Death Ship

by Joseph Badal

  Thirty minutes later, Garvin pushed Petrovich off him and concentrated on his breathing.

  “No encores tonight,” Petrovich said. “I’ve got to do security checks. If I don’t show up, the boys out there might suspect something.”

  “How do you know they don’t already?”

  She shrugged as she stepped into her skirt. “Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. I handpicked every member of the crew. I’ve known each of them for at least a decade. I treat them well; I give them excellent reviews; I make sure they get pay raises as soon as they are eligible for them. Why would they want to screw that up?”

  Garvin chuckled. “So, you keep your crew happy by greasing their palms with tax payer money.”

  “Compared to the billions of tax payer money you squander every year, what difference do the few dollars I spread around make?”

  Garvin grabbed a pillow and threw it at Petrovich. “Watch it, girlie. That’s no way to talk to the most powerful man in the world.”

  Petrovich chuckled as she lifted the sheet and looked at Garvin. “You don’t look so powerful right now.”

  FRIDAY

  JUNE 27

  CHAPTER 63

  Jack Cole’s home telephone rang at 2:35 a.m. He grumbled, “This can’t be good news,” as he rolled to a sitting position on the side of his bed.

  “Director Cole, it’s Tanya Serkovic.”

  “What’s up, Tanya?”

  “I thought I should tell you we got the results of the voice print analysis on that call to Carlo Marchetti’s cell phone.”

  “Ah, yes, Marchetti, my favorite assassin. And who did that killer communicate with?”

  “Warren Thurston, sir.”

  Cole cleared his throat. “You gotta be shittin’ me.” It seemed like the thing to say, but he wasn’t actually surprised.

  “No, sir.”

  Cole stayed quiet for a long moment, then said, “Quite a coincidence, Thurston killed in a car wreck. It’s all over the news. He and his wife were reported to be on their way to Cape May, New Jersey for a brief vacation.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”

  “I don’t, Tanya. I don’t.”

  “Geez, where the hell have you been?” CIA Agent Walter Zeller demanded of Pavlos Ierides.

  “Uh, Walter . . . you know the phones have been down here in Athens. I would have called—”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Pavlos. I sent a guy around to your house and your office. Both places were vacant. You’ve evacuated Athens along with nearly every other person in the city.” Zeller went quiet for a few seconds to try to calm himself. It didn’t work. “I suspect you started the entire panic. No one else in Greece knew about what you and I talked about. If I could prove you leaked information about a possible nuclear attack, I’d . . . .” Zeller paused.

  “The phones work again, Walter. I was able to find that insurance agent, Katerina Safterou, who sold the policies to Farouki Holdings. You want her contact information?”

  “Yeah. Give it to me.”

  Ierides read off Katerina Safterou’s home, office, and cell numbers and email address. Zeller made a mental note to pass all four on to Ray Gallegos. Maybe Ray could tap her phones in case someone from Farouki Holdings tried to contact her.

  “You get the ship’s name?” Zeller asked.

  “Kerkira. An oil tanker. I also got the AIS information.”

  “What the hell is AIS?” Zeller demanded.

  “Automatic Identification System. It’s an automatic tracking system used on ships to identify and locate vessels by the electronic exchange of data with other nearby ships, AIS base stations, and satellites. An AIS transceiver sends out certain data at various intervals.”

  “Great. Does it transmit the name of a ship?”

  “Yes, it does. It transmits the vessel’s name every six minutes. It also transmits the ship’s location, its heading, type of ship, its dimensions, et cetera.”

  “How do we pick up these transmissions?” Zeller asked.

  “Ships can get the information, as can something called Vessel Traffic Services, as well as satellites.”

  “Satellites?”

  “Right. If you have the transponder number.”

  “Please tell me you have the transponder number for the Kerkira.”

  “Ask and ye shall receive,” Ierides said.

  Zeller automatically calculated the time difference between Berlin and D.C. It was now 3 a.m. in the District. He called Raymond Gallegos’s cell number and passed on the information he’d received from Ierides.

  Gallegos immediately called Conrad Demetruk at NSA and asked him to task the National Reconnaissance Office with locating the Kerkira.

  Now fifty nautical miles southeast of the mouth of Piraeus Bay, Ahmed Boukali ordered Jalil Fouad, the ship’s captain, to back off the Kerkira’s engines. He stood on the port side of the tanker’s wheelhouse and watched the Panamanian-flagged cargo ship, the Arias, plow through the sea behind them. The Arias had nearly overtaken the tanker when it too slowed to a crawl and closed the distance between the two ships to less than fifty yards. Boukali watched the cargo ship roll through the waves dangerously close to the tanker. Two crewmen on the Kerkira—a sailor and the engineer—boarded a small motorized tender on the port side of the deck. A third crewman handed over a metal box to the other two. Then that third crewman hit a switch on a pole beside the tender and lowered it over the side. It disappeared from Boukali’s view until it reappeared on the water, halfway to the Arias. Through binoculars, he watched the small boat motor over to the cargo vessel. The engineer, metal box in hand, climbed aboard the Arias and entered the bridge there.

  Boukali then walked down to the ship’s stern and observed crew members suspended on scaffolds paint over the ship’s name on both sides. Stencils and spray guns were then handed down to the men who painted the name Tripoli Star on the bow and stern. A slight breeze made the spray painting less than neat, but Boukali knew it would suffice for his purposes.

  Boukali fingered a string of prayer beads as he paced the length of the Kerkira’s bridge. An hour-and-a-half passed before the engineer descended the ladder from the Arias to the tender, which returned to the Kerkira.

  As soon as the tender had been raised back to the deck and the two men climbed out, Boukali shouted, “Did you do it?”

  “Yes, sir,” the engineer responded. “They’ll turn on the AIS transponder after they’re twenty miles from us.”

  “What took so long?”

  The engineer’s face sagged. “You don’t just pull out a plug and insert another one.” He frowned at Boukali. “I reprogrammed the AIS and the LRIT with the Kerkira’s identifiers. Doing that in an hour-and-a-half is record time.”

  “See if you can do even better on our equipment.”

  The engineer grabbed the metal box from the sailor and marched off toward the bridge.

  Boukali waved at the man who stood outside the door to the Arias’s bridge. The man waved back. The two ships maintained the same fifty-yard separation and snail’s pace as they continued toward Piraeus Bay.

  After eighty minutes, the engineer announced that changes had been made to the Kerkira’s equipment. “We’re now transmitting as the Tripoli Star.”

  Boukali told Captain Fouad, “Wave off the cargo ship.”

  CHAPTER 64

  “We got the Automatic Identification System and Long Range Identification Tracking information on that tanker,” Raymond Gallegos told Michael Danforth by sat phone. “It’s about forty nautical miles from the entry to Piraeus Bay.”

  “What’s its heading?” Michael asked.

  “South.”

  “Away from Piraeus?”

  “Correct.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Michael said.

  “It does if the Kerkira is an innocent ship. The whole thing with that ship may have been a wild goose chase.”

  “I’ll be damned. So, what do we do now?”

 
; “I don’t have a clue, Mike. We were so sure Farouki Holdings and the Kerkira were involved in something. We don’t have anything else to go on.”

  “What about those guys who hijacked the boats? The ones at Sigonella.”

  “We got everything we’ll ever get out of them. They’re in the dark about anything beyond their own mission.”

  “Could the Kerkira be on its way to Italy? Maybe we were wrong about Athens being the target.”

  “We’re tracking the ship. It appears to be headed for Egypt. That comes right off its AIS transceiver and LRIT transponder.”

  “How’d you like to join the admiral on the flag bridge?”

  Robbie whipped around. “Ma’am?”

  Sofia said, “That would be great.”

  “I’m Ensign Connie Butterfield. Admiral Wyncourt wants to know if you’d like to get a tour of the flag bridge.”

  “That would be awesome,” Robbie said. “You’re not kidding me, are you?”

  Butterfield let out a hearty laugh. “I have been known to kid around at times, but I don’t think the admiral has much of a sense of humor. Why don’t you follow me? Your mother and grandmother are already on the bridge.”

  Robbie tried to act cool. He didn’t want to come across as a dumb kid, especially in front of Sofia. But it wasn’t easy. He was blown away by the glassed in space, full of busy sailors who worked on high tech instrumentation. He looked through the glass and watched jets catapult off the gallery deck and fly in huge oval patterns over the sea.

  “This thing is ginormous,” Robbie said to Butterfield.

  “Wait ‘til you see all the space below the waterline. It’s like an iceberg. There’s more below the surface than there is above it.”

  Butterfield walked Robbie and Sofia over to a console where a man with gold and black epaulets spoke to his mother and grandmother.

  “Robbie, Sofia, I’d like to introduce you to Admiral Wyncourt.”

  Wyncourt extended a ham hock-of-a-hand and shook Robbie and Sofia’s hands. “Welcome aboard.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sofia answered. “Thanks for getting us out of Athens.”

  “I didn’t have much to do with that. You should thank General Danforth.”

  “We already did that, sir,” Robbie said. “But I understand the chain of command.”

  Wyncourt blurted a laugh. “You ever think about joining the Navy when you’re a little older?”

  Robbie could feel his face warm. “I have a lot of respect for the Navy, sir, but I don’t think my father or grandfather would be pleased if I became a sailor.”

  Wyncourt smiled and looked at Miriana. “What did Mike do, tattoo ‘U.S. Army’ on the boy at birth?”

  Miriana smiled back. “I gave up on all of that a long time ago. The Army runs through the Danforth blood stream.”

  “You know my father?” Robbie asked.

  “I’ve known your grandfather and your father for a lot of years. I was on board a ship that pulled your grandfather out of a tight spot in the Balkans. And well before your father appropriated one of my helicopters to bring you to my ship, he and I collaborated on a couple missions when I was with the SEALs.”

  “Cool.”

  “Yeah, very cool.” Wyncourt turned to Liz. “Now, I have to excuse myself. Ensign Butterfield will take you all on a tour. If there is anything else I can do for you, just ask.”

  “There is one thing, Admiral,” Liz said. “I’d sure like to know where my husband is.”

  “I’ll see what I—”

  An enlisted sailor interrupted Wyncourt. “Admiral, sir, this message just came in for you.” He handed over a tablet that looked like an iPad. Wyncourt read the note and then passed it to Liz, who read aloud:

  “TO: Elizabeth Danforth aboard U.S.S. Andrew Jackson

  FR: Central Intelligence Agency, Langley

  Happy to report Bob and Michael reunited in Athens. All are well. Phones back up in Athens. Bob will call Robbie’s cell phone at 1600 hours, 28 June.

  Signed: Raymond Gallegos

  “Thank God,” Liz whispered.

  A two-hour tour of the carrier ended with Liz, Miriana, and Sofia shown to a four-bunk cabin. “You might want to rest for a while,” Butterfield told them.

  “That sounds wonderful,” Liz said.

  Butterfield pointed at a cabin door across the corridor and said, “That’s where you can bunk down.”

  “I’m not really tired,” Robbie said. “I’d like to go back to the bridge.”

  “Robbie, you need to stay here; keep out of the crew’s hair,” Miriana said.

  “Mrs. Danforth, if you don’t mind, I would be happy to escort Robbie to the bridge. I think Admiral Wyncourt would love the chance to convince him the Navy would be a preferable alternative to the Army.”

  Miriana laughed. “Okay, Robbie, but don’t pester people with a bunch of questions. They have work to do.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “We’ll stay over here,” Butterfield said. “Out of the way. If you have any questions, just ask.”

  “What’s going on with the possible terrorist attack?”

  Butterfield shot Robbie a wide-eyed look. “How—”

  “I was in Athens when the whole city was evacuated. You’d have to be in an empty, windowless, doorless room not to realize something was up. Besides, my father had to tell me something when he picked me up in a helicopter off the Acropolis.”

  Butterfield grimaced. “You’re in possession of information that requires a security clearance.”

  “Then every person in Athens would need a clearance as well. I mean, I hear every TV and radio station broadcasted about a potential nuclear terrorist attack.”

  She wagged her head a couple times. “That may be true, but I’m not about to share any more information with you that could get me in trouble.”

  Robbie shrugged. “I understand. Maybe I should go back down to the cabin.”

  “Okay. I’ll—”

  “Ensign Butterfield, you got a couple minutes?”

  Robbie looked at the man who had spoken. Considering the stripes on his uniform, he guessed he was a Commander or Lieutenant Commander.

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  “I need you to spell me on the Fleet Comm Line,” the man told Butterfield. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Butterfield pointed at Robbie. “Stay here. I’ll be back to take you down to your cabin.”

  Robbie nodded and then watched Butterfield move to the far end of the bridge and sit at a console that screened her from view. He sidestepped his way a couple yards toward a long array of electronic equipment positioned in the center of the bridge. He saw a dozen or so screens that displayed a variety of information, but because of the angle of vision, he couldn’t make out what it was. He glanced over at Butterfield who now sat with her back to him. He looked around at the half-dozen men and two other women who manned the bridge. Admiral Wyncourt was up near the starboard side windows. The other people on the bridge talked in hushed tones or stared at one or other of the electronic screens. Robbie sidled a bit closer to a bank of screens.

  Wyncourt’s loud bass voice suddenly shattered the quiet. “Pull up the sat image of that tanker.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” a woman answered. She fiddled with some knobs and buttons and, after a minute, announced that the image was up.

  Wyncourt still looked out to sea. “Is it still on a southern heading?”

  “One hundred eighty-seven degrees southwest. Moving toward Egypt. It’s out seventy-seven point three miles from our location.”

  “I’d say the tanker is no longer a concern,” the admiral said.

  “I agree, sir,” the man on the sat console said.

  Robbie had quietly moved to within three feet of the man at the console. He bent slightly and squinted at the satellite image. “Great resolution,” he muttered to himself.

  The man wheeled around. “What are you doing here?”

  Robbie stepped back a pace.
“Sorry, sir. I was just—”

  “Butterfield!” the man barked. “Would you please escort our visitor to a . . . another area of the ship?”

  “Sorry, sir. I’m waiting for Commander Johnson to return.”

  Wyncourt cleared his throat. “He’s here at my invitation.” Then he looked at Robbie and said, “Perhaps it would be best if you went below. Things are a little tense up here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Robbie said, his voice squeaking.

  Commander Johnson returned and Ensign Butterfield walked to where Robbie stood, took his arm, and said, “Let’s go below.”

  Robbie opened his mouth as though to speak, but all that came out was a frog-like croak. Butterfield guided him to one of the bridge entry doors when Robbie said, “That’s a strange-looking tanker.”

  “What?” Butterfield asked.

  “That tanker. It doesn’t look like a tanker to me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The satellite image I saw on that screen.”

  “So what?”

  “The admiral called it a tanker.” Robbie sucked in a large breath and licked his lips. “I’m just saying it’s not a tanker.”

  Butterfield had stopped, released Robbie’s arm, and glared at him. “How would you know?” she asked.

  Robbie felt his face warm. He lowered his head and quietly said, “I read a lot.”

  Butterfield grabbed his arm again and took a step toward the doorway when Wyncourt demanded, “Is there a problem, Ensign?”

  “No, Admiral. We were just about to leave.”

  She jerked Robbie toward the door when he surprised even himself and shouted, “It’s not a tanker, Admiral. Looks more like a cargo or container ship.”

  “What’s he talking about, Butterfield?”

  “Nothing, sir. We’re out of here.”

  Robbie forced out his words as strongly as he could as Butterfield dragged him through the doorway. “Something’s wrong with that ship. It’s not a tanker.”

  “Stop!” Wyncourt ordered. “Bring him back in here.”