be hit-or-miss on a good day, and these officers clearly weren’t having one of those. They were dealing with congestion and casualties. In the end, traffic delays killed half my buffer. Thirty minutes.

  Port Canaveral was enormous. In addition to hosting the world’s second busiest cruise port, it boasted a booming day-cruise business plus large Coast Guard and military operations—each with its own section of the sprawling facility.

  The all-aboard blast was sounding as I arrived at the Tranquility’s berth.

  I drove to the passenger drop-off and left the borrowed BMW running right there in the turnaround. I ran inside looking for a cruise line employee, rather than someone who worked for the terminal.

  A woman with the appropriate uniform and name badge caught my eye. She was clipping a red velvet rope in place beside a sign that read, “Check-in Closes at 3:00.” That was thirty minutes ago. Far behind her, I saw that the check-in stations were either empty or serving their last guests.

  “I need to speak to the head of the Tranquility’s security right now,” I said, attempting to come across as authoritative despite being dressed like a traveler who was already making use of the Lido Deck bar.

  “Are you a passenger?” she asked, her voice friendly but her eyes understandably skeptical, given my beachgoing attire.

  “No. But I need to speak to the head of the Tranquility’s security right away.”

  “Is there a problem?” She asked.

  “Who runs security on the Tranquility?” I asked.

  She crinkled her nose, but answered the question. “That would be Mr. Briggs.”

  What were the odds of that? Was the captain’s last name Helms? “Please use your radio to call Mr. Briggs. Tell him Mr. Achilles has—”

  “You can’t leave your car there!” a man said as a hand clamped onto my shoulder.

  “Tell him Mr. Achilles has an urgent matter requiring his immediate attention,” I said to the lady.

  “Sir, your car is what requires immediate attention.”

  “Tow it,” I said, turning toward an officer nametagged as Jarvis. “Or just remove it to the parking lot. Key’s inside.”

  “Sir, that’s a serious security violation. Cruise terminals are restricted areas.”

  Jarvis’s white uniform indicated that he was with the port police. Not the right force for my needs. Furthermore, although he was sizable in stature, my size and then some, Jarvis was young and junior in rank. Not a decision maker.

  I looked back at my lady, but she’d moved on. Jarvis’ hand had not.

  This was not going as planned.

  “I’m going to have to arrest you if you don’t move your car. Right now,” Jarvis pressed, clamping tighter while his free arm moved toward his handcuffs.

  If he took me to port security, I was more likely to end up in a holding cell than in front of anyone in authority. At least in the short term. I couldn’t risk that. Not with only minutes remaining before the ship sailed.

  Without a word, I headed for my car, walking at a pretty quick clip.

  Officer Jarvis followed.

  103

  New Job

  Florida

  I DIDN’T HAVE TIME FOR JARVIS.

  The Tranquility’s passengers didn’t either.

  Oz would likely have timed his bombs to detonate shortly after the ships sailed, probably while they were still in or near the port. That would cause maximum damage and ensure excellent video coverage.

  A small white Seaport Security car with a green stripe and flashing yellow lights was parked right behind my borrowed BMW. To some, it would signify trouble. To me, it looked like a backstage pass.

  I got into my car and pulled straight away, hoping he’d follow.

  I was driving blind. Normally, I’d have studied the site of an upcoming op, even if just a little bit as I’d done with Stuart Beach. Enough to get the lay of the land. But I’d had no time for reconnaissance in this case. Even worse, the presence of military bases made guesswork particularly risky.

  Instead of heading for customer parking or the port exit, I drove toward the employee lot.

  Jarvis followed.

  I wasn’t blocked by a badge reader or ticket dispenser. I was simply advised by large red lettering that this was Employee Parking and unauthorized vehicles would be towed.

  I found a spot near the rear of the lot, behind two large SUVs. As I got out of my car, Jarvis pulled up.

  I ignored him and began walking toward the exit.

  He got out of his car and yelled.

  I turned and spread my arms. “What is it this time, officer?”

  “You can’t park here. This is for employees.”

  “I am an employee.”

  “What?”

  “Do you see me wheeling a suitcase? I’m starting with the cruise line Monday. In security. Guess that means we’ll be colleagues, of sorts.”

  Now Jarvis was confused. “But you’re not an employee yet?”

  I turned back toward him. “The papers are all signed, so I am an employee. I just haven’t started.” I wanted him preoccupied with legal minutiae rather than his present predicament.

  “What was it you wanted from Becky back there?”

  “This,” I said, holding up my left hand while my right blasted him in the solar plexus.

  Jarvis doubled over.

  I slipped around his back and applied a rear naked choke, scissoring his carotid arteries and baroreceptors between my left forearm and biceps. I squeezed hard and I squeezed fast, prompted by the urgency of the situation. The change of pressure and lack of oxygen caused my opponent to pass out after just a few seconds.

  The good thing about chokehold-induced syncope is that it’s fast acting, when properly applied. The bad thing is that the victim remains unconscious for only about thirty seconds. Not that I needed additional prompting to rush.

  I used the first third of my allotted time unbuttoning his shirt and another ten seconds pulling it and his T-shirt off. He was already coming around by the time I got his wrists cuffed behind his back.

  I gave him another choke.

  That one was sufficient to get him naked and into the BMW’s
trunk. But just barely. He was already shouting by the time I slammed the lid.

  At least I knew he’d be fine.

  The jig would be up and the alarm would go out as soon as someone walked close enough to hear his cries or thumps. But in any case, this was all going to be over less than an hour from now.

  I changed into his clothes, everything but the shoes. I just couldn’t part with mine. They weren’t shiny, but at least they were black. Enough to raise an eyebrow, but not sound an alarm, I figured.

  I raced back to the Tranquility’s terminal in the Security Service car, but this time drove into the restricted access area around back. The gap between the ship and the building I’d just been inside. It was crawling with forklifts and people in reflective jackets. Not surprising, given the amount of cargo that had to be loaded and unloaded during the few short hours the ship was at dock.

  I took a second to contemplate the enormity of the operation taking place before me. The logistics of a cruise ship turnaround. First there was the unloading. The passengers, their bags, the solid trash, the liquid waste. Then came the loading. Countless tons of supplies and provisions. Many thousands of passenger bags. All delivered to a designated location—without losing a single piece of luggage or dropping one egg.

  Overhead was the covered gangway the passengers used to go from the check-in operation onto the ship. It was empty. I considered climbing up and boarding that way, but saw that it was already closed at the ship’s end. The gangway was drawing back.

  Boarding had completed.

  I’d have to sneak aboard with the cargo.

  104

  Not a Charm

  Florida

  THE TRICK TO TRESPASSING is acting like you belong. Body language is half the battle, with clothing bridging much of the remaining gap. The rest is luck. Getting both noticed and reported depends on who’s paying attention and how much they care. Given that X factor, you want busy people and a bustling atmosphere.

  When I parked in a spot conveniently designated for security, I got both.

  The long narrow scene sandwiched between the enormous ship and the servicing port facility resembled a military base on invasion day.

  Or so I thought at first.

  On second glance, it was clear that the invasion was ramping down. The lifts were forking the last of their pallets. The longshoremen were wiping their foreheads. The loading bays were starting to close.

  It got worse. People weren’t boarding with the cargo. There were ground crews and ship crews. The two didn’t mix. Worse still, they weren’t dressed the same. The dock workers wore mismatched casual clothes, whereas those on the ship were all uniformed in dark blue coveralls or two-piece gray outfits. I matched neither in my stolen white uniform.

  My basic plan was to get aboard, find either the eggs or the potatoes, then send someone to fetch the head of security. Dressed as I was, and placed where I’d be, that should work much better than my first failed attempt. While waiting for Briggs to arrive, I’d dig in, looking for Oz’s counterfeits.

  But first I had to get aboard. Unchallenged at least. Unseen at best.

  The loading bay doors were about eight feet above the dock. Easily within forklift range but more than a casual jump. The lifeboats were about thirty feet further up. Then the first promenade deck. I didn’t spot any dangling ropes or chains. No suspended painting or porthole-washing platforms.

  I can climb stuff that looks impossibly steep, but that requires friction. Friction on my feet, which climbing shoes provide, and friction on the surface. That was where the ship left me short. Seabreeze-slicked steel has a coefficient of friction next to zero.

  As I scanned for an accessible entryway, I reflected on how much easier it would be to walk into the middle of the dock and shout, “There’s a bomb on the ship!” But I couldn’t risk the very real possibility that Oz or his colleague was watching or listening with a detonator in hand.

  I spotted a gap and ran for it.

  One forklift had just delivered its last load from the ground, and a receiving forklift had just picked it up. As the first drove away and the second turned around, I ran and jumped and pulled and rolled. I couldn’t tell if I’d been spotted from behind, but at the moment nobody on the storage deck appeared aware of my presence.

  I rose and started walking, wanting to distance myself from the door. A white Seaport Security uniform looked a bit like a naval officer’s, but I doubted it would fool any but the greenest of crew. They were undoubtedly well aware of the positions and ranks associated with each color and style of uniform. It was human nature to compare, and probably part of their training.

  The deck I’d rolled onto was horizontally expansive but vertically limited. I could easily touch the ceiling. It had clearly been designed to store pallet-loads of food without wasting space. Cardboard boxes were everywhere, all very neatly and systematically arranged.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t know the system.

  The packing pattern was gridlike, for easy forklift access. Reminded me a bit of the food storage vault in the bunker. I began wandering, looking for potatoes and finding everything but. I wasn’t surprised to discover that vacationers consume a lot of beer, but sheesh. You’d think this was a football stadium on Super Bowl day.

  I’d just dodged a forklift while moving from taco chips to salsa when I bumped into a member of the ship’s security detail. His black uniform contrasted with my white, as did his demeanor.

  Without missing a beat, I said, “Glad I found you. Can you take me to the potatoes?” I knew that last bit sounded stupid, but I said it with conviction.

  He whistled like few people can. Very shrill and loud. “Got him!”

  I could have dropped the guard and run. A quick, crushing uppercut. But my goal wasn’t to escape, it was to get the right people performing the right inspection. I read his name tag and said, “Jackson, I need to speak to your boss.”

  “I’m sure he’ll want to speak with you, too. Turn around and give me your hands.”

  A long horn blast accented the demand. The ship was about to leave port with me aboard—in handcuffs. I’d really screwed this up.

  Instead of presenting my hands, I raised my fists. “Not until I speak with your security chief.”

  Two more guards arrived as I spoke. One showed his cell phone to Jackson then said, “You gave your real name to my colleague at reception. Your unusual name.”

  He turned his phone around and I found myself looking at my picture. Not a surveillance photograph. My picture.

  “Kyle Achilles, there’s a warrant out for your arrest. I’m sure the U.S. Marshals Service won’t have trouble finding an agent willing to pick you up in Nassau. Meanwhile, we have a private room for you.”

  I repositioned my feet into a more aggressive stance. There was little chance I could fight my way to freedom, but escape wasn’t my goal. “Call your chief. Now!”

  The second of the new guards pulled a Taser.

  My heart shriveled at the sight. About the only chance of defending against a Taser strike is to prevent both barbs from connecting. That’s not easy, but it’s nothing like swatting a bullet either. Barbs fly slower than bullets, and more importantly, they have trailing wires. If you know that someone is about to shoot, the smart move is to wave your arms around before your center mass like a madman, attempting to deflect, dislodge or break a connection before the electricity starts flowing. Because once it does, fuggedaboutit. The blast is an overwhelming, all-consuming festival of pain. Unless, I’ve heard, you’re cranked up on coke or meth. Which I wasn’t.

  “Call your chief, now!” I repeated.

  105

  Bombs Away

  Florida

  A VOICE BOOMED from behind a pallet of oranges, answering my demand. “The chief’s here.”

  Ironically, Briggs wore a white uniform—but with black shoulder board and gold braid. He looked more like the classic British detective than a bouncer, which I took as a good sign. He was fol
lowed by a dozen men or more, which was considerably less encouraging.

  “Listen up!” he said, addressing his crew. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with my counterpart on the Serenity. We have a credible bomb threat. Explosives are believed to be hidden among the eggs and potatoes.”

  “Three pallets of each,” I said, as an eager but leashed German shepherd moved into view. “Packaged the same as the rest, and painted to resemble the real thing, I believe.”

  Eyes darted back and forth between me and the chief.

  “There’s no time to waste with identification,” Briggs said, his voice both decisive and commanding. “We have ten minutes to get all the eggs and potatoes off the ship. But due to fear of remote detonation, we can’t evacuate the ship. Not that there’s time anyway. We also can’t sound an alarm, and we can’t make any shipwide announcements. We need to push all egg and potato pallets into the bay from the starboard side ports, so the dumping won’t be witnessed by an observer on land. If anything gets in the way, push it overboard too. Now go!”

  To the chief’s credit, his crew responded like firemen to a five-alarm inferno.

  Except Jackson and the Taser-toting guard. They stayed on me.

  Briggs locked his baby-blue eyes on mine. “Tell me what you know.”

  I gave him the two-minute version. The jetpack company and chicken farm. The dumpster full of potatoes and eggs. The detonators. The molds, Flex Seal and paint. The trailer swaps. The repeated use of the words serenity and tranquility during Arabic conversations. I ended by saying, “It’s not just explosives. They also bought large quantities of white phosphorus.”

  “White phosphorus burns at 5,000 degrees,” Briggs said, momentarily closing his eyes. “My hull melts at 2,750.”

  “I’m thinking some of the eggs and potatoes are RDX, but most are Willie Pete. The blast will consume their protective coating and scatter them around. Your ship will look like a floating fireworks store that caught fire, and it won’t stop burning.” I didn’t like sounding overdramatic, but couldn’t have him underestimating the threat.