Cyclops Conspiracy: An Adam Weldon Thriller

by William McGinnis

  “Fuck shit hell!” Tripnee yelled into her com. “Are you seeing this, they’ve got a real, actual submarine.”

  Chapter 33

  Mohammad

  T he hatch on the sub’s tower opened. Two suitcases, no doubt the nukes, flew smoothly up from the far side and disappeared down the hatch like basketballs dropping into a net. A man’s head and torso came up out of the hatch, and Tripnee blew the guy’s noggin to smithereens. Almost simultaneously, or a nano second later, in a complete blur, the tiny, lithe body of Roxanna slid in a flash down the opening on the far side of the headless torso.

  Immediately, the submarine began to dive. Tripnee blasted away at the conning tower. The M82 was famous for destroying trucks, airplanes, and even light tanks. But her bullets bounced off the thick steel.

  “No, no, no, no. They’re getting away.”

  * * *

  The instant Tripnee mentioned the speedboat, Adam raced back along the mole and jumped into the skiff. Firing up the motor, he cut across the harbor and executed a roaring fast turn out through the exit.

  He was just in time to see the long, dark hull of the sub slide below the waves. For a while the conning tower was still visible, but even as he caught up with it, that too disappeared below the surface.

  This couldn’t be happening. Frantic, beside himself, he gunned the outboard, racing to get ahead of the sub. As the light skiff planed and skipped across the waves, he tore off his loose jacket and body armor, pulled on fins, mask, and rebreather, and grabbed his fanny pack.

  Hoping to God he’d judged the spot correctly, he killed the engine and threw himself into the water. Swimming straight down deep, he felt the big sub coming on fast, pushing water out of its path. The sub’s pressure wave pushed him to the side.

  In a desperate frenzy, he kicked and stroked with all he had. But the long, massive, sleek shape slid by out of reach, picking up speed. Try as he might, he couldn’t get to it. Soon he was spent, exhausted, done for.

  But he kept on kicking, stroking, drawing on he didn’t-know-what. From somewhere, from outside himself, from deep within, he found some kind of wellspring—he had no idea how or what—but he kept on—and kept on—kicking and stroking—-kicking and stroking.

  Finally, he got close enough to stretch out and touch the machine. But it was moving too fast, and there was nothing to grip. The monster was slipping by, about to get away. Then, his extended fingertips found a handhold on the very stern of the sub, a raised nameplate showing the name: Mohammad.

  But the thing was moving too fast. He gripped it anyway, and instantly regretted it, as his arm felt ripped from its socket. Like a Raggedy Ann doll with an arm tied to a clothesline in a hurricane, he was stretched out, blasted, raked and pummeled.

  But no way could he let go. If his arm, his wrist, his shoulder pulled away, so fucking what? Just let me hold on this one last time. Then you can have the hand, the arm. If he could just pull off this one last thing, a one-armed future was doable.

  He reached into his fanny pack with his other hand, pulled out a super-sized IED, tore off the plastic backing with his teeth and slapped it onto the sub. Then, just as his grip finally failed, he slapped on another.

  As the sub tore away into the depths, Adam surfaced, then swam to and pulled himself into the skiff. Digging frantically for the remote-controller, he tapped in the password and set off the two bombs. The shockwave sent an eruption of water skyward a quarter mile away. Do you suppose that sub was having a little trouble with its ass end blown off?

  Adam motored out to the site where giant bubbles were still coming up. Nursing his arm, he put out a sea anchor to hold the skiff in place, then pulled on his swim gear and the rebreather. He took his time, looked around. What a lovely night it was. Funny how he’d never before so fully appreciated the sheer beauty of a twenty-knot meltemi.

  The whole rear of the sub was gone. Adam swam into the gaping opening. His infrared headlamp and night vision revealed body after body with startled, terrified expressions. The crew hadn’t closed the inner hatches separating the sub’s different chambers. Probably not the most experienced of submariners.

  His internal alarm system began to sound as he neared the bow. Where were the nukes? And, for that matter, where was Roxanna? Working his way back to the middle of the sub, he looked up into the conning tower. What the hell? The hatch had been opened, and he saw someone swimming up toward the surface.

  Swimming up as fast as he could, Adam surfaced in time to see Roxanna pulling herself aboard his skiff.

  She fired up the engine, pulled in the sea anchor and accelerated out to sea. Fifty yards away, Adam could only watch. This damned jihadi just wouldn’t give up and couldn’t, wouldn’t be stopped. And there, right there!, she was racing off into the distance. Looking around, there was nothing he could do.

  He’d never felt so desolate or fucking helpless.

  A distant pop.

  Adam sensed rather than saw something change in the skiff. Roxanna must’ve taken her hand off the throttle, because the boat slowed to a standstill. Then it was clear: Dear blessed Tripnee had blown Roxanna’s head off.

  The skiff bobbed in the waves directly upwind. The wonderful waves and the fabulous meltemi pushed the tiny boat, with engine still idling, down to where Adam treaded water.

  There was Roxanna dead as a fucking doornail still clutching the two suitcase nukes. As Adam motored back into Idra’s harbor, he heard the sounds of the ongoing, perpetual boat party picking up, accelerating back into full swing, back to normal.

  Chapter 34

  Cyclops: Purity

  “B lessed are the Believers… who restrain their carnal desires… These are the heirs of Paradise….” —Qur’an, Surah 23:1-5.

  Our soldiers of Allah must be pure, devout, worthy to be the true hands of Allah. We had many sinners and people with flaws and problems. Such as way too much ambition, but I won’t get started about that bitch, Roxanna.

  So, we needed to get rid of sin, rottenness, unworthiness. What better way than have infidels do it.

  In many ways, these Americans are diabolical and clever. But fundamentally they are like children, guileless and predictable. Yes, they have placed obstacles in our path, but we have done our research and have outplayed them. Our plan unfolds beautifully.

  Allahu Akbar.

  Chapter 35

  The Saronic Gulf

  D ream Voyager flaunted her beautiful self in a fair breeze, gliding northward across the Saronic Gulf. It was a world-changing accomplishment. Against all odds, the three of them had recovered thirteen suitcase nukes which they’d soon turn over to Admiral Jeppesen in Athens. As the three of them relaxed in the cockpit, relief shined on their faces, in how they sat, in their smallest gesture. Euphoria danced and twirled in the warm air.

  “Can you believe it?” Sophia said. “We just brought down one hell of a lot of bad jihadis. Those guys were no match for us.”

  They all grinned, glowing, nodding.

  After a while, Adam said, “Something I just don’t understand. How can terrorists be so determined to kill millions of civilians?”

  “The answer to that,” Sophia said, “goes back centuries.”

  “So true,” Tripnee said, “from its very beginning in the seventh century, Islam has been part religion, part political doctrine.”

  “Political doctrine?” Adam asked.

  “Yeah, Shari’a law is essentially political,” Tripnee said. “The entire Mediterranean used to be Christian, until the Muslims came out of the Arabian Peninsula and conquered it in the seventh century, installing Islam and Shari’a law at the point of a sword. Called it holy war, jihad, for Allah.”

  “Shari’a law,” Adam said, shaking his head. “I don’t get it. How can the penalty for leaving Islam, or any religion, be death? That’s essentially saying no one has the right to make up his own mind, to make his own choices, or even to think his own thoughts.”

  Jumping up, arms akimbo, feet wide
apart, hands clenched, Tripnee looked fierce as only she could. “Yeah, and how can anyone think men can beat their wives, or that a man’s testimony is worth twice that of a woman?”

  Adam nodded. It was nuts.

  “Shari’a,” Tripnee continued, looking askance at Sophia, “doesn’t allow the basic freedoms that underlay Western civilization: I’m talking freedom of thought, speech, religion.”

  At that moment, far ahead on the northern horizon, the Parthenon came into view on the Acropolis high above Athens.

  “In the West, our very DNA is to seek compromise, collaboration, tolerance. But the Shari’a forbids these things. Shari’a law is absolute. Every law came from the Qur’an—which Muslims regard as the express word of God and not a word can be changed, so neither can the law. We have to face the fact that the Shari’a, political Islam, is not compatible with democracy,” Tripnee went on, helping Adam understand.

  “The West has problems,” Sophia said.

  “We’ve got to defend our values,” Adam said.

  “So true,” Tripnee said. “But one of our problems is that the minute anyone—especially, these days, if you’re a white man—criticizes Islam’s political doctrine, you’re immediately labeled a bigot.”

  “Good point. I’m impressed to hear you say that,” Adam said.

  “Some would say this conversation is Islamophobic,” Sophia said.

  “But that’s nuts,” Tripnee said. “The principles of Western civilization are not a suicide pact. If Western culture is to survive, especially in Europe, we have to come to grips with the fact that political Islam, the political doctrine of Shari’a: that all the world is to be Islamic and worship Allah and jihad must be fought until that time, is incompatible with the West.”

  “This is a conversation more people need to have,” Adam said.

  At that moment, Adam noticed a small aircraft, a mere dot in the sky, pass far overhead, going from south to north toward Athens, just as they were. Was it the same airplane they’d seen en route to Folegandros? Like that plane, this one made a big circle around Dream Voyager before continuing on its way. Something about it troubled him, but he made no mention of it. The last thing they needed was more stress and worry.

  “Well, on a positive note,” Sophia said, “there’s lots of diversity among Muslims. I know for a fact that many ignore jihad and taqiyya--that idea that all Muslims have to lie to non-Muslims--and only want to make their prayers. Do you know that in Iran, which is Shi’a, fewer than four percent of the people are religious? Over sixty percent dance and drink—and stop only during the holy month of Ramadan, the celebration when Allah sent down the Qur’an to his people.”

  Tripnee tossed her head defiantly, and said, “Yeah, and that four percent is made up of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps and the mad mullahs who want to nuke the world to bring back the Mahdi, who’ll bring on the end of the world. And, surveys show, that a majority of the one point six billion Muslims worldwide favor the imposition of Shari’a law on the whole world.”

  Chapter 36

  Athens

  T welve black Suburbans lined up on the Kalamaki quay made quite a display visible from a long way off. As Dream Voyager dropped its sails, motored in and Med-moored, Adam was reassured to see his old Navy SEAL buddy Admiral Ty Jeppesen waving back at him.

  It was also good to see fifty or so alert, heavily armed US Marines fanned out along the quay.

  Jeppesen climbed aboard, beaming, looking happier than Adam had ever seen him. Uncharacteristic of the usually reserved guy, Jeppesen pulled Adam into a hug. Addressing the three of them, he said, “Well done. Well done.”

  Seeing their bandages, Jeppesen asked about their wounds. When they reassured him they were okay—and especially when he saw that, although obviously stiff and sore, they nonetheless moved with an irrepressible joy—his celebratory mood returned.

  Spreading his arms wide, grinning from ear-to-ear, he said, “Thank you so, so much. The three of you pulled off Mission Impossible.”

  Tripnee smiled, then, frowning, said, “The sooner we get these bombs off the boat, the better.”

  Jeppesen signaled for a squad of Marines to come onboard. Adam told them where to find the bombs, and they bounded down the companionway to get them.

  “The three of you deserve a slew of medals and a parade down Fifth Avenue,” Jeppesen said. “Unfortunately, black ops have to stay secret, so we can’t do a public ceremony. But the president wants to thank all three of you in person in the White House.”

  Tripnee frowned. “That’s a nice offer, but I’d prefer that Adam and I just keep sailing.”

  Jeppesen looked surprised. “You literally saved millions of lives and prevented World War III. It’ll be private, but we’re talking about a full-blown, pull-out-all-the-stops ceremony in the White House with the President of the United States. A very, very grateful president.”

  Then, turning to Adam, Jeppesen continued, “You know the president. After what you did in the San Francisco Bay Area, he considers you a national hero and a special friend. Hell, it’s public knowledge that you’re good friends. You had to know he’d insist on thanking you himself in person.” Then, almost pleading, he said, “And I’ll be honest, if I don’t get you to come, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  As longtime buddies, Adam and Ty Jeppesen had an intuitive way of communicating. With a nod and a look, Adam let Ty know that in private he would talk with Tripnee, address her concerns, and work things out so that, most likely, they’d all be accepting the president’s invitation.

  They were interrupted by the Marines coming up from below. Four carried two bombs each, while the others, including a major, carried one. As his men filed off Dream Voyager, the major conferred with the admiral, then turned to thank the trio and shake their hands. As he climbed the gangplank to the quay, he said, “The sooner we secure these bombs the better.”

  “Amen to that,” they all said.

  The nine men, along with the forty or so other Marines, piled into the twelve Suburbans and drove away, leaving the quay empty.

  “Where’s your vehicle?” Adam asked Ty.

  “Oh. I’m using a ten-year-old Ford from the embassy motor pool. It’s up that way.” Ty waved toward where the quay met land.

  “It’s just like you to keep a ridiculously low profile,” Adam said. “You know, old buddy, in case you hadn’t realized it, you’re a big cheese. You should treat yourself to some creature comforts and a little more security. Speaking of which, you do at least have a security detail, right?”

  “Oh, I’ve got my assistant, George. He’s taking a nap in the car. George’s putting his younger brother through college and stays up most nights creating websites and doesn’t get much sleep. So, I’m happy to give him a break whenever I can.”

  “That’s crazy, old buddy,” Adam said, looking fondly at his old friend. Realizing they hadn’t been formally introduced, Adam said, “Where are my manners?” then introduced the admiral and Sophia.

  “This calls for a toast,” Jeppesen said. “By a stroke of amazing good luck, look what I happen to have.” With a flourish, he pulled a chilled, magnum-sized bottle of champagne from an insulated shoulder bag.

  Sophia excused herself. “I’ll be right back.”

  With the three of them alone in the cockpit, Tripnee whispered, “Going to the White House sounds great, but there’s something about that bitch. Does she have to come?”

  “The thing is,” Adam said, “we couldn’t have pulled this off without her.”

  They brought up glasses and popped open the bubbly, which Adam recognized as very fine indeed.

  At that moment, Sophia reappeared looking dolled up and gorgeous, and rejoined them at the cockpit table.

  Intending to fill the glasses, Ty lifted the magnum—and it exploded.

  Bang, bang. Bang, bang, bang. Bang, bang.

  The four dove for the deck. Adam risked a quick look to see a wild scene unfolding in the parking area at
the head of the quay. A panel truck accelerated away, tires squealing, as a man in a Marine uniform—it had to be George, Jeppesen’s aide—blasted away with a handgun.

  “I think George just saved our lives,” Adam said.

  “He definitely saved mine,” Sophia said. “That shot was aimed straight at me. If that bottle hadn’t been in the way, I’d be toast.”

  Indeed, they’d all been sprayed by champagne and shattered glass. But amazingly, the thick, full bottle had stopped or deflected the bullet, leaving Sophia unhurt.

  Greek police arrived and secured the scene. Afterward, the four of them talked with George aboard Dream Voyager.

  “Something about that panel van wasn’t right,” George said. “But it was parked a ways away from me, and I didn’t think much of it. The instant I heard the shot, though, I knew it’d come from the van. I fired back immediately.”

  “And thank God you did, son,” Jeppesen said. “Very good work.”

  “You kept them from getting off more shots,” Adam said, “Very quick thinking.”

  “You really were very brave,” Tripnee said. “You took ’em on with just a pistol, out in the open.”

  “But for you, George, I’d be dead,” Sophia gushed, giving his arm a squeeze. “And I’d just changed out of my bulletproof vest.”

  The young man, a Navy lieutenant, looked dazzled. Sophia had that effect on people, or to be more precise, on men.

  “I’ve been studying jihadi tactics for a long time,” Jeppesen said. “Somehow that didn’t seem like a jihadi hit. Not their style. But who else could it be?”