by L. J. Martin
“I’ll be on the treadmill, watching the sea go by.”
“Have you had breakfast?” I ask.
“Meeting the squid, Porter, and Elroy in a half hour. Join us.”
“Honored to do so,” I say, and he heads for a treadmill.
After working up a good sweat and then a sponge bath, I exit to see the General standing by.
“Let’s eat,” he says. And I give him a loose salute.
As we head for the restaurant, he makes a request. “Mike, do me a favor?”
“You bet, sir.”
“Knock off the sir and the general. Friends call me Tolly or Bull and I prefer it. Damned if folks don’t treat you differently when they know your rank.”
“Yes, sir…I mean, you bet, Tolly.”
He laughs. “Thanks. Actually, most my Marine buddies call me Bull.”
“Then Bull it is, sir. I mean Bull it is, Bull. May I ask how you got that moniker?”
“Long story, over a tall Scotch sometime soon.”
“Yes, sir. But it’s Jack Daniel’s for me, if it’s all the same.”
“Hell, Sergeant, you’re buying, so drink what you want.” He guffaws like a bull snorting and I have to laugh as well. We both know drinks are free on the ship.
We join who I’ve come to know as Rockin’ Roy Filson and Willy Porter and have a great time, until Filson gives us a little pause. “I’ll tell you; I love this boat and most the folks, but some of these ragheads…”
Willy laughs. “No headdresses allowed on board, or so I understand.”
“None the less,” Filson continues. “It doesn’t take much moxie when you get their names to know their persuasion.”
“And that is?” Tolly asks.
“I’ve seen a couple of the sand fleas whispering and looking over their shoulders like they wanted to make sure no one was in earshot. After five tours in the sandbox, I hate turning my back on the goat fuckers. I mopped up too many buddies from IEDs.”
I must agree. “I don’t have the time in you do, Sarge, but I’ve had enough AK47’s buzzing me to feel the same, and saw enough buddies buy the farm to feel your pain.”
Tolly speaks up and has a commanding presence as do most staff officers. “I’ve got to trust the hiring practices of a cruise line like Crimson. I’ll bet they do cavity searches. In fact, a few of the employees look like they'd enjoy cavity probes.”
We all laugh at that. And all say, “Hope you’re right.”
Another fella, trim for an old fart, with gray hair shorn in a tight flat-top, stops at our table and glances from one of us to the next. “Yanks, I’ll bet a quid. Any takers?”
“No,” I say as the others eye him. Then ask, “Liverpool?”
“Not a bad guess, bloke. But I'm no Scouser—Manchester, east of Liverpool. You boys bloody Marines, I’ll bet.”
Bull takes over. “And damn proud of it. You look old enough to me that I might have run over you in Desert Storm.”
“And then some,” he says, and extends his hand. “Alistair Nelson.”
He introduces himself around the table. Then turns back to Bull. “SAS, mate, greatest fighting force in the world as you damn well know. We were so far out in front of you blokes it would only have been a camel run over us.”
We all laugh and tell him to take a seat. He’s going to fit right in.
Harry and Angelina report to John Chung’s office at 8:15, and together they head to Sa’id’s cabin. Nothing of consequence has been heard over the bug they placed in his cabin.
Neither he nor his cabin mate are in, as expected, so while Angelina stands guard at the elevators, and Peter Zucker, who works security under Chung, watches the stairway at the far end of the corridor, Chung and Harry toss the place.
Chung is the first to be shocked by his find. He, of course, has a master key to all the small employee safes, and is taken aback by the two rolled tubes with what looks to be plastic explosives enclosed, both wired to cell phones.
Harry continues to hunt while Chung carefully exposes the cell phones and their connections to the detonators.
While he works, Harry discovers another pair of bombs behind a row of books in Sa’id’s upper bunk. He, too, carefully unrolls and shoots pics with his cell phone.
“What do we do?” Chung asks Harry.
“Roll them carefully, remove the batteries, return them, and we’ll get instructions from our bomb people. If we can disarm, I say leave them.”
“Jesus Christ,” Harry stammers. “That’s four pounds of C4 that could damn near blow this ship in half.”
“So, let’s disarm it further and make sure there’s not another forty pounds somewhere else. The only way to do that without docking this ship and putting passengers and crew ashore is to keep doing what we’re doing.”
“I think you’re fucking crazy,” John says with sincerity.
“The hell of it is, John, if we deviate from the normal, they’ll very likely decide it’s time to collect their seventy-two virgins. It looks to me the intent is not to merely blow us to fish bait, or they’d likely have done so already—if there is that forty pounds elsewhere. Let’s get some instruction and disarm these and keep with the Sherlock Holmes.”
“We have three of them. This Mumin and Sa’id, and your people have made Mohamid—that could be the lot…”
“Not a chance in hell. I’d guess ten at least. Do you regularly check crew’s quarters?”
“No, but it’s not unheard of. Every couple of voyages we might wander through.”
“Then I’d start doing so, when the occupants are at work, if possible.”
“Fine. Get in touch with your people. I’ve got to report this to my home office and make sure I’m doing the right thing.”
Harry moves up a deck but can’t get a cell signal, so he returns to his cabin while Angelina and Chung’s man watch the cabin to make sure no one returns to distribute those nice two-pound packages over the ship. They may have another way to detonate, even manually if strapped to their bellies.
Harry has to resort to his satellite phone, and soon is placated by the fact two CIA bomb experts will board later tonight at Bilbao, Spain, their next stop, and will not only properly disarm the bombs, but will bring a harmless substitute—probably play dough—aboard and replace the explosive so the 'bombs' can remain in place, and safely so.
John Chung is on the phone with his home office the same time the CIA was, and he is instructed, after much discussion about the risk, to stand by and let Harry take the lead, but to watch closely. So, he is off the hook.
Of course, off the hook doesn’t matter much if you’re all blown to hell.
21
A day at sea, another tough duty at the pool, even though the now flat lead-colored sky stays with us. The pool is protected from the wind, even so, it's a little chilly so the kids are drinking hot Irish coffees while they soak up sun.
I am more than a little amused when Terry and Bryan wander by, and Terry gives Connie a yell. “Hey, Connie, you tired of that old man yet?”
“He is getting pretty rickety,” she says, looking up from her book.
“I’ll bet you ten bucks Bry can take him in an arm wrestle.”
She gives him a polite smile, and I look up from the Wired magazine I’m reading. She says, “I wouldn’t want Bry to hurt him. He promised to dance with me tonight.”
“I did?” I say.
Then Terry turns to me. “How about it, old man?”
“Connie doesn’t want him to hurt me,” I say, and pick my magazine back up.
“I thought so,” Bryan says.
“He was the champion of our frat,” Terry adds. “Smart of you to chicken out.”
Connie eyes me. “Don’t even think it,” she says.
I can’t help myself and fold up the magazine. “Did you say ten bucks?”
Terry laughs. “How about twenty?”
I dig in my wallet for a Jackson and fish one out. “That table over by the girls looks
pretty sturdy,” I say, and rise and walk over.
“What’s up?” Simone asks as we plop down at the table.
“Frat champion wants to lose his crown,” I say.
“What?” she says, looking puzzled.
“Left or right,” I ask him as he takes a seat, and offers his right.
We lock up and Terry counts down. “Three, Two, One.”
And he humps it to me, but I merely remain vertical. “When are you going to start?” I ask, and I can see the doubt in his eyes.
“Let’s call it even,” I say, not having given an inch.
“Fuck no,” he says, and he humps again and his eyes bulge and the veins on his temples protrude.
I try my best to sound like I’m begging, “Come on, Bry, I don’t want to pull a muscle or something.”
“Okay, okay,” he says, slightly panting. “You gotta fight off those hundred-twenty-pound wallet thieves and need both arms.”
He relaxes and we break. “Thanks, Bry,” I say, and he knows better where we stand and who’s the alpha wolf.
As they head for the bar, I overhear Terry, “What the fuck was that?”
“Didn’t want to hurt the old man,” Bryan says as they disappear inside.
I glance at Simone and Patty as I get up to return to my chaise lounge. Simone mouths, “Thank you,” and I give her a wink and half-hearted smile.
“Aren’t you the nice man?” Connie says as I return to my magazine.
“Not really. I thought about putting his knuckles through the tabletop,” I reply. “But you said he was a drummer and I was hoping for his version of sing, sing, sing. He actually looks a little like Gene Krupa.”
“Showing your age,” Connie says, and laughs.
“One of my old man’s favorites, actually.”
“Good, you had me worried there for a minute. How the hell old are you?” she asks, and I’m surprised she doesn’t know.
“Yeah, I know, I probably look fifteen years older than you, but I’m not even five. I’ve just been ridden hard and put away wet too many times.”
“Thank God,” she says. “I was afraid I was the old one.”
“You sweet talker,” I say. “I will dance with you tonight.”
John Chung picks up his desk phone and finds Pepe, the sous chef, on the other line.
“What’s up,” he asks.
“I had a helper not show up. A couple of others said he got ill and headed to his cabin. I took pity on him and took him a container of soup, and guess what?”
“Tell me, Pepe?”
“No one in his cabin. I checked with the doc and he hasn’t seen him. I asked around and no one’s seen him. He was as faithful as the sun rising, so I’m concerned.”
“I’ll issue an employee bulletin. He’s probably tired of you ragging him.”
“Not so, Mister Chung,” Pepe has taken umbrage at John’s remark.
Then it dawns on Chung. “Who reported him sick?”
“That new roustabout was helping Gama from stores. I sent Luma to help them and I guess he threw up and went to his cabin.”
Chung takes a deep breath. “Okay, Pepe, we’ll get right on it.”
He hangs up and dials Harry’s room.
“We’ve got a man missing and the last one to see him and reported him missing was this guy Mohamid.”
“I’m glad you called. We’re taking on two CIA bomb guys at Bilbao. And they’re staying aboard to help out.”
“I’m worried. Mohamid was helping another Muslim crew member, Gama Suliman. And Suliman has only been on board a little more than a month. I don’t like it.”
“Let’s bug his cabin,” Harry says, “and Mohamid’s.”
“Hell, I’m out of bugs.”
“I’ll have the guys in Bilbao bring a dozen aboard.”
“God willing, we’ll make Bilbao.”
“Look, I’m as nervous as you are about those four packages. Can you do anything to keep that part of the ship vacated?”
“I confiscated some sulfur bombs from some kids on the last voyage. How about I set them off in that section of the crew’s quarters and we report a pipe failure.”
Harry chuckles. “Sounds good. Do it. We can block the area off and those crew members near will have to bunk elsewhere tonight.”
Chung sighs deeply again. “Damn, it may take a month to get the stink out.”
“Better some stink than ending up under five hundred fathoms of sea water.”
“I’m off,” Harry says, and goes to his storage closet and is thankful Chung had forgotten to get rid of the kid’s rotten bombs.
He returns to the floor, advises Angelina and Peter Zucker of the plan, and they agree to help him evacuate any crewmember in quarters after he’s literally raised a stink. He commandeers a wastebasket and uses it to contain the sulfur bomb, and when smoke fills the corridor, goes back into Sa’id’s cabin and flushes all but one of the sulfur bombs down his toilet.
Then they begin evacuating. In the dozen crew-cabins, only two night-workers have to be rousted out.
In short order Zucker has returned from John’s office with yellow “keep out” tape, and the C4 bombs are protected from handling and distribution, although without batteries in the phones they should be safe. Should be.
Unless, of course, the detonators are also susceptible to radio waves?
22
Harry Weinstein is waiting at the lower departure cabin when the ship docks, and is surprised to see one of the CIA agents who boards is a woman. Felicia Washington shakes with a stubby fingered hand, and gives him a serious grin, but one that shows pearly white teeth that look even whiter in her coffee-colored face, and the fact she wears even darker sunglasses. They called her Flossy-round-bottom at the Farm, but soon learned that prodigious mass was mostly muscle. She did as many pull ups as most the men, and even as short as she was, barely over five foot two, she was in the top sixty percent of her class, men included.
So, what is the white cane with the red tip all about?
Short doesn’t really matter except in practical matters in the Company. Jobs in the National Clandestine Service require eighteen years of age, being a U.S. citizen, a bachelor’s degree with a minimum GPA of three. You’re more likely to be hired if you’re fluent in a foreign language, have a history of living abroad, and some perceived ‘sensitivity’ to other cultures. When hired, you go through extensive background checks, medical and psychological evaluations, a polygraph exam, and a year and a half training for either the clandestine service or a headquarters-based job.
So, if you’re hired, you’ve been put through the ringer. And Felicia came through with flying colors and still smiling.
She introduces him to her partner, Ronaldo ‘Ronnie’ Alberto. Harry is even more surprised to have her release the handle on the harness on a German shepherd and place the cane in the other hand in order to shake.
“That’s Buster,” she says.
Harry glances over his shoulder to make sure the desk attendant is out of hearing range, and asks, “I presume you haven’t gone blind since we last met.”
“No, thank God.” Her deep chuckle is almost a rumble. “No one suspects a sight-impaired person and I can bump into them and pick their pocket,” she laughs. “Buster is incognito, too. He’ll alert us to any explosive.”
“Outstanding,” Harry says.
“I remember you, Harry. You’re the FBI guy who trained with us. Don’t know if you know it, but they called you, Hermy, not Harry, the hermaphrodite at the Farm, FBI hanging with CIA.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“We’re only on board until just before Pearl leaves Bilbao.” Felicia says.
“That won’t work,” Harry says, furrowing his brow.
“Got to. We’re off to Riyadh on special assignment. Higher priority, I guess. Have to catch a company Citation at midnight mañana.”
“Higher priority than three hundred fifty passengers, mostly Americans, plus the crew?�
� Harry snaps, shaking his head, then resignedly mumbles, “Then let’s get to work.” But he can hardly hide his disappointment.
"I don't set the priorities, Harry," she says.
Common area for the crew is their mess. Even though the jihadists worked different shifts and even though they’d all been warned to act as if the others had leprosy, they couldn’t help but acknowledge each other in small ways. Even if only a glance. Sa’id couldn’t help but do more. Alia is beautiful.
Most, on the coming shift, have finished their breakfast and left.
They had trained together nearly two years ago in Libya, lived together as soldiers for three months, so each knew the other, even if instructed to not acknowledge the fact. Alia is the only female among the jihadi’s, and very attractive as Yemeni women can be.
She’s alone at a crew mess table when Sa’id enters, fills his plate with rice and salad and sits across from her. He’s been attracted to her since they all trained together but had been warned against even recognizing the fact she is female. At the moment, no one is firing an AK47 over his head as he crawls on his belly beneath barbed wire—so he decides to be bold. Still, he keeps glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one is watching.
“I am from Sana’a,” he says, and she glances up from her iPhone.
She surveys the room before answering. “My home is…was…a small village near Ta’izz.”
“You left for what reason?” he asks.
She glances around again and lowers her voice. “A drone, killed an Al-Qaeda leader, but also killed my family who were following in another car and ran into the wreckage.”
“Sorry,” Sa’id says, then whispers. “The infidel will pay, inshallah.”
“Inshallah. If Allah wills it. We must not speak more.” Then she returns her attention to her phone.
“Do you have shore leave?” he asks, persistently.
She glances back up at him. “I do, beginning at nine this morning, but…”