The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  The Navy cruiser sped toward the Missouri with purpose. After a daunting, seven-minute charge, Rand could now hear the loudspeakers from the outside deck instructing the pirates to put their weapons down and prepare to be boarded.

  Milliner turned to Rand and waved his index finger, giving the sign for one minute out.

  Seconds later, one of the undercovers gave an update over the radio. “Python, we’ve got two tangos surrendered on the deck and one still armed, approaching the bridge, over.”

  Milliner spoke to the snipers through his headset. “Cobra Team, do you have target locks?”

  “Confirmed. Cobra Team has visual lock on all three targets,” came the reply.

  Milliner searched the room for the Naval lieutenant, who rushed to his side.

  “Lieutenant, I need warning shots fired above the bridge of the Titan Missouri. How far are we?”

  “Seven hundred meters and closing, sir,” replied the lieutenant. “Shall I notify the captain?”

  “Yes.” Milliner was now monitoring the screens in front of him. “Guys, let’s take this to the deck. I want live eyes on the situation.”

  With that, Milliner and three of his men gathered themselves at the exit of the command center to head for daylight. He waved for Rand to follow.

  As they broke through the steel doors leading to the cruiser’s deck, the giant hull of the Titan Missouri closed in on them. The deafening blasts of a 140mm broadside gun tore through the air. Rand shuddered as the rapid explosions echoed in his ears, yanking him into an unwelcome reality. He looked up just in time to see a half-dozen tracers scream through the air above the freighter’s bridge.

  Milliner stood firmly on the deck and pulled up his binoculars. The rounds had clearly startled the pirates, who were now yelling at each other in a collage of frightened expletives. Their heist had gone horribly wrong, and they were now at the mercy of a combat cruiser and all her battlements.

  With a closer eye on the action, Milliner could see two hijackers on the Titan Missouri’s deck trying to convince a third to surrender. After another earth-shattering 140mm round ripped through the air above him, the third pirate dropped his assault rifle and raised his arms above his head.

  “Cobra Team stand down,” Milliner said into the small microphone attached to his shoulder.

  He walked with the fearless stride of a battle-hardened general to the bow of the cruiser and posted up with his hands on his hips. He was George Washington crossing the Delaware.

  The USS Princeton was now inching closer to the cargo ship, slowing its rudders to gently slide up to the freighter’s port side. One of the DHS undercovers aboard the Titan Missouri tossed a netted ladder over the rail.

  After an agonizing climb up the woven ladder, a tired Rand Kershaw finally put eyes on the three men he’d been chasing for so long—his three ghosts.

  They had all been detained without further resistance and were now on their knees, lined up with their hands zip-tied behind their backs. Armed Naval personnel and a few DHS operatives circled the prisoners like vultures. Rand was fixated, he could barely restrain himself. He began a sudden lunge toward the detainees, but, before he could break into his first step, Milliner slid in and stopped the agent dead in his tracks.

  “Not so fast, Kershaw. We’ve got protocol to follow. These are international waters and we need to do this right, you understand?”

  Rand offered a hesitant confirmation.

  “Give us forty minutes to photograph, fingerprint and clean up,” Milliner said. “After that, you’ve got until we reach American waters.”

  Rand inhaled deeply and glanced across the deck at his prize.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rand paced the deck of the Titan Missouri for a little over an hour, spitefully ignoring the high winds and crashing waves. His ghosts had been taken to the ship’s galley where they were being put through DHS’s documentation process and first passes at interrogation. The Titan Missouri was now moving toward the California coast at twenty-two knots by the escort of the USS Princeton. The hijackers would be held aboard the freighter until the ships reached American waters where they would officially be taken into custody by the US Navy.

  With every passing moment, Rand’s window of opportunity tightened. He couldn’t possibly wait several weeks for the criminals to be pushed through the channels of the US justice system. He needed access to them now.

  Milliner finally emerged from the galley and onto the deck.

  “John!” Rand yelled through battering winds.

  Milliner addressed Rand with a wave of his hand, squinting through the light rain. “They’re all yours, agent.”

  Rand returned a nod and shielded his face from the wind. “Thank you, sir. Well done, by the way.”

  “Appreciate it. Listen, they’re not talking. You’ve got maybe an hour. Give my best to Brodsky.” Milliner walked away and disappeared through the rain.

  Rand hurried across the deck to a narrow passageway leading into the ship. He marched up the hallway and barged through the second door on the right. The ocean-soaked agent pulled his rainproof hood down to his shoulders and scanned the room. Rand was now standing face-to-face with three men handcuffed to utility hooks mounted on the wall, their hands bound above their heads.

  “You boys are a long way from home, don’t ya think?” he began.

  But there was no response—just defeated blank stares.

  “Your prints are being run through DOD, DOS and nationwide law enforcement databases, as we speak. Hell, even Interpol is running you down. It’s only a matter of time, so I really don’t give a shit if you talk to me right now or not. We’ll have years to get to know each other. You idiots just hijacked an American freighter and are about to spend the rest of your fucking lives getting your asses stretched out in a federal prison!”

  Rand’s tactics were by meticulous design: to storm in with authority, to dive into an introductory tirade, then observe the body language of his ghosts. The pirates were mid-thirties and in pretty good shape, he noted. After a moment, Rand profiled the three with uncanny accuracy. He knew who the leader was, which one had the brains, and which one was most likely a smartass. Rand had always been naturally intuitive to the human condition—a skill that came in handy as a federal agent.

  “Let me guess,” he pressed on, motioning to the guy with military tattoos spilling onto his biceps from beneath a black t-shirt. “You’re the hotshot, right? The leader of this pathetic band of morons.” He gazed into the man’s eyes, waiting for the next tell. “You have military experience; it’s literally written all over you. What about your girlfriends? You ladies former military, too?”

  None of Rand’s questions were meant to elicit an answer. They were meant to condition the captives. I am in control. That’s all the prisoners needed to know.

  “I’m curious as to what you boys have been up to over the years,” Rand echoed through the galley. “Who’s the hacker? You?” he pretended to guess, darting his eyes at the softer of the three men dangling from the wall.

  The supposed hacker expelled a deep breath in boredom, followed by a roll of his green eyes.

  “Here’s the deal, DHS is gonna grind the shit out of you guys once you’re on US soil.” Rand looked down at his wristwatch for effect. “That starts in about an hour. Show me some fuckin’ intelligence before that happens and we might be able to work something out.”

  “Work something out?” the leader finally asked. “You gonna pull your panties down for us or something?”

  So much for that, thought Rand.

  The quick wit wasn’t lost on the guy’s accomplices, who engaged in a bit of snickering.

 
Just then, a random DHS officer entered the galley and handed Rand a mobile tablet, which was quickly examined by the agent. It held the identities and profiles of the three ghosts on display in front of him, courtesy of the Department of State.

  As he scanned through the files, Rand caught himself blinking excessively, revealing his confusion.

  The three hijackers were former collegiate athletes, one of them a former Marine with combat experience. Rand swiped through the bios as a heavy, sinking rock plummeted to the bottom of his stomach. The other two men had done hard time at the Oregon State Penitentiary for armed robbery. The crime certainly fit the profile, but it was the timeline of incarceration that struck down upon Rand like a ten-pound hammer. The two convicts had been released a mere one to three months ago, respectively. Only one of the men had not been in prison at the time of the Wynn and Hamilton heists, as well as the donations.

  Fuck!

  His chances of success today were a long shot, but he’d convinced himself these were his guys. The deflated agent looked up at the blank faces staring back at him. They were no more than amateurs—former athletes and soldiers that had seen too many movies and met too many criminals.

  “Goddammit!” he screamed, his outburst reverberating against the steel walls of the galley. “You two pricks were locked up in Oregon for the last five years?” he shouted.

  The convicts hung their heads in disgust.

  “Best of luck to you,” the agent mumbled as he stormed back up to the deck.

  He inhaled the salty air and stared angrily at the rolling sea below. Rand was faced with a startling realization.

  His ghosts were still out there.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Archaeological discoveries at the Port of Arica in southern Peru suggested that the harbor had been inhabited and used as a maritime mecca since 8,000 BC. It was now a nondescript South American industrial port serving Peru, Bolivia and Chile.

  Eleven days ago, the Maersk Burgundy had pulled out of port against the backdrop of a melting sun over the cliffs of El Morro at the southern end of Arica. Now moving up the Mexican Peninsula, the freighter barreled ahead at twenty-four knots, northbound through the Pacific to its destination—San Diego, California—a mere twenty miles away.

  As the Maersk Burgundy plunged through six-foot swells, a Coast Guard Cutter sprinted toward it from a distance.

  “Captain, we have a vessel approaching from the north at twenty-five knots. Radar signal indicates United States Coast Guard,” the watch officer called out from across the bridge.

  Seconds later, the captain received a crackling transmission from the approaching boat.

  “Maersk Burgundy, this is United States Coast Guard Vessel UN17A. Do you copy?”

  “Copy that, UN17A, this is Maersk Burgundy responding. Over.”

  “Top of the morning, Maersk Burgundy, we are on approach and request permission to board. Over.”

  The captain was taken aback. Board for what? he thought to himself.

  “Copy, UN17A,” he finally responded. “Do we have cause…or reason for that request? Over.”

  “Routine check, we’ve got suspicious activity in the area,” the cold voice of the Coast Guard officer confirmed.

  Irritated, the captain of the freighter sat idly in his bridge.

  “No more than a formality,” the Coast Guard officer added. “Title 14 United States Code, Section 89. Just doing our job. Over.”

  “Copy that,” the captain replied.

  Familiar with the maritime law which allowed the US Coast Guard to board any vessel without cause, he hastily switched the communications channel to ALL, then made an announcement to his crew over the loudspeaker.

  “Prepare to be boarded. Clean deck, clean crew,” he called into the microphone before hanging it up next to him. “Here we go,” the aging sailor growled to himself.

  Prior to departing Peru, the captain had gotten a gut feeling that this was never going to be a typical transport. His manifest included hundreds of perfectly normal cargo containers, but also listed several “priority” items. He’d been captain of the Maersk Burgundy for many years and understood the complex relationship that existed between the CIA and the Maersk Group—one that allowed the US intelligence agency to use the freighter for transporting sensitive materials through the shipping lanes of the Pacific.

  The last thing he wanted was to get tangled up in the middle of an armed confrontation between a bunch of undisciplined thugs hired by the CIA and the Coast Guard’s finest sailors. At this stage of his career, the captain wasn’t cut out for it.

  Moments later, the red-and-white military cutter approached the Maersk Burgundy, slicing through the mild waters of the open ocean. The captain watched intently from the safety of his bridge, perched eighty-five feet above the deck.

  The cutter bore down its engines as it prepared to dock alongside the large freighter, which had been brought to a crawling four knots. A Maersk crewmember quickly lowered the hydraulic gangway on the portside to just above water level, allowing the USCG servicemen to easily board.

  Armed with machine guns, three Coast Guard personnel made their way up the gangway and over the railing to the ship’s deck. They were awkwardly greeted by five Danika PMC operators—also armed. Two of the Coast Guard soldiers instinctively raised their M4 rifles as the officer in charge stood between them.

  “I am Petty Officer First Class McKenzie. Weapons on the ground, now. I will not ask you again,” commanded the Coast Guard officer.

  “Sir, we are private military contractors hired by the US—”

  “Perhaps you were not briefed, son,” interrupted McKenzie, “on maritime laws in US waters. Guns! Now!”

  Cameron Lyle’s face was stone cold beneath his Coast Guard issued blue ball cap. Michael stood at his side, staring down the barrel of a shiny new M4 rifle, as Cam dressed down the Danika PMC contractors.

  The five mercenaries, wrapped in cargo pants, jackets and scarves, exchanged glances before slowly removing their rifles from their shoulders and placing them on the ground.

  “Now let’s see some identification and paperwork,” Officer McKenzie barked.

  As the five men began pulling their ID badges and other CIA-approved documents, Michael, Cam and Trip silently noted that three Danika PMC contractors were unaccounted for, surely lurking somewhere within the ship.

  Containment of all eight contractors was mission-critical. And the clock was ticking.

  “Call the rest of your unit to the deck,” McKenzie ordered.

  The obvious leader of the private security team—a tall, battle-hardened soldier with most of his facial features hidden beneath a thick beard—handed over a stack of folded papers and reached for his radio.

  “All operators to the main deck. Over,” he commanded.

  “And while we’re at it, have the captain bring all crewmembers up as well,” Michael added.

  The bearded contractor responded with a hesitant nod. “Captain,” he said into his radio, “we’ll need to get your crew on deck. Coast Guard needs to check all personnel, over.”

  “Roger that,” the voice on the other end replied.

  Cam was pleased with the cooperation. He took a moment to read through the government-issued documents as Michael and Trip fanned out and began patrolling the top deck, rifles still at the ready. Cam, meanwhile, was digging for specific paperwork—cargo descriptions, locations and names—any piece of intel would do. As he made his way through several pages, he noted something strange—the document listed eight assignments for Danika PMC members and one assignment for a CIA field operative. The words temporarily froze him. Their plan had not
accounted for a CIA agent. He frantically turned the page, his mind trying to catch up to the reality at hand.

  The three remaining Danika PMC operators made their way to the deck, where they were politely disarmed by Michael and Trip, then ushered across the ship to join their friends. Over the next couple of minutes, a dozen of the ship’s crew also emerged, many of which now lingered on the deck smoking cigarettes.

  “Alright, fellas, here’s the deal,” Cam screamed into the now gusting winds at the PMC soldiers gathered in front of him. “We have intelligence reports that there is an ongoing human trafficking operation aboard a freighter running this corridor.” He waved up and down the ocean for effect. “This is a routine check, our third of the day to be exact. Obviously, you boys being here on the merit of the US government makes this a bit tricky, but just bear with us. We’re going to run a quick sweep of the vessel and send you on your way. Understood?”

  Disgruntled and frustrated, the Danika PMC team nodded their heads in agreement.

  Beneath his gruff and confident exterior, Cam grew more concerned as the minutes passed. He had eight private soldiers contained, but, somewhere aboard the ship, a CIA operative was hiding in the shadows. After a long, deep breath, he decided to take a gamble.

  “The CIA field agent from this order,” he said firmly to the men, waving the document in the air. “I’d like to speak with him.”

  The PMC soldiers remained stone-faced. They didn’t so much as blink. Finally, the bearded leader raised his eyebrows and simply shook his head.

  “Officer Sheldon!” Cam finally yelled over his shoulder. “Go to the bridge and have the captain call for his CIA contact to join us on the deck. At the request of the United States Coast Guard.”

  “You got it, sir,” Michael replied. He broke into a light jog toward the metal framing of the staircase leading to the bridge above.

  The captain of the ship watched intently. “Great,” he muttered to himself.