Death Ship

by Joseph Badal

  Vangelos Charters had boats that operated out of Piraeus, Samos, and Crete in Greece, and out of Syracuse in Italy. These locations provided ready access to archaeological sites in and around the Aegean, Ionian, and Tyrrhenian Seas. Tourists, archaeologists, history buffs, and all manner of businesspeople on corporate retreats came to the area. And Vangelos Charters provided first-class boats and first-class service.

  The team leader was worried. He knew no mission ever went exactly as planned. But little glitches could become big problems. Being low on fuel was a glitch, one that forced them into port. They would have to meet the boat’s new owner, instead of cruising toward their target. The plan had been to inform Vangelos Charters that they had minor mechanical problems and would be delayed at sea a couple days. Now that plan would have to be scrapped. He spat over the side of the boat and silently cursed the men of that now-dead crew.

  CHAPTER 7

  General Qasem Kashkari brushed aside a loose section of his black kufiyeh and looked out through an open window in the Raqqa, Syria headquarters of the Islamic State, where Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi maintained one of his many offices. Raqqa was located on the north bank of the Euphrates River, about 99 miles east of Aleppo. Kashkari often wondered how al-Baghdadi, alternatively known to his followers as Abu Du’a, Caliph Ibrahim, and Emir, had risen to power so quickly.

  He took a drag on his cigarette and tossed the butt out the window. What was the point of quitting cigarettes? he thought, as he expelled the smoke from his lungs. Raqqa’s air quality had deteriorated with the passage of each year. A five-minute walk was the equivalent of smoking half-a-pack. He took in a deep breath and hacked at the pungent, sulfurous odor of polluted air. The walls of the compound around the building were thirty-feet high, too high for him to see the traffic that circulated in the streets around the property. But the noise and pollution were evident.

  Kashkari looked down at his black thobe and flicked away a few flecks of ash. He picked a piece of tobacco from his lower lip and rubbed both hands over his long salt and pepper beard. He always wore a thobe at headquarters. Otherwise, he wore a black shalwar kameez. He’d started to wear the pants and shirt common to parts of Afghanistan while he fought there with Al Qaeda and its Taliban allies against United States forces. Now, as the Islamic State’s senior military advisor, Kashkari supervised special operations. As much as he liked commanding fighters in pitched battles against IS’s enemies, he truly loved special operations. The potential for damage to an enemy was so much greater.

  A sound behind him brought Kashkari out of his thoughts. He turned and saw Anwar Lermontov Rastani, al-Baghdadi’s second in command, enter the office. Dressed in his mullah robes and turban, Rastani stroked his long, blond beard and smiled at Kashkari, which made him shudder a bit. The man’s smile made him think of a serpent—the mouth was open but the blue eyes were expressionless. Rastani came from Croatia, a member of a Muslim family. He was Western in appearance, with blond hair, blue eyes, and pale complexion, but the man was an Islamic jihadist through and through.

  Kashkari moved around the man’s desk to a seating arrangement near the door. The two men hugged and kissed one another’s cheeks.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, my friend,” Rastani said, as he sat and pointed to a chair across from his own. “I needed to meet with Al-Zawahiri’s emissary.”

  Kashkari sat. “What does Al Qaeda want now, Sayyid?”

  Rastani snickered. “It’s like bargaining with children, my friend. Their message never changes. They want us to stop killing Muslims. It’s the same message bin Laden sent to our Al Qaeda branch in Iraq years ago. They don’t want to alienate the people.” Rastani laughed. “They still think we report to them. We will wipe out every person who is not a true believer, who does not support our holy goal of creating a caliphate. Muslim and non-Muslim.” He gave Kashkari a huge, toothy smile. “I really enjoy the game. The leaders of Al Qaeda are old men whose time has long passed.”

  “In the meantime,” Kashkari said, “our nuclear program progresses.”

  “Naturally. The Pakistani scientists and engineers have done all they promised. When the caliphate is in place and we control all the oil in Iraq and Syria, the Pakistanis will provide the weaponry we need to deliver warheads against all our enemies.”

  “You trust them?”

  Rastani laughed again. “Never. But they are useful for now. They know we are a thorn in the side of the Americans. That’s all they care about. But as soon as we mortally wound the Americans and take away their will to fight, and get what we want from the Pakistanis, we’ll extend the caliphate to regions of Pakistan until there is nothing left of the regime there.”

  A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. An aide entered and placed a tea service on the end of the low table nearest to Rastani. He poured tea into two short, gold leaf-embellished glasses and then left.

  Rastani handed a glass to Kashkari. Each man took a sugar cube from a bowl on the table and placed it under his tongue. After Rastani sipped from his glass, he placed it back on the table, pushed back on the couch, and said, “I assume the Saber Project is on schedule.”

  “Each of the three teams was scheduled to commandeer a boat today. They’ll report in tonight at 11:30.”

  “Excellent!” the emir said as he pushed off the couch, stood, clapped his hands, and paced the limits of his office. “We must continue to demoralize the Americans; we might even take away their will to maintain a presence in the Middle East.” Euphoria showed on the man’s face, as though he’d suddenly been overwhelmed with spiritual ecstasy. “Our mission to spread our revolution will no longer be obstructed by the godless Americans.”

  Kashkari nodded but, in his mind, he did not agree. He had studied the Americans for decades and had come to the conclusion they were the most unpredictable people on earth. Young Arab men who had studied in the United States had shared their experiences with the Islamic State’s intelligence officers. Many had advised that it would be a mistake to presume U.S. weakness by judging all Americans by the behavior of a few of their leaders and intellectuals.

  Kashkari knew there were political factions in the U.S. government and elements of their population who would always be against the use of military force. And some U.S. Presidents naively believed they could negotiate their way out of any predicament. Khomeini had played Carter like he was a dolt. But Kashkari believed that any president, including Andrew Garvin, who discovered that IS was behind what was about to happen would likely react with extreme violence. And the Americans were positioned to do great damage to IS. Up to now, their opposition to the Islamic State had been half-hearted and disorganized. That could change quickly and drastically.

  “Of course, the genius of this operation is that the attack signatures will be pure Iranian,” Rastani said. “The Americans will have no reason to believe we had anything to do with the attacks. After all, we are the junior league. They’ll take their revenge against those Shi’a bastards, which helps us.”

  Kashkari met Rastani’s gaze and could tell the man wanted reassurance. “I am confident all will go as planned. The young men we chose are anxious to become heroes and are prepared for martyrdom.” Kashkari sighed and shook his head. “It’s too bad about those boys. They are the best of the best.”

  The leader stared hard at his military commander. “Second thoughts?”

  “No, not at all, Sayyid. It’s regretful we couldn’t just use Iranian operatives.”

  Rastani scoffed. “Those bare-footed Persians couldn’t pull this off.” He rubbed his hands over his face and added, “Will the Iranian cell in Rome be sacrificed?”

  “Yes, and documents that link them to this operation will be discovered.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Nick Vangelos arrived at Sicily’s Catania Airport at 9 p.m., canvas suitcase in hand, and took a taxi to the Danforths’ hotel in Syracuse where he’d also booked a room. The desk clerk told him the Danforths were out to dinner. He sent a tex
t message to Bob Danforth’s cell phone and suggested they meet at the dock at 8 tomorrow morning. He then walked to one of his favorite waterside cafes, sat at an outside table, and ordered a plate of fruitti di mare and a glass of 2010 Tasca d’Almerita Bianco wine. He topped off dinner with an espresso and biscotti and patted his belly as he wondered how long it would be before his relatively flat stomach would turn into a paunch. You can’t eat like this every night and expect to stay slim, he thought.

  While he waited for the waiter to bring the bill, he watched a fishing boat return to port. It seemed low in the water. A good catch.

  By the time he paid the bill, the other cafés along the quay had closed down and more light came from the half-moon and stars than from businesses there. It was late now—almost 11—and no more boats entered the harbor. Nick became anxious about the Zoe Mou. He was just about to use his satellite telephone when he spotted the running lights of a boat at the harbor entrance. His heart seemed to skip a beat and he felt a shiver run from the back of his neck down his spine. He recognized the profile of the Endurance 870 yacht and the distinctive deep-throated rumble of its twin engines. He smiled. But then he muttered, “About damn time.”

  Nick left the café, crossed to the Vangelos Charters’ slip, and watched the boat glide toward him. It was a beautiful sight—its sleek lines highlighted by illuminated deck lights. One of the men on board tossed him a stern line, which he made fast to a cleat. A second man leaped onto the dock and fastened a bow line to a second cleat. Nick then walked up a ramp and climbed aboard, followed by the young man who had made fast the bow line.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the young man asked in a decidedly English accent.

  Nick turned and looked at him. “I’m Nick Vangelos. The owner.”

  “I’m Matt Peterson,” the man said. “We didn’t expect you to be here this late.”

  “Well, I’m here now, Peterson. I assume you don’t have a problem with that.”

  “No, no. Of course not.” He waved over two other men. “This is Scott Farnwell and Colin Davis.”

  Nick and the crewmen shook hands.

  “Long trip,” Nick said.

  Peterson shrugged. “Yeah. We could use a good night’s sleep before we take her back out.”

  “You from England?” Nick said.

  Peterson smiled. “Born and raised in London.” He turned to the other men and said, “Scott’s from Texas. Colin’s from California.”

  Nick looked the men over. Tall and well-built, they all had sculpted features. There didn’t appear to be an ounce of body fat among the three of them. The contract crews he’d dealt with in the past had always been in decent condition, but these men were well beyond that.

  “I’ve booked rooms in a nearby hotel. I’d like to start out in the morning at eight.”

  Peterson said, “Eight sounds good. But we’ll spend the night on the boat.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Nick said.

  Peterson’s jaw set and his eyes bored into Nick’s. After a beat, his expression eased and he smiled. “We’re responsible for the boat until we officially turn it over to you. Until tomorrow, we’ll watch over this baby like it was our own. Besides, that’s company policy.”

  Nick shrugged. “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  At 11:25 p.m., a couple minutes after Vangelos left the boat, Peterson climbed to the upper deck house and opened the metal case he’d brought on board. He removed a satellite telephone, dialed a number, and waited for the signal to uplink to a satellite. When the call was answered, Peterson said in Arabic, “Status update from Saber Team Three. On schedule.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Liz walked next to Bob, as they followed Miriana and Robbie down the middle of a narrow, ancient, cobblestoned street. She pressed into his side as he wrapped an arm around her waist. They’d spent two hours at a tiny restaurant with fewer than a dozen tables. She couldn’t remember when she’d had such a wonderful time.

  “Cold?” he whispered.

  “A little. It’s supposed to warm up tomorrow.”

  Liz heard Robbie mention the name Archimedes to his mother.

  “You know about Archimedes?” she called ahead to Robbie.

  “Sure, Grams,” Robbie said as he looked back over his shoulder at her.

  “You study him in school?”

  “School’s a bore,” Robbie answered. “I read about him in a book my parents gave me.”

  “You know Archimedes was a native of Syracuse, or Siracusa as the Italians call it?” Bob said.

  Robbie said, “Of course.”

  Bob chuckled. “Why don’t you share with us what you know about Archimedes?”

  Robbie cleared his throat. “You really want me to?”

  “Absolutely,” Liz said.

  “Okay. The main reason Archimedes was famous during his lifetime was because he invented a lot of war machines. You know, like catapults.” Robbie smiled and added, “The guy was a genius. His war machines were used in the defense of Syracuse when the Romans attacked the city in 212 BC.” The boy was fairly dancing as he said with as much enthusiasm as Liz had ever seen him show, “What people should really know about him is he believed pure mathematics was the only worthy pursuit in life. Did you know he developed an accurate measure for Pi and calculated square roots?”

  Liz was impressed with her grandson’s response and was about to tell him so, when Robbie continued.

  “Archimedes was an engineer, a scientist, and an inventor, as well as a mathematician. He made advances in physics which were the foundations of hydrostatics, and he designed siege machines and the screw pump. Can you imagine? He even calculated the area under the arc of a parabola with the summation of an infinite series and also defined the formulae for the volumes of solids of revolution.”

  Now Liz was stunned. She knew Robbie was an “A” student and had always been intellectually advanced for his age, but the depth of his knowledge was surprising. And the boy talked about arcs of parabolas and volumes of solids of revolution as though he truly understood those things. She wasn’t about to ask for further explanation out of fear she wouldn’t understand the explanation any more than she understood the subjects.

  “You learned all of that on your own?” Bob asked.

  “Do you want to hear more?”

  “Why not?” Bob said.

  “Archimedes died during the Siege of Syracuse when he was killed by a Roman soldier despite orders that he should not be harmed. Cicero describes his visit to the tomb of Archimedes, which was surmounted by a sphere inscribed within a cylinder. Archimedes had proven that the sphere had two thirds of the volume and surface area of the cylinder and regarded this as the greatest of his mathematical achievements. Unlike his inventions, the mathematical writings of Archimedes were little known in antiquity. Mathematicians from Alexandria read and quoted him, but the first compilation of his work was not made until around 530 AD by Isidore of Miletus, while commentaries written by Eutocius in the sixth century AD opened them to wider readership for the first time. The copies of Archimedes’s written work that survived through the Middle Ages were an influential source of ideas for scientists during the Renaissance.”

  “There’s an Archimedes museum on Sicily,” Liz said. “We should visit it.”

  Robbie stopped and turned toward Liz. His eyes were wide and he suddenly seemed overwhelmed with excitement.

  “Really,” the boy said. “When? Do you think it’s open now?”

  Bob said, “Whoa, slow down there. It’s almost midnight. We’ll schedule a time to go through it before our trip’s over.”

  “Great!” Robbie said as they entered their hotel.

  Inside their suite, Bob pulled his cell phone from the holster on his hip. The phone pinged as soon as he turned it on. A text message from Nick Vangelos.

  “We’re supposed to meet the boat at eight in the morning,” he told Liz. He called Miriana and Robbie’s adjoining suite and passed on the information. “We
’d better try to get some sleep,” he told Liz after he hung up the room phone.

  He looked at Liz who seemed preoccupied.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “What?” Liz said.

  “I said we need to be at the boat at 8 a.m.” He frowned at her. “What’s on your mind?”

  She smiled. “I was wondering what the hell hydrostatics are?”

  “I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you.”

  “You don’t know either, do you?”

  “Not a clue.”

  MONDAY

  JUNE 23

  CHAPTER 10

  Nick boarded the Zoe Mou at 7 a.m. Peterson, Davis, and Farnwell were already on deck.

  “Thanks for showing up early, Mister Vangelos,” Peterson said. “We can cast off now if you’re—”

  The shout of, “Ya sou, Nico,” interrupted Peterson. He looked down at the finger pier and saw a man approach.

  “It’s okay,” Nick said. “That’s Yanni with the scuba gear.”

  “Why scuba equipment?” Peterson asked.

  “My passengers want to dive several archaeological sites.” Nick looked at his watch. “We’ll have to wait for them. I told them to be here at eight.”

  Surprise, then a flash of anger showed on Peterson’s face. “Passengers?”

  “Yes.”

  “We didn’t know anything about others coming on board. I thought we were hired to just deliver the boat.”

  Nick was taken aback by Peterson’s tone. He tried without total success to keep anger from his voice. “I didn’t know I owed you an explanation about what I do with my boat.”

  Peterson’s face reddened. He shook his head a couple times. “I apologize. It’s just that we’re on a tight schedule. We have to catch a flight out of Catania tonight.”