by Joseph Badal
Under her breath, Butterfield said, “Oh shit,” and reversed direction.
“Bring him over to the sat image,” Wyncourt said as he walked from the other side of the screen array to stand in front of the sat screen. He looked at the man at the screen and asked, “Which one’s the tanker?”
The man pointed at a ship and then punched a button on a keyboard. A column of information popped on the screen. He moved his finger to the top of the column. “See there. AIS says it’s the Kerkira, the tanker. The rest, sir, is heading, speed, and so forth.”
“Does that look like a crude oil tanker to you?” Wyncourt asked.
The man bent closer to the screen and gulped. “Damn. Sorry, sir.”
Wyncourt shot the man a grim look and said, “Yeah, damn.”
“There’s no question the AIS and the LRIT identify that ship as the Kerkira.” He again pointed at the image on the screen.
“So, what’s that tell you?”
The man gulped again. “The Kerkira somehow switched transponders with that ship.”
“Back track the movement of that ship on the VDR,” Wyncourt said. “See if it rendezvoused with any other ship.”
“The Voyage Data Recorder is down, Admiral,” the commander said. “Maintenance hasn’t had the chance to work on it.”
The admiral pointed at another officer. “Get Raymond Gallegos at CIA on the phone.” Then he turned toward Butterfield and Robbie. “As of this moment, this young man has clearance to be right here.” He waggled a hand at Robbie and said, “You speak up if you have any other thoughts or observations you think might be important.”
Wyncourt took a telephone receiver from the officer who had called CIA. “Ray, it’s Silas Wyncourt. This may be conjecture only, but there’s a possibility the Kerkira switched identifiers with another ship.”
“Explain that,” Ray said.
“You were pretty certain Farouki Holdings is up to something. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“And Farouki Holdings owns the Kerkira, an oil tanker.”
“Correct.”
“Then why is the Kerkira’s AIS identifier on a cargo ship steaming south toward Egypt? To answer my own question, I believe the Kerkira switched its ID and tracking transponders with another ship.”
“Is that even possible?”
“The AIS is a collision avoidance system and the LRIT system automatically reports a ship’s position. Both systems operate with the willing participation of a vessel. If a ship turns off the systems, they’re theoretically traveling blind to other ships and satellites, unless a satellite has line of sight to the vessel.”
“So, why would the Kerkira swap identifiers with another ship. Why not just turn off their systems?”
“Good question, Ray. Because, in a congested area like Piraeus or shipping lanes, they would be challenged by other ships that spotted it but weren’t able to electronically identify its name, heading, speed, etc.”
Ray said, “You mentioned satellites. Would one of the NRO eyes in the sky help?”
“We’ve already got a satellite picture. That’s how we learned it’s not the tanker.”
“Do any of your systems show the past positioning of ships?” Ray asked.
“Another good question. The VDR, the Voyage Data Recorder, can do that. But ours is down. Maybe an NRO satellite could provide that information. I’ll message you the coordinates of the earliest position of the cargo ship that we identified. If, in fact, the Kerkira swapped electronic signatures with the cargo ship, we should be able to identify her new AIS and LRIT signatures and her current location.”
“Assuming the NRO had a satellite over that location when the switch occurred.”
“Let’s assume the NRO did not have a satellite over the location. What do you suggest? How do we find the real Kerkira?”
“Ray, the only course of action I see is to board the decoy cargo ship and get someone there to talk.”
“Have you got a SEAL team on board your carrier?”
“I’ve only got three men available. The rest of the SEAL contingent were deployed to Iraq to train Kurdish Peshmerga units to fight the Islamic State.”
“How would you feel about General Danforth and his team working with your three SEALs?”
“Are you kidding? My men and I would be thrilled to work with Mike.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Ray said. “They’re still in Athens. You’ll have to send a chopper to bring them in.”
“I know their location.”
Admiral Silas Wyncourt called Admiral Alan Bowden at Task Force 60 Headquarters. He briefed him about developments.
“I’ll need to advise SEC/NAV,” Bowden said.
“Alan, you know what the politicians will do. SEC/NAV will call the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs who will call the Secretary of Defense. They’ll drag their feet. Then they’ll call POTUS. They’ll conduct meetings that will accomplish absolutely nothing but delay action. They’ll see us boarding the cargo ship as an act of war. They’ll put politics and diplomacy ahead of national defense.”
“What do you want me to do, Silas? Not tell him?”
Wyncourt hesitated a beat and then said, “That’s exactly what I want you to do.”
“I kinda like my job, Silas. I really don’t want to be relieved of my command.”
“None of this is on the record, Alan. I won’t back up this conversation with anything on paper or electronically. When you learn about it . . . after the fact, you can relieve me, courts martial me, whatever. But I think this may be our only chance to find out what’s going on.” Wyncourt paused and waited for Bowden to respond. But, after a few seconds, he continued. “The planned attacks against Sigonella Naval Base by the terrorist teams appear to have been diversionary. Something big is in the works. If I don’t take action now, we might regret it later. If the mission succeeds, you’ll look like a hero. If it doesn’t, I’ll take the heat.”
After a brief hesitation, Bowden said, “It was nice of you to call to say hello, Silas. Hope your day goes well.”
CHAPTER 65
Silas Wyncourt cursed under his breath. He knew he was about to put his naval career on the line. Doing a “stop & search” of a foreign-flagged ship without permission from the foreign flag administrator was bad enough. Doing so without permission of his own command authority was tantamount to professional suicide, if not to a guaranteed courts martial and prison sentence. He wiped away a sheen of perspiration from his forehead with a hand, shrugged, and muttered, “In for a penny, in for a pound.” He turned toward his executive officer. “Move us outside the bay.”
Wyncourt saw the unasked question on the XO’s face. He walked over to the man. “We both know our orders, Andy. We’ve served together for a lot of years. You trust me?”
“Implicitly.”
“Good. I don’t want you to ask any questions. I want you and every man on this ship to have plausible deniability. I’m trying to prevent a terrorist attack and a possible war.”
The XO nodded and said, “Aye, aye, sir.”
Wyncourt said, “Let’s transfer the civilians off the Jackson.”
The XO said, “The Greek girl told Ensign Butterfield that her father called her on her cell. He’s on a boat off our port side. As soon as we give him permission to approach, he can pull alongside.”
“Okay, make it happen.”
After Nick Vangelos offloaded the Danforth family and his daughter, Sofia, from the aircraft carrier, Robbie watched father and daughter hug one another in the pilothouse. There was something about Sofia that made him feel funny. Different than he’d ever felt before. He thought about how disappointed he’d been when they had to terminate his family’s trip around Sicily. But now that he’d met Sofia, he no longer regretted the change in their itinerary, and he was able to avoid perpetually thinking about how close his grandparents, mother, Mr. Vangelos, and he had come to death. Even the memory of his killing another human being had been pushed from the fr
ont of his mind.
Admiral Alan Bowden stared at the LRIT screen in the operations room in his headquarters at Naval Support Activities Naples, Italy. The system showed the positions of all ships of over three hundred tons, as well as U.S. Navy ships, regardless of size. Ships under his command were identified by color coding. He zeroed in on the U.S.S. Andrew Jackson and saw it had abandoned its mooring in Piraeus Bay. He sighed as he thought Silas’s military career was as good as over. The politicians at the Pentagon would see to that. And he didn’t have much hope for his own longevity in the U.S. Navy. But he hadn’t been entirely candid with Silas when they’d talked by phone. He didn’t really care whether or not he kept his job in the Navy. He’d grown sick and tired of the politicization of the military under this President. He’d fired a huge number of experienced, battle-tested senior commanders in all the services and replaced them with sycophants who were ass kissers of the first order.
Bowden wondered how long it would be before someone at Central Command or at the Pentagon noticed the Andrew Jackson’s repositioning. Once someone did, some armchair admiral would send him a message, demand an explanation. He tried to come up with a response while he followed the carrier’s electronic signature. Then a thought came to him that violated all the tenets of the theory behind the military chain of command. The situation was about national defense, not one individual’s career. He needed to confide in someone who was a patriot first and foremost. Someone with power, influence, and guts. He pulled up his contacts list on his personal cell phone and typed C-O-L-E in the search box.
President Andrew Garvin had almost always felt in control of his emotions, his destiny, his legacy, and even events that swirled like angry hornets around the Presidency. But he suddenly felt that events had begun to spiral out of control. And those events had begun to make him feel less secure about his own emotions as well as about his destiny and legacy.
Garvin stared across his desk in the Oval Office at Secret Service Agent Linda Petrovich. Usually her presence was enough to stimulate his libido to the point that all other matters seemed inconsequential. But not today.
“You’re certain there is nothing that can tie me to Thurston’s death or the attempt on Jack Cole’s life?” he asked Petrovich.
He saw the sour expression on Petrovich’s face when she said, “That was you behind the assassination attempt on Cole?”
“No, that was Thurston.”
“That’s why you had me kill him.”
Garvin leaped to his feet and shouted, “Answer my fuckin’ question. Is there anything that can tie me to the deaths of the Thurstons or to the attempt on Jack Cole’s life?”
Of course, there isn’t. You’ve got to stop worrying.”
“The ayatollahs in Iran are nuclear weapons capable. The nuclear deal we struck with them is being vilified by the opposition. I’ve got maniacs in Iraq and Syria beheading Americans and slaughtering Christians, Yazidis—even their fellow Muslims. A year ago, I couldn’t have told you what a Yazidi was; now the whole world knows. There have been attacks in cities on all continents. We’ve had terrorists try to attack our ships in the Ionian Sea, and the city of Athens has turned into a ghost town over a feared terrorist attack. That megalomaniacal cretin in Russia has attacked the Ukraine and will probably go after Lithuania or Poland or someplace else next. And then there’s that tin pot dictator in North Korea. What a mess. The last thing I need to worry about is a domestic scandal.”
“Then don’t worry about it. There’s nothing that can touch you.”
He slowly wagged his head and opened his mouth to respond when the intercom buzzed. He lifted the receiver and said, “I told you I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“I’m sorry, Mister President,” his personal assistant said, “but DCI Cole is on the line. He says it’s urgent.”
Just hearing Cole’s name was enough to cause Garvin’s heart rate to accelerate. He removed the pocket square from his jacket, wiped sweat from his forehead, and took a second to compose himself. “Put him through,” he said.
“Yes, Director Cole, what’s so urgent that I had to interrupt an important meeting?”
“I assure you, Mister President, this is more important than you meeting with the head of your Secret Service detail.”
“How—?”
“We should meet, Mister President. I can be in your office within the hour.”
“I have a meeting with the Chairman of the JCS. Perhaps tomorrow we—”
“This is a matter of national security.”
“Then I should have my National Security Advisor and the JCS Chairman join us. The Vice President, too.”
“It’s too bad about what happened to Warren and Susan Thurston, Mister President. I’m sure you would like to have him available to provide advice and counsel, too.” Cole paused a second. “That’s another subject we should talk about. I’ll bet your security and defense advisors and the VP would love to hear my theory about what caused the Thurston’s accident.”
“What the hell are you inferring?”
Cole shrugged. “Inferring? Not a thing. I just found it interesting that the media reported that the Thurstons were on their way to Cape May and that there were no hotel reservations in their names there and none of their friends or family members knew they were going there.”
Garvin tried to swallow but his throat was Sahara Desert-dry and the lump there felt as though it were the size of an orange.
CHAPTER 66
One of the helicopters off the U.S.S. Andrew Jackson that had been flying reconnaissance sorties along the coast inside Piraeus Bay diverted to Glyfada to pick up Michael and his DELTA team, and then immediately returned to the carrier. On the ship, Michael met with Admiral Wyncourt. After they decided on the boarding mission operations plan, Wyncourt introduced the DELTA team to his three SEALs—Lieutenant JG Patrick Riley, Ensign Emil Salazar, and Marine Gunnery Sergeant Nick Roberts.
“You’ll report to General Danforth on this mission,” Wyncourt told the SEALs. Then he nodded at Michael.
“We’ll board the target in broad daylight,” Michael said. “Choppers will take us in and lower us aboard. I wish we could postpone this until after dark, but we don’t have that luxury. We have no intel about the personnel on board the ship or whether they’re armed. It would be preferable if we could board without violence, but we are authorized to employ any and all means to get information from the cargo vessel crew about why it reprogrammed its electronic signature. And to get the original AIS identifiers we assume it passed off to the tanker.”
Michael gave the men a few minutes to get comfortable with one another. Then he broke into their conversations. “Which of you guys is best at jumping onto a moving target?”
Riley pointed at Salazar. “That would be Emil.”
“Okay. I’ll explain what I want you to do in a minute. We don’t have time to make practice runs. I know that’s not how we should do things, but there’s no option. Lieutenant Riley, I’d like you and Lieutenant Campbell to see to the rappelling rigging on the chopper. We’ll rope down onto the ship. The ship’s deck is so packed with containers and crates, there’s no way to land on her. We’ll need a maximum fuel load in case the chopper has to hover over the target for a while after we board her. Also, we may have to fly from the cargo vessel to a location other than back here. See to the fuel, as well.
“Sergeant Morrell, I want you to inspect each man’s gear. We’ll go in as light as possible.”
Thirty minutes later, the chopper took off from the Andrew Jackson’s flight deck. The carrier had closed some of the distance to the cargo ship—the two vessels were sixty-two nautical miles apart. Michael had instructed the pilot to approach the ship from its starboard side, which would allow the aircraft to go at the ship directly out of the late afternoon sun, which was thirty degrees above the horizon. The prevailing winds moved west to east, which would facilitate Salazar’s jump from the chopper to the cargo ship’s deck. They flew in at an
altitude of five thousand feet.
When they were a quarter-mile from the ship, Salazar dropped out of the helicopter’s cargo door, waited to clear the aircraft’s turbulence, and then deployed his chute. He allowed the wind to propel him as he deftly maneuvered the parachute on a slow glide path toward the ship. He circled once to reposition himself so that he could approach the ship with the sun at his back, then from a distance of three hundred yards, made a sharp right turn, came at the ship’s stern, and sailed in at low altitude and at speed. Fifty yards from the stern, he decelerated to the first row of containers, arrested his descent, and spilled the air out of his chute. Salazar landed harder than he would have liked and rolled twice before he came to a stop. A man’s shouts told him he’d not arrived undetected.
“Now!” Michael ordered the pilot, who immediately flew the helicopter toward the water. With the sun directly behind him, the pilot revved the aircraft’s powerful engines and raced toward the target.
“One minute to target,” the pilot called out. “We’ve got activity down there.”
Salazar’s voice broke in over the radio net: “There’s a guy with an AK down here. He’s fired off a few rounds, but I don’t think he knows where I am. But he will know where you guys are any moment now.”
“Take him out,” Michael ordered.
Salazar went off the air for a moment. He came back up a few moments later. “Threat neutralized. There were three other men on the deck a moment ago but they’ve all gone inside the ship. None of them was armed.”
“We’ll join you in a minute,” Michael said. “Hold your position.”
The chopper hovered, and Michael and his men used ropes to drop to the deck. Nick Roberts, the Marine Gunnery Sergeant, deployed with a dog in a chest harness. After they all landed on the cargo ship, three men secured the bow and both sides of the deck. Another man stood guard to prevent anyone from climbing up from below the main deck. Morrell lead the way up the ladder, followed by Nick Roberts, his Malinois, and three of the DELTA team. Michael brought up the rear. They climbed three deck levels to the ship’s bridge with no resistance. Morrell opened the door to the bridge and found four men inside. Three cowered on the far side. One man stood at the helm. They all had their hands raised over their heads.